Marc was no slouch and Victor was two years younger, but the gash on his thigh slowed him down and Victor was right on his back as he reached the ground floor. Victor screamed out for help as Marc whizzed past the kitchen doorway. It arrived in the form of a sixteen-year-old roommate called Sebastien, who happened to be coming inside.

‘He’s nicked Noel’s boots!’ Victor shouted.

Marc almost ran straight into the teenager, but managed to spin on the ball of his foot and clatter into Victor, leaving him sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs. He landed awkwardly on his cast and moaned in pain.

Two French soldiers and a nun were blocking Marc from heading out the back, which left the kitchen as his only option. A half-conscious soldier with a chunk of shrapnel in his arm sat at the table as Marc ran in. There was no door, so he raced the length of the room and vaulted into the huge sink, where giant pots and pans used to cook for a hundred kids were scrubbed after each meal.

The window behind this sink was shut and Marc lost valuable time as he wrestled with a tight brass handle. As the bewildered soldier looked on, Marc swung the window outwards and jumped through.

The drop was less than a metre, but Marc’s weakened leg buckled and the palm he put out to save himself hit the jagged edge of a stone. The pain made him gasp and by the time he’d found his feet Sebastien’s frighteningly muscular torso was squeezing through the gap.

With his leg so weak, Marc knew he’d never make it to the field where he’d stashed the bike before the teenager caught up. His only chance would be if he attacked Sebastien while he was trapped in the window frame and, after briefly considering swinging at him with the boots, Marc realised that the window itself was the best weapon.

Sebastien saw what was going to happen and shouted out as Marc grabbed the window frame. With his hands trapped at his sides, there was nothing Sebastien could do as the pane of glass smashed over the top of his head.

Marc didn’t stand around to gawp, but Sebastien sounded like he was in a lot of pain and beads of blood were welling around a large gash in his forehead. It wasn’t a pretty sight and it scared the wits out of Marc. Five minutes earlier he could have ditched the director’s money and backed out, but now there were stolen boots, panes of broken glass and one of the biggest kids in the orphanage needing his face stitched. There was no going back.