‘I want my father to suffer for what he did to Penny. We need to separate him from his cafe. That’s what he loves best and that’s what we’ll take from him. We’ll send him away.’

‘How the hell do we do that?’ Lucky asked.

‘I know exactly how.’

‘And we end up running the cafe?’

‘We’ll give it a year,’ said Valia.

‘I can live with that.’

‘We’ll return to the Achillion in the morning and go back to work as usual: I’ll be at the counter and you take the kitchen. We’ll invite the police for lunch, on the house. Are you listening?’

The next morning at the cafe, Valia told Achilles—who in a quiet moment gave thanks to Father Nektarios and God himself for bringing her home—that he was restricted to the rooms behind the kitchen in case someone had seen him last night outside the fruit shop and called the police. She reminded Achilles that he’d made a great mistake by leaving the petrol can behind. Close the curtains in the back rooms, she advised him. Don’t make any noise.

At midday she found Achilles in the backyard, admiring his olive tree, and urged him to hide because the police had arrived, and one of them had asked to use the toilet, probably wanting to look around the place. To see if the owner was present. Peering out from behind the dry goods shed, Achilles waited and watched, feeling as if something were piercing his spine, as the constable entered and exited the outhouse, stopping under the grapevines to tie his bootlaces on the way back into the cafe.

Sometime later Valia came out to see Achilles, who sat against the shed, the sun on his face, his eyes closed. There was, she thought, something helpless about him. He suffered. He was routed. She could reach down and snatch out his soul.

‘What did you say to the police?’ he asked. ‘Do they know I beat up some drunks the other week?’

‘Lucky got rid of them.’

‘He’s good, that Lucky.’

‘They said last night someone doused the fruit shop with petrol. Apparently you can still smell it down there. They found a can.’

‘The smell will be gone soon. Nothing to worry about.’

A few hours later, Valia rushed out to the back verandah where Achilles lay on his mattress, inspecting his worry beads. He looked disappointed by them. They looked cheap. ‘The police came back after dinner,’ she told him.

‘Again! What do they know? What did they say?’

‘This time they asked for you. I told them you were in Queensland.’

‘Good job.’

‘You have to leave,’ Valia said. ‘We have money for a train ticket—here.’ Valia dropped an envelope into her father’s lap. ‘You have to go tonight. I’ll help you pack. Bill Papadamatis is in Brisbane—he’ll give you work.’