‘It’s Joe.’ Added, ‘Father O’Cleary.’

Pierre leaned into the van, pulling the doors to behind him. He stared at Joe, as Joe wiped his mouth.

‘Father O’Cleary?’

‘Help me, Pierre,’ Joe said. ‘For God’s sake, man, help me. Don’t hand me in.’

Pierre looked behind him, turned back to Joe.

‘Crawl under the shelves and cover yourself with the tarpaulin.’ He pointed at a canvas roll in the corner. Slammed the doors, locked them tight. Joe heard him walk to the landing board, felt the van rock as Pierre clambered up, jolt as the horse moved off.

Joe lay curled inside the tarpaulin. It smelled of pig and dried blood. The egg left a cloying taste in his mouth, was too rich for his stomach. The van was rolling and bumping over the roads. He felt sick, his guts were cramping up, his heart punching hard against his ribs. Up hill and down dale. He had no idea where they were heading. Up and down. Side to side.

Rocking. Rocking.

He woke with a jolt as Pierre opened the doors wide.

‘Jump out,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’

Joe pulled himself free of the tarpaulin. The sharp smell of the sea caught his breath. He heard the gentle put-put of waves in the distant cove, the cry of a circling curlew crou-eee, crou-eee. His eyes filled with tears, salty drops that dribbled down his cheeks and into his mouth. He began to shake, as if his rattled bones were sloughing off his skin, knocking at the ligaments that held him together. He sat down, pushed himself forward to the edge of the van.

‘No,’ Joe said. He wanted to run but his feet were as heavy as concrete, his frame frozen in a hurly-burly of terror as he saw again the dead boy’s blasted skull spilled on the ground, the haunted faces of Geoffrey and the nurse as they climbed into the Kübelwagen. He heard the brutal chug of its engines as they drove out of the yard and up the hill. ‘No, Pierre. Not here.’

‘My God, Father,’ Pierre said. ‘If you weren’t in such a lousy state I’d shake your hand at the very least.’

‘Did you hear me?’ Joe said. What kind of joke was the man playing? After all he’d been through. Pierre had brought him here, to the place he’d betrayed them all, to sip his guilt, slow and bitter as quinine. He could taste the mucous from his nose, the sweat from his lip. So near, so very near. He didn’t have strength anymore. He had seized his chance to escape. He couldn’t do it again.

‘This is Geoffrey’s farm.’

Did Pierre know?

‘What happened to you?’

‘It was my fault,’ Joe said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That Geoffrey was caught. And the nurse. I opened my big mouth. Brought her to the farm.’