Taylor clears his throat noisily from the car. Tom curses silently and looks down at the ground, willing the man to let him go so that he doesn’t have to push him off, make an ugly scene that will just add to the world’s misery. He sees crushed cigarette ends. He sees the woman’s shoes. One is dusty cream and black patent leather. The other is a mass of clotting blood. Whether it is the ruined shoe that touches him, or the lock of amber hair hanging in front of those hazel eyes, or the soft flow of her voice, in which he can almost feel a deep, resonant echo, he comes to a decision.

‘We’d better take her,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Climb in the back,’ he tells the woman. ‘Please be as quick as you can. We’re in rather a hurry.’

‘Aman – thanks be to God,’ says the man. ‘This one, she is a singer. Famous! She has many recordings. You must look after her, Kapetanios.’ He pulls Tom to him and kisses him hard on both cheeks. ‘You are a good man,’ he says. Then he almost drags the woman over to the Austin. Her red mouth is open – trying to protest, or too stunned to react.

‘You’ll be all right,’ Tom assures the man. He pauses, sticks out his hand. The other man takes it. ‘Good luck.’

He has to put his foot on the rear wheel and vault in beside the woman in the cramped back seat of the car. As soon as he is in, Taylor stamps on the accelerator. One, two, three screeches from the gearbox and they are at the next bend in the road. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ Taylor asks the woman, shouting over the rushing air. ‘There’s some water somewhere.’

A canteen is found and passed back to the woman, who is sitting straight-backed and rigid, hands clasped, white-knuckled, in her lap. She takes a sip from the felt-wrapped flask, then a proper swig, head thrown back, and Tom can’t help but notice the pulsing of her throat as she drinks, the soft blue outline of a vein in her long neck. Kerr has twisted around in his seat and is staring at her with a slack-faced intensity that suggests a child gazing at a large iced cake through a baker’s window.

‘Forgotten the Luftwaffe already, Kerr?’ Tom asks, irritated.

‘I say, look, how come you get to sit next to her?’ Kerr is almost pouting behind his sparse, sandy moustache.

‘Help Sergeant Taylor and look out for the Marathon turn-off,’ Tom says, ignoring him. ‘Should be just up ahead.’