She spares the dead soldier a last look, then turns to one of those who had been clustered round the wounded lad. “Mr Cuts: see he's buried properly.” She holsters the still smoking automatic pistol as she glances at the two civilian bodies lying by the burning van. “Leave those two for the dogs.” She walks back to our carriage, shaking a grey kerchief out of a pocket and dabbing at her face, removing a few small spots of the youth's blood. She jumps up on to the step again, folding her elbows over the carriage door.

“I was asking about guns,” she says.

“I ha I have a shotgun and rifle,” I tell her, my voice shaking. I glance up the road. “We may need them for “

“Where are they?”

“Here.” I stand slowly, and look down at the box beneath the coachman's seat. The lieutenant nods to a soldier I had not noticed on the other side of the carriage, who jumps up, opens the box, searches it and hauls out the oil heavy bag in which I stowed the guns; he checks inside, then jumps back down.

“The rifle is not of a military calibre,” I protest.

“Ah. That'll mean it can't shoot soldiers, then,” the lieutenant says, nodding ingenuously.

I glance round in the direction we were travelling. “For pity's sake, we don't know what we might meet further on “

“Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that,” she says, climbing a step higher on the carriage and giving another nod. The same soldier who took the guns clambers up beside me again. He proceeds to search me, efficiently but not roughly, while the lieutenant alternately grins at me and smiles at you, who look on, gloved hands clenched but visibly trembling. The soldier has a sour, almost fetid odour. He finds nothing he judges worth exhibiting, save the heavy bunch of keys I put into my pocket this morning. He throws them to the lieutenant, who catches them one handed and looks at them, holding them up and turning them against the light.