‘You must move, comrade, or you’ll freeze.’

Still nothing. Every night a dozen drunks froze to death in the gutters of Moscow. The heavy breathing uncoiled like white silk into the air and his hand gripped Alexei’s arm, tightening in spasms. Alexei leaned closer, his face so near that he could smell a sickly odour rising from the fur pelt.

‘What is it, comrade? Are you ill?’

A strange noise squeezed from the man’s throat like the whistle of a small bird. Shit! This wasn’t just a skinful of vodka. That whistle made the hairs stand up on the back of Alexei’s neck. It was the sound death makes when it comes calling. He’d heard it before, that high-pitched warning. He crouched quickly beside the man, his own heart beating like a hammer in his chest, and peered intently at the puffy face. Taking the weight in his arms, Alexei lowered him with care on to the pavement. His head was propped against Alexei’s own knees, to keep it from the icy claws that wrapped around drunks the moment they hit the ground.

Inside the voluminous coat the man was at least as warm as it was possible to be on a cold Moscow night, but in the semi-darkness the skin of his face looked greyer than the pavement under him. He had a fleshy face, full heavy lips and a thick moustache that was neatly trimmed to curl down either side of his mouth. About fifty years old, Alexei guessed, but right now looked more like a hundred and fifty. The ice was turning Alexei’s legs numb already and must have been doing something similar to this man’s, but there was no one in the street to shout to. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave him and fetch help himself – something about that grip on his arm, the sense of need in it.

Think clearly. What was going on here? A heart attack? A stroke? A fit of some kind?

He checked the man’s mouth. The jaw was rigid but the tongue hadn’t rolled back, though the skin of his face was cold and clammy to touch. Oh Christ, don’t die on me. He quickly unfastened the man’s coat and rummaged through his jacket pockets. Cigar case, wallet, keys, handkerchief, a clip of papers and – what he’d been searching for – a small pill box. It was round and warm from contact with its owner’s body. He flipped it open to reveal a clutch of white tablets. Damn it, they could be anything. Headache pills or indigestion remedies? He tipped one on to the palm of his hand and closed the box.

‘Comrade.’ He spoke loudly, as though the man were deaf. ‘Comrade, are these tablets what you need?’

The man made no response, just lay like a log against Alexei’s knees, eyes closed, breath silent. Still the grip, weaker now, on Alexei’s sleeve – it was all that indicated he was alive. Alexei put a hand to the man’s jaw. Thank God it had gone slack. Gently he opened the thick lips and pushed a tablet under his tongue. The throat spasmed.

‘Come on, don’t give up on me yet.’

Then he found himself doing something he didn’t expect. In the bitter cold on this dismal street, hunched on the pavement in the dark, he wrapped his arms around this stranger and held him close. As if his own arms were stronger than death’s. He rested his cheek on the fur, felt its warmth seep into his own flesh and listened to the short gasps as the man struggled to draw in air. He twinned his own breathing to match it, willing the heart to keep beating. And he waited.

‘Friend?’

The word was a whisper. Barely that.

‘So you’re not dead yet,’ Alexei smiled.

‘Not yet.’

‘Can you move?’

‘Soon.’

‘Then we’ll wait.’

A murmur.

‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear.’ Alexei leaned closer, his ear by the man’s lips.

‘Tablets.’

‘I gave you one earlier. From your pill box.’

The heavy head nodded faintly. ‘Spasibo.’

‘Is it your heart?’

‘Da.’

‘You need to get out of the cold. When you’re ready I’ll get you on your feet.’

‘Soon.’ His voice faded in and out. ‘Not yet.’

‘I am in the Kalinin Hostel but it’s too far away for you to walk. What you need is a hospital – and fast.’

‘Nyet.’

The hand on his sleeve tightened, the fingers agitated.

‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ Alexei said. ‘Calm down. We’ll sit here together like this as long as you want, waiting for the morning sun to shine and melt our bones.’

The man smiled, just a slight twitch in the corners of his mouth, but still a smile. For the first time Alexei believed he might live. He felt the body relax, heard the breathing quieten, and was just considering whether it would be wise to ease himself away, so that he could bang on a door further up the street where there was light in an upstairs window, when he heard the sound of a car engine. It was travelling slowly along the road; so slowly, in fact, that the driver must be very nervous of ice.

‘Comrade, a car is coming. I’ll stop it and-’

‘Don’t let me go, friend.’

‘I’ll be gone only a moment, I promise.’

‘If you let go of me, I’ll slide into the pit.’

‘What pit?’

‘That black hole. There at my feet.’

‘Friend, there’s no hole.’

‘I can see it.’

‘Nyet. Look at me.’

The man turned his head. His eyes were just slits in his fleshy face.

‘There’s no hole,’ Alexei repeated.

The fingers squeezed. ‘Swear it.’

‘I swear it.’

The engine stopped. Alexei looked up. At the opposite kerb not one but two old black cars with long bonnets had pulled up. The doors slammed. Six men leapt out and raced across the road towards them. Without a word Alexei tightened one arm around his new comrade, ready to haul him to his feet whether he wanted to or not, while his other hand slid under the man’s coat to the holster that lay next to his chest, removing the gun. Quietly he released the safety catch and braced himself.

‘Pakhan!’

A young man approached and saw the gun. From nowhere a snub-nosed revolver materialised in his own fist. He had thick black hair and the same moustache as the older man.

‘Pakhan!’ he shouted again. He stopped less than two metres away.

‘Anatoly,’ the sick man murmured and, releasing his grip on Alexei, he stretched out his hand. ‘Don’t, Anatoly. This man helped me.’

‘Your friend collapsed here in the street.’ Alexei lowered the gun.

Men dressed in black swarmed around them, lean figures each with eyes that did not invite familiarity. Between them they lifted the man and had him stowed inside one of the cars before Alexei could even bid him goodbye. He stood on the packed ice in the gutter and watched the cars slide away into the night like sharks. He felt the loss. It took him by surprise.

‘Get well, tovarishch,’ Alexei said as he pushed the gun into his waistband and set off back to the fleas.

‘Go to bed, Lydia.’ It was Elena’s voice, soft from behind the curtain.

‘Not yet.’

‘There’s no point waiting.’

‘There is.’

‘He won’t come, girl. Not tonight. He can’t. He told you that he’s watched every moment.’

‘You don’t know him.’

A low chuckle. ‘No, but I know men. Even the most devoted won’t walk into a lion’s mouth if it means no chance of walking out again. Give him time. You’re in too much of a hurry.’

‘Chang An Lo is not like other men.’

‘So you say.’

‘It’s true, Elena.’

There was a sudden somnolent snort from Liev on the far side of the curtain. Their talk had woken him. ‘Fuck this. Go to sleep. The pair of you.’

‘Shut up, you old goat,’ Elena chuckled fondly, and the bed-springs creaked as she settled down beside her man.

Lydia leaned over from the chair beside the window and blew out the candle on the sill. But she remained there, staring out into darkness.

Chang saw the light go out. He was in the courtyard below, a black shadow among black shadows. He had no way of knowing it was her window, or her candle, but he was as certain of it as he was of his own heartbeat.