‘Cairncross?’ The traitor Cairncross. At first I was amazed. But then why was that so unlikely? As the beautiful face of our idealistic young nation, she must have been introduced to them all. To those of us who lived in the Republic, the part she had played in the new regime was as great as Philby’s or Burgess’s.

‘She denied it but she was lying, I could tell. She did that a lot, even to me, and I could always tell.’ I had never before detected any real bitterness in him towards Lorelei. But then I had hardly asked him about her – deep down, I think I had been afraid of what I might hear. ‘Lorelei and I were not friends. Yes, she was exciting to be with, but I can’t say I liked her very much as a person – let alone as a mother to Hazel. Now, the past is past. Let’s not rake it up.’

‘I … yes, of course.’ I came to myself. ‘I’m so sorry. After all you’ve been through.’ I wanted him to be open with me about her; but, if I were being truthful with myself, as I lay there in bed with him and there was silence outside in the street, I would have taken a future together over total honesty.

‘Yes,’ he muttered. His breaths slowed and deepened in his throat.

John Cairncross. I lay in the dark and worked it out. It had been four years since he had pleaded guilty to using his place in the Politburo to sabotage our food production in return for American money. Four years since Lorelei’s last film and four years since the last story about her in the Morning Star. Surely that was no coincidence – his fall had resulted in hers, the taint running from one to the other. So she was no longer for public consumption. Even now, her death hadn’t been reported – the censors had cut her out of our history.

I tried to settle down but a noise outside made me sit bolt upright. It was shouting – too far to hear distinctly, but not distant. Somewhere in our street. A banging sound, like a door being thrown open. There was more shouting and the sound of a car door slamming before the vehicle was driven away. Nick had woken up too. We heard a desperate knocking on someone’s door. No answer. A voice calling out. The knock moved to a different door. Then another one. ‘We can’t get involved,’ Nick said. ‘Not now.’

There are many types of loss. Loss of a child. Loss of one’s dignity. And loss of what you used to be. We used to be generous. We used to look out for those who lived beside us.

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