‘Move over, sister-in-law!’ Feathers says jauntily, as if they happen to be sharing a taxi. Zoë scrabbles backwards, drawing her knees up as hard as she can, and Feathers squats down opposite her. She is holding a large revolver with a ring dangling from the butt. Zoë’s memory produces an incongruously pleasant memory: Tom Collyer unbuckling his service revolver and laying it on her table in the house on Hozanitas Street. The gun is too big for Feathers’ skinny arms to support and she grasps the butt with both hands and rests them on her knees, aiming the barrel straight into Zoë’s face. She is wearing a frilly blouse beneath a British Army battledress tunic. The engine starts – it is behind the panel that Zoë is leaning against and she gasps in fright. Feathers burst out laughing. The carrier jerks forward and the pistol jumps against Feathers’ knees.

‘Nearly shot you!’ she squeals.

The carrier lurches into the street and turns, gathering speed.

‘Where are we going?’ Zoë manages to say.

‘You’ll see, Sister-in-law!’ One of Feathers’ sleeves has ridden up and Zoë sees the familiar dirty red lines and scars like pockmarks.

‘Stop calling me that.’ Don’t antagonise her, Zoë tells herself. ‘You didn’t come to Pavlo’s funeral,’ she goes on, trying to sound relaxed, as if they were back at Hozanitas Street, sitting around the table by candlelight, trying to talk to one another because anything was better than silence.

‘You didn’t invite me.’ Feathers pouts.

‘You’d vanished.’

‘I never did! I just went to stay with some friends!’

‘These bastards?’

‘That’s right. Good Greeks – but you wouldn’t know about that, would you, you dirty Turkish whore?’ Feathers giggles. She bursts out laughing: Like a schoolgirl, Zoë thinks, swearing in the playground. ‘Kouliana, poutana.’ Sister-in-law, whore.

Zoë’s heart is beating painfully hard. She takes a deep breath. ‘Pavlo loved you, Feathers,’ she says. ‘Christ knows why, but he did. More than anyone else. Is that why you call me kouliana? It’s fine. Do you have a doctor in your unit? I need one. For Apostoli’s wife. Remember Apostoli, who played in the band with Pavlo?’

‘Don’t worry, kouliana. We’re going to take care of everything.’ She closes one eye and sights along the barrel. ‘And don’t talk about Pavlo.’ Her mood has suddenly turned cold. ‘How dare you fucking talk about him? He hated you! Shut your filthy Turkish mouth!’ She reaches out and grabs the strap of Zoë’s bag, pulling it over Zoë’s head and looping it over her own shoulder. The carrier slows down with a series of jerks and stops. Feathers leans forward and grabs a fistful of Zoë’s hair.