Joe pointed to the old man’s bowl.

‘You missed him,’ he said. The old man was shaking his head at Joe, leave me be. No, Joe thought. Only fools give in. Joe left the line, doubled back, came up behind the cook.

‘Feed him.’ Joe never shouted, but he did now, filled his lungs and bellowed. A band of fear and anger had snapped inside him, pumped his body with fury, his muscles with adrenalin. The kitchen went quiet, but the prisoners’ eyes cheered loud.

The cook spun round and flew at Joe, his lips curled back like a dog, but Joe was fast and sharp. He darted, danced, sparred. Fists up. On your toes. Rage was in the cook’s eyes, but he couldn’t focus. Joe was moving too fast. Jump, left, right, right and left. Dainty as a sanderling. The cook was a big man, clumsy, all fury and brawn. Boxing’s not a sport for angry men. Joe had never fought someone outside of his weight, but the cook was floundering, screaming, lunging at Joe as Joe ducked and weaved. Joe knew he couldn’t keep this up for long, had to throw the knockout soon. He’d have one chance only. The cook was right-handed, baffled, maddened. This was not the way he was used to fighting. Strike. The cook was trying to scrap like Joe, like a boxer, closed fists, arms up, aim hard. He had no technique, no idea. He could be beaten even though he was twice as heavy as Joe, but if Joe got it wrong, the cook would sink his teeth into the back of Joe’s neck. He could feel the brute tensing and grinding his jaws. He flailed out with his right and Joe saw his chance. Now. Head down. Go. Joe breathed hard, slammed an uppercut to the liver, hammered the kidneys with his last ounce of strength, a single, vital thrust of adrenalin mustered from the deep. Caught the beast unaware, watched as he twisted and sank to his knees, walloping the back of his head on the hard cement pillar and his temple on the floor as he fell. He lay crumpled, his neck bent. A trickle of blood oozed from his ear and a black trail of lice were leaving the body, crawling towards Joe.

Joe heard cheering, the banging of metal bowls, knuckles rapping the tables. The cook lay motionless on the floor. Joe had killed someone. God forgive him. He hadn’t meant to. Lying twisted on the concrete, the cook was no longer a monster. He was a man. Like Joe. Like the others. Joe breathed in sharp. He had killed a person. Taken a life. A mortal sin. The worst of all sins. He was a murderer. He sank to his knees, making a small cross on the cook’s clammy forehead.

‘Was ist los?’ A guard pushed himself through the crowd. ‘Who did this?’