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places. Live in the apartment and have a dacha for weekends?’
    It wasn’t like we were short of money. If Anna had taught me one thing, it was that money isn’t everything. But I’d scooped enough drug dollars from the industrialist’s aircraft to last us a while, and it was a fuck of a lot better than having to nick your own trainers.
    ‘Nicholas – look.’
    I glanced towards her. ‘Seen a place?’
    ‘No.’ She pointed at her lap. ‘I’m bleeding.’

3
    I brought the Touran to a screeching halt in what turned out to be a McDonald’s car park.
    ‘You want the clinic?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’ll go inside and check. You phone Katya.’
    Anna didn’t go anywhere without her ‘hospital bag’, these days. In the Regiment we used to keep a grab bag close by: a Bergen with all the ‘one hour’s notice’ gear – from trauma care to demolitions kit – that we might need on a call-out. Anna’s contained knickers and slippers, a change of clothes, the baby’s first outfit, nappies and hundreds of muslin squares – I still hadn’t worked out what they were for. In my little compartment there was a change of clothes, a camera, a tube of Pringles and some bags of Haribo. I fished out a pair of her trousers with a big, elasticated waist, some knickers and packs of wet wipes just in case.
    She set off for the toilet and I pulled out my phone. I wasn’t unduly worried. Anna was thirty-six weeks into her pregnancy with no complications. Katya had taken care of her throughout and assured us the baby was in launch mode, upside down and ready to get tabbing.
    We hadn’t even bothered signing the birthing contract; they’re a Russian thing – you pay about a month before the due date, according to the level of care you think you’ll need.We were going to do so at Katya’s clinic the week after next.
    I punched the speed-dial key for her mobile and got voicemail. Not a complete surprise: she hardly ever picked up even when she wasn’t working, and today was a Friday – she’d be busy. I’d have to wait for Anna to come back with the clinic number, unless Googleski found it for me first.
    I was glad the waiting was nearly over. Anna had become increasingly impatient with me, the more uncomfortable she got. The epic heat of the Moscow summer and a fair amount of pelvic pain had made the last few weeks a real struggle – and I was increasingly on the receiving end. I wasn’t cut out for family life, she reckoned. I told her that, whatever family life was, I was up for it. That went down like a wagon load of shit. She said she wasn’t sure if she still wanted me in this new life, or just her and the baby.
    ‘Things are changing in me – and not just down here, Nicholas.’ She’d pointed at her bump. ‘In here as well.’ Then she’d tapped the side of her head. ‘We don’t only have to change our lifestyle, we have to change our way of thinking. I’m not sure you can.’
    I’d waved my arms at the mountains of baby kit around us. ‘I’m already in baby mode. I’m prepared for whatever that means in the future.’
    I wasn’t convincing her. She was obsessed. I wasn’t ready to change; I wasn’t ready to settle and to do the right thing for our child. She needed someone who was going to be there not because they had to but because they wanted to. And this ‘wanting to’ feeling – well, she wasn’t getting it from me.
    One day she was worried about my lack of excitement, the next my lack of commitment. I couldn’t keep track of what she wanted from me. I wasn’t going to win Mr & Mrs anytime soon, but I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble, didn’t do drugs, didn’t spend nights out with the lads. I told her I’d get plenty excited and committed once the baby was there. Then I really fucked up. I wondered aloud if the problem had more to do with her hormones than me not being connected to the idea of fatherhood.
    It took a couple of days for the volcano to stop erupting