There is a well in the centre of the square, and a plane tree peeling in jigsaw pieces, and two tavernas, one open, one shut. She watches a skinny cat circle the well twice then stroll towards the taverna that is open, weaving between the legs of the drinkers outside: men demolishing little glass bottles of ouzo; a couple with bread and wine. She settles herself at a table under the plane tree, among the shed pieces of its bark, and the skinny cat comes to skim her ankles. Its ears are tatty from fighting. When she rubs its head she feels the pits of fleabites against the little skull.

‘You can feed her,’ says an English voice. Claire looks up. ‘If you want.’ A very tanned woman wearing a wide silver cuff on each wrist has brought her bread in a basket and a glass of water. ‘Thank you,’ Claire says. ‘Is she yours?’ The woman laughs. ‘None of these cats are anybody’s, and most places don’t want you to feed them. But I can’t help it. Ten years and I’m still a soft touch.’ Claire blinks. She ought to ask about the hotel, about Kostas, but she doesn’t know how to phrase her question. ‘What can I get you?’ the woman asks. She orders a beer, then changes her mind, and asks for retsina instead.

*

They are on the bed, all three of them, tangled. It reminds her of play-wrestling at home with her brother. The heaviness is familiar, the warmth, the friendly struggle that shades into panic. Hot breath at her ear, unintelligible words; and then the pressure lifts, the weight lifts; it is gone, propelled away from her across the tiny room, and both of them are making sounds of disgust, swearing and spitting, as she rolls on the bed. She thinks she might be sick. She was sick before. She hears that word again, yitharos, and the sawing of her breath. It catches in her chest. It makes her retch. She reaches her hands out and finds the cool tiles of the floor; a clatter as she pulls herself down. The boys start laughing. Then she is staggering away towards the darkness of the bathroom, the darkest corner, away, away from whatever’s going on.

*

The retsina is disgusting, sweet and cloying and vomit-sharp, but she makes herself finish the carafe, helping it down with bread, tomato salad and a plate of grilled sardines, ordered not so much for her as for the cat, which stays glued to her feet, crunching tiny bones.