‘Oh, give over, comrade,’ Kosti interrupts. ‘They aren’t in the mood for a lecture. Neither am I, at this time of night. Don’t take any notice of him, sisters. He’s just joined the EPON—’ He sees them both frown. ‘Our youth organisation. Last year he was an engineering student …’

‘And you were a road sweeper,’ says Evangelos, shaking his head. This seems like a familiar, friendly routine to Zoë. I don’t care, she wants to say. She closes her eyes for a moment and sees Pavlo’s collapsing face in a halo of dahlia blossoms.

‘I was a road builder. But we’re still comrades, and that’s all that matters,’ says Kosti. ‘We’ll leave you now, sisters. You’ll be quite safe: this neighbourhood belongs to us.’

‘How long will we have to stay here?’ Efi asks.

‘Not long,’ says Evangelos. ‘The Bosch are leaving, any day – might even be tomorrow. After that we’ll settle up with the quislings and the Battalionist scum. And then …’

‘And then what?’ Zoë feels bludgeoned with exhaustion. She drops down onto one of the beds and finds it as hard as a paving stone.

‘And then laokratia, of course. People’s democracy.’

‘See? Everything’s settled.’ Kosti grins. ‘Someone will come and check on you in the morning. Goodnight!’

The next day they are woken by gunfire, only a street or two away. The two women dress quickly and go to the door. The street outside is even more ramshackle in daylight. It runs down a shallow ravine, and square shacks are piled against the rocky sides without any seeming order. They all seem to be built out of daubed mud; it looks like a place built by giant wasps, not humans. Women are gossiping and pegging washing to lines that stretch back and forth across the narrow space, oblivious, apparently, to the shooting and to the red and white graffiti that every house seems to have acquired. The more Zoë looks, though, the less alien the neighbourhood becomes. The houses are rougher, but they are only a little smaller than the RSC houses in Kokkinia, and in the voices of the women she hears the familiar rhythms of Asia Minor. A few are speaking Turkish, and the sound cheers her. A man comes around the corner and jogs down the street, ducking under the washing lines and laughing as the women scold him. Kosti, his gun slung across his shoulder. He sees Zoë and Efi and waves.

‘Sleep well?’ he asks when he reaches them. ‘Sorry if we woke you up. We’re having a bit of fun with some Special Security arseholes. Now then: Kyria Sotirakis?’

‘Good morning,’ says Efi. She has put on trousers and a man’s sweater, and she is tying an old scarf around her hair. Kosti is looking her up and down with approval.