A large black crow lay inside, its wings spread, flapping faintly. John felt the adrenalin drain, his legs lose their steel, his muscles their tension. He wanted to laugh. How stupid. It was only a bird. He dropped the umbrella and walked over to the safe, scooping the bird up. He could feel its tiny heart beating fast as a clock, could see the terror in its eyes. It was too faint to struggle, its neck too weak for its head. He should put it out of its misery but he hadn’t the courage. He cradled it, waiting for it to die. Private Nash’s hair had been as black as this crow, his blood and bile on John’s uniform, his slumped form held by John’s body.

The bird went still. John carried it down the stairs, not sure what to do with it. There was nowhere to bury it, no soldiers coming up behind to take care of it. He placed it in the dustbin down in the area and turned back inside the house, climbing up, his knees trembling. That’s all it was. A dead bird. The thing had flown in, beaten itself against the window, flapped around in a panic until it sank into the food safe, exhausted, waiting to die, in pain, in terror.

How had it got in? His windows were shut. Someone must have released it into his rooms. Someone with a key, or who could pick a lock. He groped his way towards the armchair and lowered himself into it. Off course. That’s what he was. Blown off course. He placed his head in his hands. Who had done this? Why?

Anatoly. The lanky-legged Russian with the pockmarked face had the powers of the Devil.

There was a movement in the grate. John jumped, cried out. He looked again. Soot had fallen on the hearth, feathers. Another bird, one wing jutting at an angle, was scrabbling to move. The chimney. They had come down through the chimney.

A phone was ringing, but it was somewhere else. He was somewhere else.

They made nests in chimneys. One crow took a wrong turning, flew down the stack, its mate following. There would be chicks up there, orphaned. Perhaps they’d fledged already.

The bird lay still, its death throes done. There was always a simple explanation. That’s what his father would say. A car backfiring. Fireworks. A motorbike’s roar. Calm down, dear boy. Nothing to worry about. It’s all over.