There was a lane coming up, off to the left, just by the bend in the road. Göring has two but very small. Little shops, small tradesmen. Doorways. Alleys. Himmler has something sim’lar. This was his chance. His only chance. He could feel the fire light in his stomach, his tendons tense, muscles stretched and at the ready. His big fight. His big flight. The guards were looking at the men in front of them or to their side. Joe paced himself, filling his lungs with oxygen. Timing was all. Five, four, three. One bungled step, and that would be the end. He straightened his spine, relaxed his chest and arms, up on the balls of his bare feet. Two, one. Pivoted, spun, flattened himself against the alley wall and held his breath as the rest of the prisoners, and the guards at their rear, tramped past. It would take them five minutes to reach the harbour. They’d do a roll call, discover he was missing. Five minutes there. Five back. He had ten minutes.

There was a horse standing further up the road, a chestnut. It pawed impatiently with its foreleg, hoof on the tip. It was harnessed up, standing between the shafts of a black delivery van. Joe guessed the time was about five o’clock in the morning. Too early even for tradesmen, though someone must be up, ready to go. Joe looked behind him. The street was empty. He hadn’t been spotted. He ran to the van.

Pierre Besson and Co, Joe read. Purveyors of Quality Groceries and Meat.

‘Well thank you, Lord,’ Joe said to himself. ‘You’ve answered my prayers.’

The back doors of the van were unlocked. Joe climbed inside, pulled them shut. It smelled of ammonia. Slivers of the dawn came through two small rectangular windows, one in the back, one in the front.

Easy. Joe laughed. And Goebbels has no balls at all.

There was the sound of clawing in the van. It took a moment for his eyes to grow used to the dimness. There were shelves either side. Rabbits, scratching the hard, wooden base of their cages. Above them, he could see baskets of eggs. Eggs. He took one, cracked its shell, poured the soft yolk and albumen into his mouth.

He heard the footsteps. Felt the sweat on his forehead. Eejit. The van would be the first place the soldiers would look. Open the doors, yank him out, shoot him on the spot. He had no idea where Pierre was. The footsteps passed. Joe fingered the doors, but there was no catch inside. He was shut in.

They came close again. Joe heard the metallic scrunch as the handle turned and the door opened.

Daylight snapped in. Joe was sitting on the floor in full view with his mouth full of egg.

‘Out,’ Pierre said. ‘Now. You. Out. Raus.’

‘It’s me,’ Joe said.

‘Out. Before I call the Gestapo.’