‘All right.’

‘That’s where my grandfather emigrated from. He died in the war.’

‘Which war?’

‘The First.’

‘Could he have even been born then?’

‘No, you’re right. The Second. He died in the Second World War, at the Battle of …’ He racked his brain again to remember a name from one of his history classes. ‘Ypres,’ he said. ‘Did I pronounce that right?’

‘You pronounced it right, yes,’ said Jeremy. ‘But it couldn’t have been Ypres, because that was in the First World War.’

‘It must have been the Marne, then.’

‘Also the First World War.’

‘Verdun?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Waterloo?’

Jeremy frowned. ‘That was during the Napoleonic era.’

‘Agincourt?’

‘No, that was Henry V. Sometime around 1415, if memory serves.’

Achilles sat back in his seat, losing the will to live.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You really know your battles, don’t you?’

‘I am a bit of a military history buff,’ admitted Jeremy.

‘So tell me some of the major battles of the Second World War. Maybe one will ring a bell.’

‘Well,’ said Jeremy, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I mean, where to start? There was the Battle of Normandy, of course, and the—’

‘Normandy,’ said Achilles, slapping a hand down on the table. ‘That was the one. He died there. In the Battle of Normandy.’

‘Right,’ said Jeremy, looking a bit confused. ‘I got it right first time. How odd.’

‘You know your stuff, no question. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. So, my grandfather, he died at Normandy and then his body was sent back to New Zealand to be buried in … can you guess the city?’

Jeremy glanced up at the ceiling for a moment as if he might find the answer up there. ‘Auckland?’ he suggested.

‘That’s the one. And then when my dad was stabbed in the guts in Dartmoor—’

‘Slashed across the throat in Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘Who’s telling this story, Jeremy, you or me?’

‘You are. I do apologize.’

‘When Dad died, is the point, when he was so brutally murdered by men who had been using him as their sex toy for two years—’

‘Four years.’

‘His body was sent back to Auckland too. To be buried alongside his own father. And his dying wish, it was in his will, was that his beloved Ustym Karmaliuk would one day be buried in the same grave.’

Jeremy stared at him as if he had gone mad. ‘Ustym Karmaliuk?’ he asked. ‘The famous Ukrainian folk hero?’

‘I am constantly impressed by how many people are aware of this man,’ replied Achilles, more to himself than anyone else. ‘No, not Ustym Karmaliuk. I don’t know why I said that name. I might be having a stroke. No, he wanted … he wanted …’

‘Tommy the Tortoise?’

‘That’s right. He wanted Tommy the Tortoise to be buried with him. And I want to do that for my father. But flying to New Zealand and back costs money.’

‘I’m sure it does.’