The lavatory chain, the rush of water, the tread of a foot on the steps, fainter and fainter, Bob’s door shutting. Of course. He breathed in hard, let his shoulders droop. His mind was overactive. It always was when he was tired. He startled too easily. He should sleep some more. That’s what the doctor said. Don’t overtax yourself. Make sure you get your rest.

He went back to the puddle on the floor, picked up the floor cloth and wrung it out. Coincidence. That man was just coincidence. Who would be up this early in the morning? Anatoly had no business with him. He put the cloth in the bucket under the sink and tiptoed back to bed. Betty had turned over in his absence. He felt at ease, her presence an unexpected comfort. He crept in beside her, cradling her like a spoon, nuzzling his face into her hair. She must have washed it yesterday. It smelled clean, perfumed.

He’d never felt like this before. Not even for her. He could never let anything happen to Betty. He would protect her, care for her. Cherish her. His feelings for her had a depth and roundness, a certainty, despite their difference in age. He’d been six when she was born, twelve when the war started. He was just into long trousers, a young man, his father had said.

‘Let’s hope the war’s over before you reach eighteen.’

The war was in its death throes when he was conscripted, but it had still had a final kick in it.

Was that why he felt protective of her? Was it love? Or fear? Was he frightened for her? For what could saunter round the corner and slash her life forever? He propped himself on his elbow, gazing at her sleeping form, the slenderness of her neck and the contours of her body, the grace of her hand on his pillow. He smelled her skin, the lingering of yesterday’s soap, the sweet snap of her sweat. It was the smell of happiness. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. It wasn’t Anatoly snooping at dawn. How could it be? Most likely a market porter coming home from a night on the razzle. Silly that something innocent could still pluck at John’s guilt and needle his grief.

He lay back down and shut his eyes, letting his body relax, soothed by her warmth, the softness of her skin, lulled by the rhythms of her breath, the quiet putt-putt of contentment. He woke when she stirred, lifting her arm behind her, fingering his head. She turned, buried her face in his neck, her hair tickling his chin. She was wriggling down, kissing him, her hands reaching out and stroking him.

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed her palm. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. No.