‘What are you … ? You can’t be here!’ He seems to shrink before her eyes, and slumps against the doorjamb. His cheeks look more hollow than she remembers them, and darkly stubbled. The old KKE men have stopped talking and are watching the Englishman with interest. Feeling as if she is jumping into deep, dark water, she crosses the floor between the bar and the door in three quick steps, pulls the Englishman inside and kicks the door shut behind him. They stand, only a few inches apart, breathing fast.

‘I should have bought you a drink at the Acropole Palace,’ he says, trying to smile, which only makes him look more forlorn. ‘So as I’m still in Greece …’

‘This isn’t funny,’ she snaps. ‘What are you doing here?’ She locks the door and, grabbing his wrist, which is hard and roped with muscle beneath the rubbery sleeve of his coat, she drags him away from the door, feeling him stagger as he loses his balance for a moment. Then he lets himself be led to the table nearest the kitchen. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ he asks politely. Zoë sees that he is swaying on his feet.

‘For God’s sake!’ she says again, furiously. She feels full of rage, rage at this man for coming here, bringing unknown dangers; rage at herself, for losing control. Because she has never been less calm. Her hands are shaking. Her body hurts. The Englishman smells like petrol and smoke, and yesterday’s horror is coming back to her in a great, sickening flood.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘This was the only place I could think of to come. After I left you … it’s all so bloody stupid.’

‘But what about your car? Why didn’t you … why didn’t you just drive away?’ She waves her hand angrily, as if to fling him out of here, out to sea.

‘Someone took my car. A colonel. He promised he’d bring it back.’ He shakes his head. ‘I expect people have been making a lot of promises like that recently.’

‘Christ. Stay there. No, sit down. There, by the back door.’ Zoë hurries over to the old communists, who are looking at her with a mixture of concern and delight.

‘I apologise,’ she says to them. ‘This is an English officer – he helped me yesterday, and now he has come here.’

They both nod gravely. ‘I saw their general fly away last night in a big flying boat,’ the younger man, Christo, says. ‘General Wilson.’ He draws out the word with exquisite disdain. Whi-i-i-lson. ‘But the soldiers have done their best.’

‘Churchill fucked them all up the arse,’ the older man observes. ‘They came to help, now they are our guests.’

‘Do you mind … ?’ Zoë looks around the cluttered insides of the Cordelio, which suddenly feel much less safe, much less familiar.