Diamorphine. In case. In case the British invaded and they had to treat the wounded, though nobody admitted that. There was Salvarsan, but arsenic was a slow death. It had to be fast. Two vials. Three, to be sure. The syringes were in another cupboard. She fetched the largest, and a new needle. It must be sharp. She took out the plunger, placed it on the desk with the barrel, reached for the pipette, a bottle of distilled water. Keep calm. Professional. She was light-headed, fizzy with relief. It would all be over. She laid out the tourniquet. Taut around the left arm so her right hand was free, when it was time.

She uncorked the first vial, staring at the white, odourless powder. Three vials. The solution would be strong. She filled the pipette from the bottle, picked up the barrel of the syringe. Intravenous. Would she have time to inject the whole lot before she fell asleep? Her hand trembled as she lifted the powder to pour into the barrel, small clinking tremolos, fine glass on fine glass, shaking.

Her elbow was pushed and the vial flew across the desk, the powder spiralling as it went. Agnes pulled her away, spun her round so she faced her, grabbing the barrel of the syringe that was still in Dora’s hand. She was breathing hard, bellows of fury.

‘They’d torture you first. Or send you to Germany. It amounts to the same thing,’ she said. ‘I’ve had my eye on you.’

Dora lunged across the desk, tried to grab the opened bottle. But Agnes was strong, pushed her away from it. ‘Those goons tonight,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stop them.’ She reached into her pocket, pulled out a cigarette butt and put it in her mouth. ‘Sadists.’

There were some matches on the counter and she marched over to them. She went back to Dora, handed her the lit cigarette.

‘For you,’ said Agnes. ‘Have it.’

Agnes never shared her cigarette hoard, Dora knew. She took a long drag. The smoke was hot and bitter. She started to cough, violent spasms as the smoke burned through to her lungs.

‘That’s your life, fighting back,’ Agnes said. Dora’s eyes had watered and Agnes’s face was a blur. ‘Still going to take it?’

The spasm subsided, and Dora took another puff of the cigarette. She wasn’t a smoker, not really, not in the way that Agnes was. The smoke went to her head, made her dizzy.

‘Better?’ Agnes said.

Ash fell off the cigarette onto the desk.