K. entered the lift and pressed for the seventh floor. The button turned red and he suddenly recalled the face beaten beyond recognition. And another face. Pale and thin, almost bloodless, the light eyes glazed by horror. “Welcome back,” he said to himself. He took the folded envelope out of his pocket and studied it. He vowed to look at it every time he forgot what he had come for.

The doors slid open. K. tucked away the note, headed down the hallway and knocked at the staffroom. He asked the housekeeper if he could take a look at the window—it opened easy and wide. K. leaned out and looked down to the ground. What must it have felt like, trying to jump from this height?

The housekeeper stared. There was dry blood on K.’s hands and clothes.

“Probably too expensive to change out the windows just for one suicide, especially a botched one . . . Were you here last year?” K. left without waiting for an answer.

As evening descended on the city, a huge flock of crows searched for a loft in which to spend the night. Brown-green slag and chimneys disfigured the horizon.

In his room, he called contacts at the Red Cross. He took a shower, went to bed, and fell asleep. An unpleasant dream jolted him awake. Running around an unfamiliar grey city, he was trying to persuade everybody to hide before it was too late. He found a company of haggard soldiers in grubby clothes. A weapon on the ground. K. asked after their commanders, but he got only ridicule. One of the soldiers struck him in the back with the butt of a rifle. He left. A damp mist covered the city. It was a gas, like something out of World War I. It put everybody to sleep. “Now the army will come,” he thought, and awoke. Midnight.

Turning in bed, he realised he’d get no sleep. He dressed and went down to the first floor. Chatter and clinking glasses mingled in the crowded bar as nineties hits played in the background. After curfew, the Ramada’s bar was one of the few places still open. It quickly became a firm favourite of the newly minted ministers, MPs and gangsters.

K. sat in an armchair and listened impassively as people at one table bargained over the divvying up of mines and factories. And how much it would cost to haul it all over the border.

Zhuzha was at the bar. Nobody knew why she stuck around when the war started. Maybe her cats. Tall, tanned, about thirty-five, she had a handsome face and long, bright nails. She lived and worked in a room on the sixth floor. The night before, Zhuzha told K. in confidence that the management had let her keep her animals there. There was a war going on after all. The staff loved and respected her for her loyalty—a prized trait even among prostitutes. The generals and ministers didn’t care for her—good, but prim, not as uninhibited as she needed to be. They mistook her for the bar manager sometimes. The wealthier clients had fled the city, taking their jewellery, money and cars with them. Only the fighters and bandits remained.