A few moments later, Ivan walked into the kitchen. He let his bag slide off his shoulder onto the floor as he sank into the chair. His face was dusty, his eyes drooping at the corners wearily, one still puffy from a recent black eye that was taking longer than expected to heal. Marina had patched his shirt at the elbow two nights ago but already there was a fresh tear in it from another scuffle or interrogation and, like Santi’s mother with his shirt, she knew there would be yet more repairs due before the week was out.

Ivan had been tasked with running a sub-section dedicated to rooting out snipers and saboteurs. He reported to Sindo, who in turn had been appointed deputy secretary of the Cine Europa checa in November, after the start of the siege. It was one of the most feared squads in the city and Sindo was second in the chain of command only to Miguel Modesto, who had finally cast off the pretence of official sanction for this far more powerful role.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Luciana asked him, setting down the bag of nails and retrieving a glass from the cupboard instead. It was cloudy with soap smears, the water supply increasingly erratic, interrupted by the fascist siege.

She poured a glass without waiting for his reply and handed it to him. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, his eyes scanning over the worktop and seeing the boxes of bombs ready for the next mission. It would be the same again tomorrow.

‘You look tired,’ Luciana said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Bad night?’

‘No, it was good,’ he shrugged. ‘Seven dead and we got a cannon and a cache of guns off the bastards. They’d been holed up in the San Jerónimo Church on Moreto.’

‘What kind of guns?’

‘Mousquetons. Lighter than rifles but hell of a kick.’ He patted his shoulder in warning.

Luciana nodded as though she was making a mental note, just in case. Sometimes it struck Marina just how very far she was now from being the secretary she’d first met six months ago, swapping explosive words for packing nail bombs with dynamite. But then, weren’t they all transformed by this war? Marina could hardly remember her old life at La Ventilla any more – the rolling green pastures and grazing animals, handmade dresses and her mother’s sweet perfume, her soft hands and slightly dulled eyes, those extravagant fiestas, almost too bright, too colourful even in memory for this bleached-out, dust-covered, shelled landscape.

‘Mousquetons? They had been stolen from the barracks then?’ Marina asked, sealing off the last bomb and putting it carefully in the box.

‘That’s my guess.’

‘Did they give you anything useful? Besides the weapons?’

Ivan shook his head. ‘There was no talking; they were determined to shoot their way out.’

Luciana gave a ‘what can you do?’ shrug. It wasn’t an unusual situation: stories of torture were rife and no one on either side wanted to be a prisoner; it was better to be dead.