‘The hashish …’ Her voice drops to a husky whisper. ‘It was very strong. I just took a little and … foof ! How much did you have?’

‘Two or three smokes. It didn’t do anything for me. I just got sleepy.’

‘Two or three? Po po po … Niko is an idiot.’

They walk around the far edges of the devastation caused by the explosion of the ammunition ship. As they move away from the sea they enter a tight grid of narrow streets lined with new-looking, identical houses. Empty squares of ground open up here and there where a house has been taken down or never built. The gendarme walks steadily, confidently, though at each crossroads he pauses and looks up the streets before moving on. There is no one about. No one except the Piraeus cats, who are conducting their affairs as if humanity has ceased to exist. They walk for five or six blocks, and then the gendarme, who has paused as usual at a crossing, suddenly stiffens and draws back. Zoë slips to his side. They confer.

‘It is a police patrol,’ Zoë whispers to Tom.

‘Damn.’ Tom swallows. ‘I’d better say goodbye, then.’

The gendarme turns and hisses something else. ‘He’s going to talk to them and lead them away. If they go, we’ll carry on,’ Zoë whispers. ‘Quick. In here.’

There is an empty plot a little behind them. Zoë takes his arm and leads him, running on tiptoe, through a rough fence of palings and corrugated iron, and pulls him down behind a scrubby tree. He feels the singer next to him, her side pressed against him, thin and lithe. He can feel her heart beating. Greek voices, gratingly loud in the silence. Sólon, greeting his colleagues. There is a rapid exchange. Tom braces himself. He will simply stand up and walk out with his hands up, and hopefully the buggers won’t notice the girl. But at that moment he feels her hand work its way nervously into his. He lets it in. Her skin is cold and he begins to rub it gently with his thumb, listening to the bantering voices in the street. The gendarmes laugh, the kind of laugh that comes at someone else’s expense. They don’t care who they wake up, he thinks. He hears the clack of boots, more laughter. The girl’s fingers press into his palm.