‘Metaxourgeiou,’ says the clerk mechanically. The people behind her in the line begin to shuffle their feet. It has taken an hour to get to the front of the queue and the silence of her companions has been slowly crushing her. The clerk is looking at another list. ‘Wait here,’ he snaps, and leaves through a side door. In less than five minutes he is back, accompanied by an orderly in dirty hospital whites. One hand is covered in a large elbow-length black rubber gauntlet, and the other gauntlet dangles from it like a dead raven. The orderly crooks his finger at Zoë and turns without a word.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers to the clerk, but he is already turning his crater-like eyes on the next person in the queue. The orderly leads her down a long, dirty corridor. Steel trolleys are pushed up against the wall and a filthy mop stands in a bucket of grey water. The air is almost spongey with the smell of disinfectant but it isn’t strong enough to mask the undercurrent of decay. Through a pair of double doors and into another corridor, and there, on one of the steel trolleys, a young man in a pinstripe suit.

‘You haven’t covered him,’ whispers Zoë.

‘He just came in,’ says the orderly, baldly. ‘Is it who you’re looking for?’

‘Yes.’ Zoë goes to the side of the trolley. Pavlo’s face looks carved out of powdery chalk and his lips are blue, but he looks absolutely peaceful, like a marble statue in the First Cemetery. He’s been practising for this his whole life, she thinks, and almost laughs. ‘Why did you do it?’ she whispers.

‘Hurry up,’ says the orderly. Zoë leans down and kisses her brother on his strange blue lips.

‘I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you, Pavlaki.’

‘What happened to him? We don’t see many in such a nice state these days,’ says the orderly, pushing the double doors open for her.

‘He was worn out,’ she says simply. The orderly nods. It seems as good an explanation as any. ‘Did he have anything with him?’ Zoë remembers to ask when they are almost at the end of the corridor. ‘A watch? Things in his pockets?’

‘People who come in like that never have anything in their pockets. Let alone a watch.’ He laughs, a short and humourless sound that echoes from the tiled walls. ‘Get your paperwork from the man at the desk.’