She tried not to concentrate on the physical details. She must not remember the crack of her head on the wall, his finger brazenly, disgustingly inside her. Or the tear of her flesh. She must tell herself, over and over, that it could have been worse and she was here, with Tomas.

She roused herself sufficiently to ask, ‘Which prison was it?’

‘The Bartolomĕjská.’ He slid her arm under her body and shifted her gently, carefully, into a more comfortable position. ‘It used to be a convent until the nuns were booted out. Think of that, my lioness.’

‘God,’ she declared faintly, ‘was not there.’

‘I’ll never forgive those fuckers,’ said Tomas.

A little while later, he said. ‘Now, you know, Laure. You really know.’

Her torpor lifted. ‘Tomas. If this is what happens… your future… come with me. You could have a life.’ She watched his expression and was dismayed to see a zealot’s light in his eyes. ‘A life,’ she repeated. ‘Is that not a good aim?’

‘This is my life, Laure.’

She didn’t care if she made him angry and tried again. ‘You’re frightened that you’ll be a nobody.’

‘That’s probably true,’ he admitted disarmingly. ‘But whatever my motivation, good, bad or weak, here I stay.’

CHAPTER 27

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, LAURE WALKED FROM THE Kobes’ apartment to the marionette theatre in time for the late matinee. Her head ached and her skull still felt like eggshell but the bruises across her legs and torso were fading from purple to yellow.

Of course she was being tailed. A commonplace happening now and part of her Prague life.

Carrying her rucksack, she picked her way across the square, her thoughts a messy confusion.

Interrogation. Violence. Terror.

How did one process them?

Milos was on the door and prevented her from entering. ‘You need a permit.’

It had been a warm day and, at first, she wondered if the beer he was necking had gone to his head. ‘Is something happening?’

‘We’re on strike so no performance,’ he said with a look that was both conspiratorial and wary. ‘Lucia was going to contact you to tell you not to come.’

‘Well, she didn’t. So… dear Milos, let me in.’ He produced a piece of paper on which he wrote in purple ink: ‘Permit to enter and exit’ in Czech and handed it to her.

She smiled at him and, as she knew he would, he sent her one of his cheeky grins back. ‘What’s going on?’

‘People want to talk about ideas. The theatre is a useful place to gather. It’s not wise but it’s happening.’

Backstage was packed with unfamiliar faces, including a man standing guard to the Green Room in a combat jacket and his hair tied back in a ponytail.