“If you’re going to drink so much, I won’t bother coming. You said you would stop,” I would say. And he would reply: “Keep your nagging to yourself. You think I can’t see that you despise me?!” My swift escape was, of course, taken as confirmation of his position.

I can’t stand drunk men. It’s good you aren’t like that.

When the last trace of alcohol had gone and he needed money, he changed tack, became cordial and friendly, tried to be engaging, and reminisced about what he thought of as the good times and how difficult it had been taking care of me and Grandma.

He would often repeat himself, embellish recollections and talk about Mum. He knew that stories about Mum got to me. I could tell he was trying to manipulate me. He did it clumsily, though, switching between compliments and philosophical ruminations that Mum had supposedly inspired. It was always “Oh, what a poor old man I am,” no money and no food in the house.

The clock’s gone, Dad. Where did it go? Was it ticking too loudly? Interfering with the novel? And the microwave? Broken? Thrown out? Looks like I’ll have to get another from the pawnshop.

He was an unbearable man who I truly wanted to keep as far away from as possible, but it didn’t stop me loving him. Maybe it even helped. I couldn’t say no to him, and he took advantage of that. He took almost all the money I earned. Did I tell you where I worked before the war? At the post office. Me, a graduate in international relations at the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy. I’d like to think he felt guilty and was trying to be kind and caring. And at least I still have the tedious mystical tales he typed out on yellow sheets. They made up for my lack of happy childhood memories, and now they’re doing instead of toilet paper and helping to keep this fire alight. I listened to yet another of his stories and took his shopping list. Hurrying out, I counted the steps and breathed in the bitter and smoke-infused air of the stairwell.

Chapter 3

At the mention of Number One, K. understood he was being delivered right into the furnace.

Returning to the hotel along the riverbank, he watched the strolling couples and their children, pensioners, solitary women, the cafes, the ice-cream carts. A saxophonist and a pair of guitarists missed notes in an alleyway. Still people stopped, smiled, and even danced a little. Passing soldiers glared haughtily at the musicians.

There was no room at the Park Inn because of the international organisations: the Red Cross, the OSCE, the UN Mission. That bit of the city did not get shelled. Almost all the other hotels had been either closed or turned into dormitories for soldiers. That left the Ramada. That must have been fate. At least it wasn’t the seventh floor. If it weren’t for all the camo gear and weapons fleeting around the corridors and restaurant, it would have been the same as the year before.