With one swift motion, Manolis flung the door open, expecting to see the room ablaze. But it was only glowing, a warm iridescent orange, reflecting a fire that was actually external, on the cabin’s right side. For a second, Manolis thought it was the Chinese laundry and tried to recall if he’d seen any occupants. Until he remembered where he’d parked his car.

Manolis could only make out the trunk of his Val. The rest of its body and bonnet were obscured by a raging fireball. It spewed out a thick black column of smoke that spiralled into the night. He was forced back, a hand over his nose and mouth, coughing, his lungs burnt by the slew of freshly liberated chemicals. The smell of petrol choked the air, burning alongside everything else that was flammable – vinyl, foam, metal. The petrol tank hadn’t ignited. Unless a tank ruptured and air rushed in, which Manolis had seen in accidents, its contents didn’t usually explode. But tyres did: brand-new radials, one by one, like rifle shots, bang-bang, bang-bang. The car’s windows shattered. With a southerly blowing the flames away from the sheriff’s office, the Chinese laundry was now safe from their fiery reach. Its darkened windows suggested it was unoccupied, or that the tenants were very heavy sleepers.

Standing in his briefs, Manolis fought hard to suck oxygen into his lungs, to force sulphur out. As his breathing returned to normal, he half-closed his eyes, placed his hands on his hips and resigned himself to his fate, to watching his love burn. He returned briefly to the cabin to check in case there was an extinguisher. There wasn’t. The fire continued its work.

‘Sto kalo… ah sto thialo… gamo to kerato sou…’

Manolis heard himself muttering, sounding like his father when he’d been frustrated, at a loss. Returning to Cobb made Manolis remember his dad doing it when he didn’t approve of a café customer so that they wouldn’t understand him. At the time, young Manolis found this disturbing, as if his father was increasingly going mad, and felt on edge around him. Now, when Manolis caught himself doing it, he was equally disturbed.

Rex arrived in his Y-fronts, breathing like an old bike pump. He carried a kerosene lamp in one hand, its light appearing greasy. Seeing him, Manolis stopped his muttering.

‘Bugger me,’ Rex said. ‘You okay, sport?’

Manolis gnawed on a thumbnail. ‘Got an extinguisher?’

‘Back at the office but it’s for small grease fires, not the gates of hell.’

Manolis exhaled. ‘That’s okay. Let it burn.’

A small crowd of residents soon appeared, shadows in darkness, milling around in case it was something worth seeing. When they realised it was just another burning vehicle, they began leaving, disappointed. Manolis asked if anyone had seen anything suspicious. They told him no or ignored him altogether.