Tom hears something in his friend’s voice. ‘You can tell me now, can’t you?’

‘I’d rather …’

‘Chris. Please tell me now.’

‘OK. I’m so sorry, Tom. A platoon of Royal Welch found an execution site this afternoon. A bad one. They managed to collect identification from some of the bodies, and … well.’

Everything has slowed down. ‘What are you talking about, Chris?’

‘There was a bag with a ration card and some other effects. Which was lucky: most of the bodies were badly damaged, apparently. There’d been an artillery bombardment …’ Dimitriou takes a carefully folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Look, for what it’s worth, I wish it was something else. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you at all.’

Tom looks up, takes the offered paper with the stiff fingers of his bad hand. He opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say. As it often does when he is tired, his left hand has gone almost completely numb. It obeys his commands after a fashion, but as a thing that doesn’t properly belong to him any more. So now he can’t feel the slip of paper between his thumb and forefinger. You should paint this, a voice in his head says, very distinctly. He observes his good hand unfolding the paper, once, twice. Inside, several lines of black type.

Surname: Valavani

Name: Zoë

Father: Valavani

Race: Greek

Born in: Smyrna

Year: 1916

Lives in: Kokkinia

Identification no.: 6214

Profession: Singer

Street: Hozanitas, 317

Picked up by 2nd Platoon, A Company, Royal Welch, Lt. Burchinshaw, mass grave in unnamed square near Athens central market Koumoundourou Square, unit established in Observation Post ‘Beans’ SW corner of square.

Tom walks towards the door, almost knocking over a small table, blundering into the backs of chairs. ‘Tom!’ Dimitriou’s voice sounds very distant. He ignores it. The armed guards at the door salute him but he ignores them too and goes out into the blackout void of Syntagma.

‘Need an escort, sir?’ they call after him, but he shakes his head and waves them away. The night is almost completely silent. No traffic, no tanks or armoured cars. No voices or footsteps. Just his own. He begins to walk as fast as he can, turning into Stadiou Street past the sandbagged guard post. A West Country voice asks him for the password and he gives it. The men on guard make no effort to stop him: if a paratrooper major wants to be out at night, then so be it. He hugs the buildings, stepping over rubble and fallen lamp posts, sometimes clambering over an abandoned ELAS barricade. There are tanks parked in the middle of Klafthmonos Square, the glow of cigarettes and the low mumble of voices. He hears a weapon being cocked from behind a half-destroyed kiosk and gives the password. The shadow of a man in a paratrooper’s helmet leans out and waves him over.