‘Of course, of course.’ The man winces. ‘We’d finished – I play fiddle – and we’d gone into the back for some food, you know, something to drink …’ His eyes slide away from hers. His face seems to be getting more hollow as he speaks. ‘So we notice that Pavlo isn’t with us. I go back out front, no sign of him, but the door’s open – the street door. I go to shut it …’ He shakes his head.

‘Go on.’

‘And there he is. On the step. Just … leaning over, with his bouzouki across his lap. I think he’s just nodded off, right, so I give him a shake. And …’ The man covers his face with an almost translucent hand.

‘What was it? What had happened to him?’ demands Apostoli.

‘Overdose,’ the man says at last. ‘The needle was still in his arm.’

Zoë totters and Apostoli catches her just in time. The other band members rush over. Someone brings a seat and Apostoli lowers her into it. A glass is put into her hand and raised to her lips. She fights the burn of the cheap brandy as it goes down, and when she opens her mouth she hears a terrible moan that surely can’t be coming from her throat.

‘An accident,’ she is saying. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘I thought so, but he was holding this,’ says the man. He reaches inside his coat and takes out a clean yellow envelope. ‘He addressed it to you. I think it means … you know. He’d been down,’ he adds, ‘but we’ve all been down, haven’t we? I didn’t think he’d go and do something like this.’

Zoë starts to open the letter but Apostoli kneels in front of her. ‘Not yet, koukla. Not here in front of everybody.’

Zoë forces herself to look at the stranger. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He …’ The man squirms where he stands, legs and arms twisting against each other. ‘The owner didn’t want trouble, you know, so he got us to carry poor old Pavlo down to the square at the end of the street. We put him on a bench and I went to the all-night kiosk in Koumoundourou Square and phoned for an ambulance. They came and took him away.’

‘Holy Virgin,’ roars Niko. ‘You left Pavlo on a fucking bench? Our Pavlaki? Your friend?’

‘It’s all right, honey.’ Zoë takes hold of his sleeve and shakes it. ‘It was always going to end up this way. He’d have done the same for you, wouldn’t he?’ she adds to the stranger, who sniffs.

‘It’s just the life,’ he says, as if that explains everything.

‘And Feathers? Have you told her?’

‘Feathers wasn’t there,’ says the stranger.

‘Fuck! Where is she? I don’t want her anywhere near …’ And then she remembers. Pavlo will be in the morgue by now. ‘Oh, God. It doesn’t matter.’