Luckily, everyone else was still around the front of the building and Marc had a clear run as he ducked through the washing towards the field. His hand and his thigh hurt badly and he stung in a dozen other places where he’d been caned, but adrenaline is a great painkiller and Marc’s was flowing in buckets.

As he pushed himself through a low hedge into the field, he looked back at the orphanage and felt sick. Despite all the bad food, the noise, the heat, the beatings and the bullying, there was still part of him that wanted to be able to climb back on his bunk and fall asleep.

The hugeness of what Marc had committed himself to was all-consuming. He was at the most important turning point of his twelve years and, as he bent down to grab the bike, a great burst of acid erupted from his throat.

He wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

CHAPTER TEN

The orphans were allowed to use a tatty bicycle when they were sent to the village on an errand, but it was years since Marc had ridden it and the director’s brand new Peugeot was a different beast: adult-sized, with decent brakes, three gears and the saddle set high. It took a few kilometres to get the feel of it but even then it wasn’t a comfortable ride.

There was no traffic heading north and the bombed trucks prevented anything with four wheels coming along the road behind him, but he passed huddles of refugees every few hundred metres. The lucky ones had horses and carts. Those without used prams, or handcarts nailed together from scrap. Some were piled impossibly high with mattresses and pots and pans, while others served as platforms for sleeping children.

By the time Marc reached the village his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. His confidence in the saddle had grown and he’d worked out the value of having gears. The bakery at the edge of the village appeared to have caught a bomb blast and rubble had spilled into the road, but his face was known around here so he didn’t slow down to look.

The cobbles in the village square made the bike shudder and Marc felt a rush of excitement as he followed a direction sign pointing at Beauvais 5km. The first part of this was a steep hill and, when he reached the brow, he decided that there was enough space between himself and the orphanage to risk making a stop.

Marc pulled into a shallow ditch at the roadside, mopping the sweat from his brow on to his bare arm as he stepped off the bike. He was short of breath and he regretted not bringing any water.