He’d have to clear up the mess. He reached over to the newspaper and carried it to the hearth, lifting the bird onto the paper, its body still warm, its feathers oily to the touch. He’d put it with the other one. Sorry, old bird. Nowhere to bury you. He went into the kitchen for the dustpan, steeling himself to open the cupboard door. There was blood on the handle. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the blood off first or fetch the bucket and the Vim. Scrub and scrub.

‘John.’ Someone was knocking hard at the door. ‘John. Phone.’

He walked back through the sitting room, opened the door.

‘Bloody hell,’ Bob said. ‘Are you deaf? I’ve been yelling for you. You have a call.’

‘Who is it?’

‘How should I know? Take it, for heaven’s sake. I have to go.’

He turned, ran down the stairs. John followed him. He felt sick. Too much adrenalin. It did that. Couldn’t disperse, that’s what the doctor had said, makes you nauseous. Bob was rushing out of the door, his flute case in one hand, music bag in the other.

John tripped on the torn lino, grabbed the banister to save himself. He was still shaky, anxious. He knew the caller would have gone by the time he got to the phone. Knew it was Anatoly, up to his tricks. He walked into the booth. The receiver had been left hanging, and he picked it up.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

London: July 1958

The telephone booth was smelly and hot and she pushed open the door with her foot. She was sure the operator would butt in at any moment, I’m sorry, caller, there is no reply. It never crossed her mind John could be out. She’d run out of the house, her bag under her arm, sprinted down the road, feet slipping in her flimsy sandals. She’d pulled them off, dashed across the road outside the station, bare feet slapping the pavements, her hand brushing a cyclist who pulled up and swore at her. She’d waved her shoes at him, sorry. The phone booth was occupied by a woman with curlers and a hairnet who was leaning against the glass, laughing. Betty hammered on the door.

‘An emergency.’

The woman nodded. Betty saw her mouth I have to go, put the receiver down. She left the booth, glaring at Betty standing barefoot, hair awry, her blouse worked loose from her waistband.

‘Thank you,’ Betty said, no idea what to do except that she had to see John, be close to him, feel his breath and face, hear his voice. Sometimes he teased her, said her name the German way, Bette, Bette. She hadn’t told him, not about Germany. One day, perhaps. Not just yet.

She was about to give up when a man answered. She knew it wasn’t John, but she said his name, all the same.