“Did you hear about a guy on the third floor who survived? His wife was coming back from the shops just as the bomb was dropped. An explosion, boom, dust, everything collapses, and her husband, he was just in his underpants, he’s catapulted out of the window with a mattress. And plop. Him and the mattress fall to the ground! She runs up to him yelling, checking to see if he’s alive. And he gets up, shakes himself off and asks: ‘You didn’t forget the bread, did you?’”

“That’s new. Not seen that before,” said K., pointing to an unfamiliar vehicle with large missiles on the sides.

“It’s a Buk,” said Grumpy.

“Not like any I’ve ever seen in the library.”

“Funny guy.”

K. lit a cigarette.

“I didn’t know they had these things.”

“Me neither,” Grumpy scratched the back of his head. “The Ukrainians are going to get a nice surprise now.”

He saluted. The passengers of the escort car waved back in response. They drove close behind the rocket launcher, down a street. K. turned away.

“This place is a cancer. It kills people, living cells.”

“You’re on the wrong side, brother.”

“I heard that before. The man who said it is dead now. So I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to make sure. Evil deserves compassion. Everyone deserves compassion. Even the killer. He deserves to die. And compassion.”

“You contradict yourself.”

“No. Unfortunately I don’t.”

K. and Grumpy stood idle for three hours. No more wounded to report. The wake in the cafe had come to a close.

Grumpy was taciturn and chain-smoked. K. wasn’t interested in meaningless chatter. He suggested getting a top-up at the petrol station. The Shell station on the outskirts was still open, although going there meant waiting half an hour while the tanks that came over the border from Russia got served first. The girl at the checkout would say something, shake her head, and the commander would thrust a wad of money at her through the little window, repeating: “I don’t understand, how can you not accept roubles? Why don’t you take roubles?”

“Quiet day today,” said K.

“You have to save somebody every day, do you?”

K. scrutinised him warily.

“Why so grumpy today?”

“Wife took off.”

“Again?”

“Again. She started mouthing off, so I gave her a slap. She crept around behind my back packing her things and took the kids to her parents. Or somebody. Who fucking knows?”

“Well, what can you do? You have a microwave? And a washing machine? What do you need a wife for?”

“That’s what I reckon, but I’m out of sorts on my own. I haven’t heard a word from that cow for two days now, and I can’t get a second of shuteye. Appetite’s shot to pieces. And I bet she’s as happy as Larry. Just you wait, this is what will happen: we’ll patch it up in a month’s time. I call her and say: ‘Well, you cow, why didn’t you call? I was worried.’ And she’ll just shrug her shoulders and say: ‘While you were out playing war, I had things to do. I’ve got kids need bringing up.’”