‘What’s this?’ Feathers holds up Tom Collyer’s badge. ‘It’s British, isn’t it? What are you doing with this, Tourkála? Holy Christ! This is your boyfriend’s! Your poor lost English boy!’ She screams with laughter. ‘The famous Captain Tom! What would he say if he knew you were an ELAS hooker, eh, Zozo? The British are on our side, not yours. You know, he might even be here! Kapetanios!’ she shouts, and her voice echoes around the empty square. ‘Kapetanios!’

‘Shut up, you madwoman!’ Captain Pandelis shoves Feathers and she lurches away, cackling, pistol waving in Zoë’s face.

‘He’s not here, though, is he? He’s dead. He must have died years ago. You’ve been fucking a ghost all this time.’ Still laughing, Feathers throws herself against Pandelis and kisses him, mouth open. The captain’s fingers dig into Feathers’ meagre arse. The other men cheer, raggedly.

‘That’s enough. Let’s sort this out and get going,’ Pandelis says, pushing Feathers off him, more gently this time. ‘We have a rendezvous with that British company in …’ He glances at his watch. ‘In thirty-five minutes. We’re going to get the bodies out here and bury them – we’re not going to leave them lying around like those communist butchers, are we?’

Zoë turns her head and sees, beyond the leering men, a mound of earth beside a long, shallow trench. Her skin turns cold and she wants to sink to her knees but somehow she forces herself to stay upright.

‘What about her?’ Feathers asks petulantly. She is still holding the cap badge in her fist.

‘She’s going to help us, then she’s going into the hole. You’ – he points at Feathers – ‘and Yorgo, Stellios, Evripides, Christo – drag the stiffs out here, and be quick, would you? No fucking around this time.’

‘Come on.’ Yorgo – no older than eighteen, with an outsize British beret slanted across his head, takes Zoë by the arm and begins to lead her towards a corner of the square. Beyond the old buildings, peeling stucco the colour of Hymmetus honey – I’ll never taste honey again, Zoë thinks – the conical tower of the Armenian church rises. Rifle shots crackle not far away, and one of the guns on the Acropolis opens up, such a familiar sound that Zoë barely notices it. The paving stones are cracked and the lawns are trodden and brown. All the trees have long since been cut down for firewood. A machine gun lets off a burst two or three streets away.

‘Oho, we’re pushing the bastards back,’ one of the men says gleefully. They come to the door of a burnt-out house and Feathers pushes Zoë inside. The others crowd in behind her. The first thing Zoë registers is the choking stench of burnt wood and furniture. Then she sees, huddled against the far wall of the room, a pile of corpses, all lying face-down, limbs tangled.