If they found him up here there was no escape, so he kept the gun close: better to blow his own brains out than go through brutal interrogation and die a few days later. Hunger and nerves made sleep hard, but Marc clocked up a few ten-or twenty-minute bursts. It was one of the warmest days of the year so far and thirst began to torment him as morning broke. Occasionally he heard muffled conversations, or a cabinet drawer slamming in the archives below. A few times he thought he heard footsteps on the flat roof, but pigeons were the only company that existed outside his imagination. The day passed agonisingly. Marc started feeling light-headed as his body demanded food and water, but it would be insanely risky to venture down into the office before the Labour Administration staff clocked off at 6 p.m. In some ways the hunger was a relief: having an appetite made him hopeful that he’d fought off the stomach bug. With no watch it was hard to judge time, but when Marc finally saw the sun dropping behind smoking factory chimneys, he decided it was nearer to seven than six and made his move.
