She knew anyway. ‘You won’t forget me,’ she said.

Nigel was whiling away the time before the start of World War Three by polishing all the shoes he could lay his hands on in the Legation.

The phone was ringing. Nigel had answered it once.’Hello, British Legation,’ he had said.

‘We are trapped. We are going to die,’ a voice had said. It was a rich, deep, calm voice that spoke fluent English with only enough of a Hungarian accent to give a pleasing colour; you could imagine the voice belonging to a professor of English literature. Nigel didn’t know what to say. Clearly commiserations were in order, but there was nothing at hand in his immediate etiquette to cover a situation like this. The voice carried on though, fortunately, without giving Nigel a chance to participate. ‘Our building is completely surrounded by Russians. We will fight to the last bullet, but we will die. We don’t matter, but you must help our country. Hungary must be free- ’ The line had gone dead.

Everyone was chipping in, running things in the Legation but Nigel wasn’t going to answer the phone any more. The building was a refuge for a strange mixture of Britons, well-wishing students, adventurers, journalists, holidaymakers and two businessmen whose unflinching devotion to marketing their brand of razor-blade in the face of history was remarkable. No one talked about it but there was an unspoken assumption that war was going to break out and they would be well behind enemy lines; whatever was going to happen it wouldn’t be pleasant. Everyone had been presented with a copy of their own death.

Nigel had opted to clean shoes since it gave him something to do and as he joked, ‘We want to look good when the Russians capture us. My old housemaster would never forgive me if I met my end with dulled footwear.’ The BBC journalist was roaming up and down the building, clutching a bottle of vodka, and repeatedly accosting any female on sight with ‘Anybody for a fuck?’ Nigel could see the Minister would be making representations to the BBC when this was over, if he were in a position to do so. The Minister took a dim view of journalists; the correspondent of the Daily Worker had almost been barred by him. ‘Shouldn’t you be outside with your Communist friends?’

The political attaché and the military attaché strolled up to where Nigel had set up his shoe-cleaning business.

‘Kadar has finally resurfaced. He’s been broadcasting from somewhere saying he’s established a workers-peasants’ government which has invited the Russians to tidy up. I’d love to count the number of workers and peasants in his government,’ remarked the political.

‘Who’s Kadar?’ asked Nigel.

‘Was Minister of the Interior under Rákosi. Home-grown Communist as opposed to the Muscovites. Was also a Minister in Nagy’s latest government but he seemed to get tired of it and disappeared a few days ago.’

‘Anyone know where he’s been?’ asked the military attaché.

‘Somewhere safely Soviet, I’d venture. He’s probably spent the week trying to think up a new configuration of socialist/ worker/party to name his new outfit. But he’s stuck with the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, which Nagy thought up. I suppose all the variants have been used up.’

‘Mmmm. I suppose it’s time to earn the King’s shilling,’ said the military attaché, stepping out into the Revolution.

You don’t get any braver, you just get tired, bored with fear, thought Gyuri as he scrambled over the wall to land in the Kerepesi Cemetery. He and Kurucz ran through, dodging gravestones and undergrowth. Where were the others? Gyuri wondered. Looking back, he could see the Mongols coming over the wall.

The return of the Red Army relied largely on troops from Central Asia or some slant-eyed part of the Union. Unlike troops who had been stationed in Hungary and had some idea what was going on, Gyuri had heard the Mongols thought they were fighting at the Suez Canal. They certainly didn’t mind killing people.

Kurucz signalled that they should make a stand. Gyuri still had enough energy to savour the irony of having a shoot-out in a cemetery; very convenient for the people who had to clean up afterwards. The Mongols moved cautiously, as if expecting American paratroopers to open up on them at any moment. All day Gyuri had been hearing stories about American paratroopers arriving all over Hungary, particularly in places where they weren’t needed. Well, if they didn’t hurry up, it would soon be over.

A lot of Party people are buried here, Gyuri noted, hoping he could find a cadre tombstone to shelter behind so that it would get shot up.

Kurucz gave their pursuers a magazine’s worth, really working their cardiovascular systems, maybe nicking one of the yellow bastards. He and Kurucz fell back a few yards further to a gigantic mausoleum, a sort of mini-history of architecture, composed of a dozen different styles, perhaps to cover any changes in fashion up to Judgment Day. It looked awful but must have cost a fortune. ‘In memory of the Gerebend family’ read the inscription. The Gerebend family are going to take some punishment, thought Gyuri.

He and Kurucz were both short of ammunition. Kurucz still had one grenade but that was it. They could start throwing rocks after that. The Mongols argued loudly about their strategy, a long way off. After a few minutes, one of them appeared, crawling on his belly, weapon cradled in his arms in the textbook manner but out in the open. Did he think he was invisible? It was insulting.

Gyuri felt a flash of anger on his emotional palate. He’d missed his targets all morning but with his last two rounds he hit the serpentine Mongol. The Mongol turned out to be a screamer, expressing eloquently in a universal language how painful it was to be shot.

There was more hurried, Asiatic consultation and then from a wide front came small arms fire, chipping away at the Gerebend family’s final abode. Gyuri could tell Kurucz wanted to hang around and try and gouge their eyes out but he indicated they should leave. It was easy. They left the cemetery while the shooting continued with a bit of perfunctory grenade-lobbing. The Mongols would be there for hours before they realised they had used the back door.

‘I’m going down the Űllői út,’ said Kurucz.

‘You won’t come back,’ said Gyuri, noting by the sound of his voice he was hysterical. He wouldn’t have believed he had enough vigour for that. The Űllői út was a preview of the end of the world, a little localised armageddon. It was safer firing a revolver in your mouth.

‘I lived like a worm for a long time,’ said Kurucz, although Gyuri couldn’t envisage Kurucz doing so. ‘I’m glad I can die like a man. Where are you going?’

‘Out West. Austria,’ replied Gyuri.

‘You won’t come back either.’

Gyuri threw away his empty gun. If he needed another gun, he could pick one up off any street-corner, and carrying one didn’t do you any favours. ‘The Red Army won’t forget about its outing in Budapest,’ said Kurucz. ‘It’s been… well, people will write about us.’

Clinging to walls all the way home, Gyuri crashed into the British military attaché, recessed in a doorway, observing the proceedings. The way Gyuri greeted him in English made the attaché realise they were acquainted, though he obviously couldn’t place Gyuri. ‘Awesome, these new tanks,’ he said gesturing at a herd on the other side of Hósök Square, ‘those new guns too, formidable rate of fire.’ Gyuri nodded because he was unable to add anything to the conversation. He merely smiled politely in the way one does when one’s country has been invaded by interesting new tanks. The attaché was carrying an umbrella, Gyuri observed, as all Englishmen should.