Then suddenly the Greek got up. “Right,” he said, and kicked George hard in the ribs. “Get up, you.”
Somehow George crawled to his feet. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his bleeding left hand. He swayed unsteadily as the other Greek appeared, pushing Cora through the concealed doorway.
Then somehow they were in the street together, in the darkness and the rain.
George stood gulping in the hot, damp air, unnerved, his limbs trembling.
“What happened?” he said. “What did they do to you?”
Cora, her arms tightly crossed, doubled herself up. Her long wave of hair fell forward, concealing her face. She stood like that for several minutes, and the rain poured down on her.
“Can’t I do anything?” George said, forgetting about his own wounds, frightened to touch her, terrified by her behaviour. Her ragged, laboured breathing made a dreadful sound in the rain and the darkness.
She began to walk up and down the street, still doubled up, still holding onto herself.
“Cora! Tell me!” he said, following her. “What is it?”
They were near a street lamp now, and she suddenly straightened. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain. She looked wild. A hissing sound came from her lips, and he could see she was grinding her teeth.