There was a bedstead, minus its mattress which was on the floor. The reason was obvious as the bedstead lacked a workable leg. There were piles of clothing, Anatomie posters tacked up on the wall, an ancient-looking washstand with a blue-and-white bowl that looked antique and valuable, and Tomas’s guitar stacked in a corner.

Tomas crossed over to a cardboard box in the corner. ‘Are you there?’

Laure was startled. ‘Who?’

Tomas reached into the box and lifted up a tabby cat. ‘This is my true beloved. His name is Kočka, which means cat. He and I share the same spirit. He’s an old man now and not so well. But we talk to each other.’ He cradled the purring animal in the crook of his arm and ran a finger down Kočka’s spine. ‘He’s been my companion, I tell him things, he criticizes my songs, and I do everything I can to make him happy and comfortable. But he’s getting old. Very old, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’

‘Don’t look so sad,’ she cried, almost jealous.

‘I don’t care what happens to me, but I care what happens to Kočka. I ask all my friends to remember if anything happens, Kočka must be safe.’

‘Safe?’

‘Taken to a vet. I’ve hidden money to ensure that he can be put down painlessly. When I took him on that was the promise I made. I would give him the best death and the best life I could. In return, he has loved me without a cloud. And…’ he dropped a kiss on Kočka’s head, ‘I have loved him.’

Feeling inadequate to deal with the coming calamity and, possibly, the rivalry, she watched Tomas ease Kočka back into his nest. He glanced at Laure. ‘OK?’

She nodded.

He stripped off his shirt, revealing his slight, sweaty torso which was covered with red marks and bruises. The largest bruise was forming on his back above his right kidney and she exclaimed over it.

‘No need to fuss,’ he said gently. He turned her to face him and his accent grew more marked. ‘I’m serious now. You ask me my reasons for staying. This is it. It’s from a banned publication. “No philosophical, political, scientific view or artistic activity that departs even by the merest fraction of official ideology or aesthetics is allowed…” Let me try to remember the exact words. “No open criticism is permitted, there is no right to a public defence, and the Ministry of the Interior busies itself monitoring the lives of its own citizens, tracking their movements, tapping their phones and apartments and arresting them without charge in the street.”’

Half-mazed with lust, she digested the implications. ‘Then you are telling me there’s no choice.’

‘I am.’