‘Do you remember the Italian Army surgeon from the club?’ Zoë can vaguely picture a nice-looking, grey-haired man in a tailored uniform. ‘Well, he was there with one of his men. A junior doctor. You know, I can spot a fiend from a mile away …’

‘A fiend?’ asks Voula, who is still licking her lips ecstatically.

‘On the needle. Anyway, I found him in the bathroom in the interval. Didn’t take much to get it out of him.’

‘Is this another story about buying heroin?’ says Zoë testily. ‘Because I’m sick of those. Write a song about it instead.’

‘Patience, Zozo. I wasn’t buying – I didn’t have to. You see, il dottore wanted to go into business with someone.’

‘Business …’

‘He works in the hospital. So he takes what he needs for himself, obviously. But, turns out there are a few bad boys in the German garrison who are looking for a fix. Il dottore wanted to find someone to be a go-between. If he was caught selling junk to the Germans, it would be all over for him, but if a Greek … you get it? With connections?’

‘You’re dealing drugs to the Nazis,’ says Zoë in disbelief.

‘My God! How exciting!’ Voula breathes.

‘Shut up, Paraskevoula. He’s an idiot.’

Pavlo shrugs his narrow shoulders. ‘Sure, I’m dealing,’ he says. ‘We’re not talking about much, unfortunately. A few ampoules of morphine, some heroin tablets. But only to the Bosch.’

‘And what do you get out of this?’

‘Just some treats like these, which they throw me as if I was a talking dog. The money all goes to il dottore and I’m not in a position to ask him for a cut. If anything at all goes wrong I get shot, basically, even if everybody else gets away with it. But listen: I’d never, never sell to a Greek, Zoë.’

‘Like hell.’

‘I mean it. I hate the shit with all my heart, but it’s my life. You know how many times I’ve tried to get clean. If I can fuck some Nazis up a bit, then at least some good will come from it.’

‘How are the others?’ she says, to change the subject. The thought of Pavlo’s habit always makes her feel that she has failed Mama Katina, and she had promised …

‘They’re hanging on. Lountas has promised us another gig. You’ve got to get well. I’ll bring you some more chocolate. Some soup. Bacon!’

‘I don’t want it if it’s come from selling junk,’ snaps Zoë, though of course she does, desperately. Besides, she can see Voula giving her brother the kind of look she knows all too well. Why can’t girls resist him? He’s a junkie bum, and he always will be. But, damn him, he is beautiful, and charming, and his heart, though it is pickled in heroin, is a good heart.