‘Leftheri is in the army. Apparently he is dead. Niko says his mother got the letter yesterday. So you can stay. It is lucky.’

‘Not for Leftheri.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘No, not for Leftheri. But for you. Don’t complain.’

‘Will you show me?’ Tom decides to stand up but he staggers and leans hard on the table. Immediately, Niko and Apostoli grab him under the arms. ‘I’m fine! Just tired. Please.’

‘Go with them,’ says the singer. ‘You will be safe.’

‘Thank you,’ says Tom, though the two men are already almost bodily lifting him across the floor. He starts to laugh: fatigue, the wine … how strange it all is. ‘Will I … ?’ But Zoë just raises her hand – farewell, or dismissal? She is already turning away. A door opens and the two men are pushing him up a ladder. He climbs unsteadily up and through a trapdoor, finding himself in a slant-ceilinged space that smells strongly of sun-baked dust and old sweat. Needles of sunlight point out a rough mattress jammed into the tight angle between roof and floor. There is a double sheet folded over to cover the mattress and to sleep under, and an army blanket.

‘You can sleep there,’ says Apostoli, but Tom has already dropped his coat on the floor and is wrestling with the laces of his boots. ‘Wait.’ Apostoli kneels down and deftly unpicks the knots and slips the boots from Tom’s feet. ‘Go to sleep. When you wake up, stay here until someone comes, yes?’

‘All right.’ Tom stretches out on the mattress, which is just hay stuffed into a sheeting bag, though it feels like paradise, and pulls the covers around him. ‘Will she be here tomorrow?’ he asks.

‘Who?’ says Apostoli, but Tom is already fast asleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN