‘Nobody wanted to hear about the war’s victims,’ Geoffrey continued. ‘Only its heroes.’

Joe looked up. ‘That’s not true,’ Joe said. ‘There were trials in Germany.’

‘It happened here,’ Geoffrey persisted. ‘There were victims here. But no trials.’

‘Victims leave no trace,’ Joe said.

‘That’s not so,’ Geoffrey said. He twisted in his chair and Joe heard it creak as it adjusted to his weight. ‘The traces are all around, in every bunker and gun placement, in every sea wall and tower.’

Joe hadn’t considered it like that, in those words. People went to look at the bunkers, never gave a thought to the poor buggers who built them, suffered and died for them. Geoffrey put those thoughts into words so much better.

‘I’ve banished it out of my mind,’ Joe said.

‘Some things can’t be banished,’ Geoffrey said. ‘They come back and maul you later.’ He wiped his mouth again, the white handkerchief glowing in the dusk. ‘Would you care for a Jameson?’

‘Aye,’ Joe said. He’d never seen himself as a victim, not till now. Geoffrey was right. His war was not the war the British fought and won. His war was one of cruelty and loss. Guilt and betrayal. Savage as wolves that return to their prey, that it was.

He pushed himself up and padded over to the cupboard, lifting out the whiskey and taking two glasses from the shelf above. He walked over to the window, poured out the measures in the last of the light. He didn’t want to turn on the lamp yet. There was something comforting about the dark, about this conversation. Geoffrey had spoken about Neuengamme, but that was the war over there. People talked about that war, but not this war, at home.

Joe sat back in the dark, charged by the fire from his whiskey, and began.

Lager Sylt, Alderney: February 1944

It wasn’t long before Joe’s hair was as clogged and tangled as the rest, his skin the colour of ash, his trousers stiff with concrete. They stood up by themselves when he took them off at night, rubbed his flesh when he put them on in the morning. The lice left painful bumps and rashes on his skin, had darkened it too. He’d been wearing his clerical shirt when he was arrested, but now it was as stiff and soiled as his trousers, frayed at the seams. His shoes were ripped and torn, but it was all he had. He’d hang on to them as long as possible. Cement bags, the only alternative, were no protection, he knew, and now the nights were short and the winter rains were cold and heavy, he’d need all the armour he could get. He hoped whoever had stolen his clerical jacket needed it as much as he did. Joe couldn’t begrudge him that.