‘I’m broke as hell and that’s enough to suck the pride out of you. I’m not exactly going out first class. I have three reasons to go on Wheel. One: I could sure do with the money. Two: the franchise ended in a horrific tragedy. Everyone in this city knows that. Everyone knows about the Third of April, but people don’t know the good things about Lucky’s, or maybe they forgot, maybe they’re too young. There’s always chitchat on the show between the host and contestants and that’s a chance for me to remind people that Lucky’s was once an important place: a second home. Three, and most important, I need to leave behind something useful. I want Sophia to manage Lucky’s. She can take a salary and profits, and she can have the joint when I’m gone. I want to leave something behind for the people who are important to me.’

‘Have you told Sophia about this plan?’

‘No, I’m afraid that she’ll say she’s not interested. You’ll come to the taping?’

‘I’ll come,’ said Emily. She stepped away from the vacant shopfront and Lucky followed, beaming, ready now for the rest of the interview, which Emily said should deal with the history and structure of the franchise. Let’s cover all that, said Lucky, there’s much to say. On St Johns Road they sat down at a new bar, an airy place of chrome and wood and interior graffiti that Emily felt tried too hard. She drank wine; he had soda water. For two hours Lucky described the lifespan of his franchise, rapidly shovelling details, speaking as if he’d forgotten himself, yet saying not one word about the fire at the Cafe Achillion. Or how Ian Asquith was involved in the death of Penelope.

Chapter 13: 1946

1946

1.

No lights visible behind the shopfront, no smoke from the chimney. Lucky knocked gently on a segment of glass. After waiting and waiting, he banged on the door’s wooden mid-rail and peered once more into the Achillion gloom, his hands cupped around his eyes. His first thought: Achilles, consumed by shame, had fled the city and abandoned his palace.

Then Asproyerakas emerged from the shadows and unlatched and opened the door, leading his son-in-law wordlessly through the cafe, past the kitchen, its smells of cold fat and bad tomatoes, along a dark hallway. They came to the living room, narrowly lit by the woozy hum of a single dangling lightbulb. Achilles’ eyelids were dark and droopy, his nostrils flared like suction cups. The table was covered with a white lace tablecloth crumbed with cigarette ash.

‘Do you have a new job?’ Achilles asked.