She heaved another piece of furniture aside. “Got it.”

Petrovitch piled the guns and the goggles on the cape, then scraped his wet clothes on top, even his ruined jacket. He picked up the keys. “Any idea which one?”

“Oh, give them here. You are impossible.”

He gathered the corners of the cape and tied them to form a bundle. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

The lock turned on the third try. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah. I still look like a kon’v pal’to, though.”

“You’re fussing about my gun: where’s yours?”

“I’ll be running. You’re the one who can shoot straight.”

She turned the torch off and gripped the latch.

“I know this is probably not the time to ask,” he said, “but how old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said. She twisted her wrist and the sickly daylight flooded in.

18

At the bottom end of Edgware Road, she was still jogging effortlessly, while he was gagging with the effort of keeping up.

“Stop.” Petrovitch squatted and put his head down between his knees. Rain dripped from his nose.

She stood over him, hands on her hips. “I don’t think we’re being followed,” she said, scanning the crowded pavements. Umbrellas formed an uneven multicolored sea that flowed in every direction at once.

“Don’t… think?” he gasped, and breathed through his mouth. He was aware that his heart was struggling, but there were more pressing pains like the burning in his lungs and the stitch that was threatening to split him open from groin to neck.

“I need to call Father John and warn him,” said Sister Madeleine. She pulled out her phone from inside her robes and speed-dialed her priest. “Get some police round to the church.”

“Do whatever you want.” Petrovitch straightened up, clutching his sides. “I’m going to… yobany stos.” He felt a fresh wave of nausea well up and drag him down. He coughed bile into the gutter.

“Where am I? Marble Arch. Yes, I know I can’t go back. Our Lady of the Assumption? Warwick Street? Yes, I know it. Look, I’m going to have to call back. What? No, Petrovitch is throwing his guts up.” She paused. “Yes, that Petrovitch. Long story. No, Father.”

She saw Petrovitch trying to rise again, and she reached down her hand. Petrovitch clung to her arm and she pulled him to his feet.

“No, Father,” she said, her voice becoming tight. “No. It wasn’t his fault. Because it wasn’t. It was Paradise. Yes. Can we save the questions for later: he’s dying, and I’m drowning. What do you mean, is it raining? Of course it is.”

Petrovitch hung on tight as his vision grayed. “Chyort.”