Kiev Tales: Death of a Party

The police turned up just after two, a pair of young men in frying-pan hats who stood either side of the doorway as we filed past in groups. "Where's your passport?" they asked, picking me out as a foreigner. I handed over the photocopy I always carry around and they mimed searching pages and looking for stamps. The music stopped, the kitchen emptied, "It's Yanukovych's police state," came a drunken shout from behind. "That's all I have with me," I said with a shrug. He looked over my shoulder to the Christmas lights still flashing on the wall. "You go," he said. "Who lives in this flat?"