They have been rattling along at a good pace, but a mile or so after the officer has turned onto a wider road on the outskirts of Kifisia, the way is blocked by a soldier on a motorcycle. Beyond him, a short line of trucks and a crowd of soldiers, all stripped to the waist.

‘Can’t come through, I’m afraid, sir. There’s a lorry on its side, and it’s blocking the whole road.’

‘Damn. Is there a way around?’

‘Yes, sir, but it’s chaos. We’re trying to get everything clear for the evacuation tonight.’ The motorcyclist is eyeing Zoë curiously. ‘Going into Athens now, sir?’

‘Yes. I have to report to Headquarters. Is it still in the Acropole Palace?’

‘Was this morning, sir. I’d advise you to wait here. It’ll save you time in the long run. Shouldn’t be more than half an hour.’

‘Half an hour! Christ …’

The officer gets out and walks down to the stricken truck. When he comes back he looks even more tired. He takes out his cigarettes, hesitates, and turns to her.

‘I can’t imagine that your nanny would approve of you smoking,’ he says, and his mouth twists, almost smiling.

Zoë stares at the red and yellow pack, at the long fingers holding it, their nails stained black, worn jagged. Her mind slips sideways, to the garden, to hollyhocks and starched linen. Did Miss Butland smoke? ‘I can’t …’ She stops herself. ‘Thank you,’ she says primly. She accepts a light, but then settles back in the corner farthest from him and turns her head away, though there is nothing to look at except a newly planted olive grove, lines of slender grey-green saplings enclosed by half-collapsed stone walls and a fence of rusty barbed wire. She finishes the cigarette and throws it out into the ditch, leans back against the hot metal of the roof struts and closes her eyes. The noises of the day drift around her: guttural foreign chatter from the army trucks, the occasional whine of machinery, a twittering of sparrows among the olives. Her head is pounding and her whole body feels dented. Perhaps, though, she should get out now and make her own way home. She knows where she is, roughly – there must be a tram from Kifisia or Maroussi, or a bus … Oh, God. The thought of walking makes her feel sick. But she can’t stay here. She winces and rubs her face. The sparrows flutter and chirp. And there is another sound, a brittle scratch, shush, scratch much closer to her. It sounds like an insect. Why doesn’t the Englishman get rid of it? She opens her eyes, unwillingly.