‘All right, all right,’ Dimitriou says gently. ‘I’ve got to meet Archbishop Damaskinos in a few minutes, but after that, we’ll find some men and drive over there. Meanwhile, let’s get a doctor to look you over …’

‘I’ll take him,’ says McCall.

‘Mac …’

‘No, I want to. It’ll be OK.’

They half carry him to McCall’s jeep, which is parked outside Police Headquarters. Dimitriou waves them off and they drive up Stadiou. Some sort of calm has returned: there are civilians on the street, standing in clusters, staring at the wrecked trams and demolished buildings. A military policeman with white gloves stops them at a crossroads.

‘I understand,’ McCall says over the rattling engine. ‘You know that. You know why. I couldn’t do a thing when Emmie died. Not a damn thing. I was in the jungle – New Guinea – and I got a letter. Just a regular letter. It came up with the rest of the mail. And you know what? It was so fucking horrible out there that I read it and it hardly registered. I thought … I don’t know what I thought. But when I got back to the rear, it hit me. I was sitting on a beach, sort of a shitty beach, covered in dead leaves and these pale crabs, but the sun was shining and my pants weren’t rotting off me and I thought, I’ll write to Emmie about this, and I’ll make it kind of funny. And then …’ The MP waves them on, but McCall pauses, his hand on the gear lever. ‘I haven’t been back. I know where she’s buried but I haven’t been. I could have gone home but I haven’t.’ He shoves the jeep into gear. ‘I guess I won’t. So I understand. And I’m sorry.’

They have gone quite far when a couple of paratroopers step into the road, blocking their way.

‘I’m with the press,’ says McCall, showing his pass. But they shake their heads. ‘Booby traps,’ they explain. ‘Should be taken care of by tomorrow. There’s nothing to see, anyway.’

‘I’m going,’ says Tom. ‘It’s all right, Mac. I can manage by myself.’

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ says one of the soldiers, but Tom knows they won’t argue with a major.