So they gather up the kettle and stove, scrounge more mugs from other gun positions and set up a tea station between two of the ambulances. Tea is served up by the light of a hissing Primus lamp. The drivers make grim jokes, while the wounded are calm and polite. To Tom, that seems to make the whole thing more sad, more unbearable, this stoical bearing of personal disaster.

The medic throws the stub of his cigarette into the sea and stands up. ‘It’ll be dark soon. Will you be coming with us, sir?’

Tom thinks quickly. Kifisia is near the turn-off for the evacuation beaches east of Marathon. There might be stragglers who could give him a ride. Or he’ll simply be captured more quickly. If he stays here, he’ll be captured tomorrow in any case.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘I expect you could do with another pair of hands.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Zoë limps into the Cafe Cordelio and finds Niko sawing at a piece of wood that is braced across the bar, Micho hanging on to the other end. The room looks different. She rubs her forehead. No, it is different. There are columns holding up the ceiling: elegant white columns.

‘Zozo!’ Niko looks up from his sawing, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘What do you think? Classy, eh?’

‘Sure.’

He bangs a column with his fist. ‘The loading boom that nearly killed us all. What do you think? It’s turned this dump into the bloody Parthenon!’

‘The Parthenon,’ Zoë repeats. She leans against the nearest column, and it wobbles slightly. Nothing is quite real.

‘Where are the manges?’ Niko is still sawing.

‘What?’

‘The lads. Vangeli …’

‘Vangeli’s dead,’ says Zoë. She sits down heavily in the nearest chair.

‘Dead? Vangeli? What the hell are you talking about, Zozo mou?’ Niko looks up at last. ‘My God! What’s happened to you? Is that blood?’ He comes round the bar and squats down in front of her. ‘My God,’ he says again, hands hovering over her ruined shoes, the blood on her legs and skirt. ‘It’s not true!’

‘It is. It’s true.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was a German plane. We were driving along. We were singing, Niko!’

‘And the others? Apostoli? Pavlo?’

‘They’re alive. Vangeli …’

Niko takes her hands in his and squeezes them. ‘It’s all right, Zozo. Where did it happen?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere out in the countryside. A British Army car stopped to see what was going on and Apostoli made me go with them. Him – I mean, I drove down here with an officer. He dropped me off outside the door.’

‘Fucking Germans. Fucking Germans!’ Niko stands up and slams his hand against one of the columns, which jerks sideways with a squeal of wrenched nails. ‘And the British are leaving us to the wolves. I’d have had something to say to that officer.’