“It’s better than being dead.”

More silence. Lockhart decided to change the subject.

“I came through Kasteli on the way here. Do you know why that happened?”

“Sure. It’s because we shot that officer on the side of the road.”

There was little conversation as the five of them ate the few remaining scraps of goat that night. Lockhart drank the best part of a bottle of raki, and went to sleep knowing that he had just climbed the biggest step of his life.

He woke with the type of hangover he would get at Oxford. He stared numbly at the roof of the cave, remembering a different world, an innocent world in which the biggest treachery on offer was taking another chap’s girl out for a sly dinner in Thame. Not that he had done that—he would never have cheated on Anna. Although she had stayed in Greece until after Lockhart had graduated, despite many temptations he had remained true.

It had suited him—having a girlfriend in Oxford would have curtailed his drinking and gambling exploits. It was more convenient, at that time, to have one who existed on paper. He had felt guilty for having this attitude, but once again Anna’s frankness, expressed when he had visited her in Athens one spring vacation, had disarmed his worries. “I wouldn’t want you hanging around here either,” she had said, and Lockhart had gone back to Oxford with a clear conscience.

Some of his friends doubted that she existed, especially two of his closest ones—Phil Howard and Edward “The Test Tube” Barham, so called because he spent most of his time in the chemistry lab. Reluctantly, Lockhart had to produce some letters from Anna as evidence, but the intimate nature of their contents had Phil and The Test Tube billing and cooing.

Both Phil and The Test Tube had ended up at Dunkirk. Phil had made it back, but Edward had been taken prisoner. Poor bugger, Lockhart thought, he had been in Spangenburg POW camp for three years, three long years without his test tubes and Bunsen burners.

He sat up, his head throbbing. It must have been early morning, although Gregori was awake, smoking. There was no sign of Manoli.

“Gregori!” Lockhart whispered loudly.

Little Gregori turned around. He looked shifty, but then it was Lockhart’s opinion that Cretans often did.

“Where’s Manoli?”

“He went out with Vangeli to check the snares.”

Lockhart lay back down, relieved. At first he had feared that Manoli had abandoned him. It was hard to tell what decision the Cretan would reach, although Lockhart resolved to accept whatever Manoli came up with. As he had said, it was his island, these were his people. Lockhart was the hired help, borrowed from a nation that had not served the Cretans well during the invasion. He was part of the payback—not exactly a great deal so far. He shut his eyes and let himself go back to sleep. His hangover demanded it.