The prisoners walked out, towards a row of huts. It was dusk now, the purple light turning the world into shadows and silhouettes. It took a while for Joe’s eyes to adjust inside, but he saw the rows of bunk beds and the huddled forms of the labourers in their striped clothing. He pulled off his clothes and knelt down, made the sign of the cross, hands together. Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.

It was the first time he’d thought of Trude since they had arrived.

The guard pushed Joe with his baton.

‘Sie, hier.’ Pushed Ernst too. ‘Bringen Sie dieser Stücke weg.’

Ernst said nothing, turned away from the gang, grabbed Joe’s arm, follow me, walked back to the huts. A truck started up, crawled behind them. Joe could feel the heat from its bonnet. Ernst stopped at the first hut. Three bodies lay on the ground. The truck stopped, engine running. Ernst opened the tailgate.

‘You take the legs,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the arms.’

Joe stared. What? These bodies. Tossed and tangled.

Joe’d never lifted a dead body before, only ever touched them when they were laid out, clean and calm, ready to meet their makers. Joe placed a hand on one of the shins. The bone was hard, the skin soft, cold, the flesh spongy.

‘Now,’ Ernst said. ‘Now.’

Joe shut his eyes, gripped the ankles, swayed as Ernst swung the body and threw it into the back of the truck.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. And again. Each hut. Bodies. Knotted. Naked. One was a woman’s body.

‘Get up,’ Ernst said, climbing into the back of the truck and holding out a hand for Joe. He pulled up the tailgate, stepped over the bodies to the side, held onto the railing. Joe followed him as the truck began to lurch forward. Joe grabbed the rail. Dared not lose his balance and fall.

Ernst stood in silence as the truck picked up speed. Joe couldn’t look down at the corpses by his feet, or those that lay behind him. He looked ahead, at the barren grasses and the shore beyond. He could see the coastline wherever he turned.

The truck pulled to a halt and backed close to a cliff, next to another pile of bodies, the flesh bloated and mottled.

‘Executions,’ Ernst said, releasing the tailgate. ‘Garrotted. That’s the way the bastards do it here. Or beaten to death.’ He flailed his wrist, as if it held a truncheon. ‘Crucified, sometimes.’

It was a sheer drop to the sea. Joe could see its shades of violet and sapphire, hear the waves lick against the edge. No birds. No birds. If he jumped now, he’d smash his head against the rocks. It would be over.

‘Come,’ Ernst said, pulling at a body, holding it by the arms.

Joe hesitated. Jump. Do it. Now.

‘Throw them over.’