Lurched forward. Three metres away. The gun was heavy. She held it tighter, to steady it as it shook in her hand. Two metres. She must shoot. Her stomach griped, iron in her mouth. His arms were reaching out as he pitched to the side. Now. She must do it now. Bette pointed, eyes blurred, the sights out of focus. Fired. The sound exploded in her head, the recoil pushed her off balance, but Vasily had slumped to the floor. Bette stood, trembling, taking in what she’d done, the noise drumming in her skull, echoing in her ears, the smell of sulphur filling her nose and mouth. Blood oozed through his trousers, puddling on the rug. He was groaning, holding his leg. Bette stared, unsure what to do. She had shot someone. Her heart was hammering, and she was sweating, hands sticky on the gun. He shouted at her. He was alive, could kill her. Run, run. She had to get by him, get over him. She breathed fast, jumped towards the door. He leaned out as she passed, grabbing her shin so she tumbled forward, hitting her nose on the edge of the door. His fingers gripped as she fell, and the gun tumbled from her hand. She lay on her back as he snaked around. Her mind was spinning fast, her breath shallow. Think. Now. She pushed the gun beyond his reach, lifting her leg sharply so he lost his hold, brought her heel down on his hand, kicked out at his face, pushed herself into a sitting position, legs flailing, heels flying. The strength was sudden, came from nowhere, out of control. He was trying to stand, hovering over her. She cowered, waiting for his blows, but his leg gave way and he crumpled. She jumped up without thinking, kicked his wounded leg hard, and hard again as he curled in pain, still as a sleeping snake, leaping over his body, through the door, slamming it behind her, two steps at a time down the broken stairwell and into the street.

Round the corner. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. He could be following. He had a gun. Lieselotte. She must find her. She’d been in the Kurfürstendamm. That’s where she was. Bette knew the way to the Tiergarten at least. Run and run. On. Run on. Her lungs hurt, her muscles were soft. No gristle, no strength. Run. She had a stitch. She needed to stop. She turned around but the street was empty behind her. She leaned against the wall of a building, doubled over, pressing her gut, chest heaving, her breath in short, shallow gasps.

A gang of women had started work clearing rubble opposite her. Was this where Lieselotte worked? She ran over.