László pushed the sweat from his eyes, and walked along the drive to where it was crossed by double rows of squat stone pillars that carried a passageway to one of the outbuildings. He put down the bag and squinted ahead: the drive curved towards a second gate, hidden from the pillars, then as now, by a line of trees. He could not quite believe he was back. Was there some buried fragment here – a scrap of cloth, a cartridge case – that would prove it? But this was it all right. This was where he had stood in the grey of a November afternoon, waiting for Péter and Zoli to return. They had taken the Skoda – the old black ‘Spartak’ – to the Szentkiralyi barracks to bring back ammunition. The rest of the gang – Feri, Joska, Karcsi and Anna – were in the college print room, running off another batch of proclamations and demands, to be fly posted around the city after dark. László was on guard duty (it was merely his turn), patrolling between the pillars in leather cap and belted jacket, his nose and ears ringing with the cold. He had been given the precious tommy-gun, and Feri, the old man of the group at twenty-two, the only one who had actually done any military training, had explained how to use it.

‘Don’t shoot like a gangster, Laci. Fire from the shoulder. Short bursts. You’ve got seventy-two bullets in the magazine. That’s enough to hold off a battalion. And if it jams for Christ’s sake don’t look down the barrel or you’ll blow your head off. Got it?’

Got it.

He had not expected to use it. Thus far he had avoided even handling a gun – there were always plenty of others who couldn’t wait to get hold of one – keeping himself useful with driving and stretcher-bearing and running errands. But when he heard the car, and knew from the speed at which it was coming that something was wrong, he dragged the weapon from his shoulder, pushed the safety off, and thought himself ready. From the gates on Budafokí ut there came the smack of metal on metal, and seconds later the Skoda swung into view, Zoli at the wheel fighting to keep control but coming much too fast, swerving to avoid the trees but somehow bouncing off the side of one and toppling the car on to the driver’s side, where it spun in a sheet of sparks before coming to a stop.