‘Out!’ She pulls Zoë off balance. ‘Out, I said!’ The barrel of the pistol slams into Zoë’s breastbone. Hands above her head, eyes and nose running and mingling with the blood from her cut eye, Zoë stands up and half climbs, half falls out of the carrier. She lands on her knees in dry grass. Looking around, she sees where they are: Koumoundourou Square. The other men are gathering round. ‘Remember the song, Zozo?’ Feathers says, reaching down and pulling her up again by her hair, the pistol digging into her throat. ‘Douru douru, in the square at Koumoundourou? This is a famous singer, boys! Why don’t you sing for us, Zozo? Go on!’ The pistol digs into Zoë’s throat and she coughs. ‘Go on!’

‘Oh, God,’ Zoë moans. ‘Oh, oh …’ She coughs and tastes blood. ‘You tell me one thing and you do another. You’ve made up your mind to drive me crazy.’

She hugs herself, sobbing. The words are barely words at all. ‘Ah, if your mother won’t give you the Kokkinia house, I’ll go and fetch that girl Mario from Podonifti.’

Zoë stops: the words are choking her. ‘The Kokkinia house. Is that what you wanted, Feathers? Pavlo’s house?’

Feathers grabs Zoë by the hair and pulls. Their faces are almost touching; Zoë can smell cheap face powder and vinegary sweat. ‘It was Pavlo’s house and it should have been mine,’ Feathers hisses. ‘You should have given it to me. Just like you should have let Ioannis fuck you. People like you never do the right thing! ’ Feathers is screeching now. ‘That’s why I despise you.’ She pushes Zoë away and jabs the pistol at her breastbone. ‘Come on, boys!’ she shouts. ‘Join in!’

Dourou dourou, dourou dourou,

In the square at Koumoundourou!

‘What the fuck is that Turkish grunting supposed to be?’ Captain Pandelis appears at Feathers’ side.

‘It’s our famous singer!’ Feathers giggles, waving her pistol at Zoë.

‘Search her and let’s get on,’ he snaps.

Feathers steps up to Zoë, who feels herself enveloped in the familiar sweet, cheap perfume. She bites her lip to stop herself whimpering as Feathers sticks the barrel of her gun up under her chin. ‘You’re wearing my jacket.’

‘I …’

‘Take it off!’

Zoë pulls off the jacket as quickly as she can. Feathers shrugs off her own tunic and kicks it aside. She puts on Zoë’s jacket and admires the fit. The sleeves are too short, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Then she shoves Zoë, sticks her hands into the pockets of her skirt and runs them up the front of her blouse. Zoë feels a hand turn into a fist as it finds something. Feathers yanks savagely; the silk cord burns against Zoë’s skin and snaps.