‘I know you lot all hate me,’ she went on. ‘But I have my reasons, and I do my best.’ She took the cigarette, now no more than a glowing stub, pulled at it long and hard so the ash flared bright, then she pinched it dead between her fingers as the smoke blew from her nostrils like a dragon’s snort. ‘Now,’ Agnes said. ‘Help me get this lot back so they don’t count a missing vial.’ She cupped her hand, scooped the ash along with the powder into a neat pile.

‘That’s–’

Agnes looked up at Dora with a lopsided grin. ‘We all do our bit for the war effort,’ she said. Tilted her head back and laughed. This was the first time she had heard Agnes laugh. Dora opened her mouth, howled along, racking sobs and hiccups of grief and mirth.

‘The war will be over soon,’ Agnes said. ‘Hold on.’ She reached for a piece of paper, made a crude funnel, scooped the ash and diamorphine into it. ‘This place is full of shit,’ she went on, emptying the funnel into the vial. She replaced the stopper. ‘Rage against them. Not yourself. Someone has to talk, when it’s over, spill the beans. If they listen to a woman, that is.’

She hooked one hand under Dora’s elbow and squeezed it. Tender, warm, human. Dora hadn’t had Agnes down as a kind person, or a generous one, but she leant her head against Agnes’s shoulder and Agnes didn’t push her away. It was enough. The urge to live was as sudden as her desire for death had been.

The Hotel Maison Victor Hugo shuddered. They were in the courtyard, being counted. The planes were British, American. So close. She could smell the cordite, see the thick, black smoke and hear the blasting. Normandy. Over the water. It was just after dawn and the sky above was red and stormy. Bombing. Bombing. Wave after wave. She knew the year. She could keep hold of those dates. 1944. It was summer. Was it June? Aeroplanes bellowing overhead. The German guns pounded back, their recoil jarring the earth around. Still the planes flew. Dora smiled, almost laughed. Looked at the other women who were smiling. And Agnes. Looking up at the sky as if she had been beatified. It would be over soon.

Another room was commandeered, turned into a ward. Soldiers with pneumonia and dysentery had been evacuated from the hospital to make way for the wounded from France. They were running out of medicines. Salvarsan. Prontosil. Saline. No supplies were coming in. The British had cut them off. Dora couldn’t understand. Why would they do that?