The February day was overcast, the sea and the sky fused fawn across the island. He turned the corner, faced the quay. A small group of people stood with suitcases and shabby coats, forlorn, middle-aged. Joe back-pedalled his bike and put a foot down to steady it. There’d been some deportations a few months ago and people hoped that would be the end of it. Nobody could get a ticket to leave, so where were they going? There was a member of the Feldgendarmerie standing on the corner of the pavement, and another four with rifles at the ready, standing guard.

‘Well now.’ Joe didn’t make a habit of talking to the Germans, not after the boxing match. But the policeman was young, cleanshaven and bore a resemblance to his cousin Michael. ‘Where are they going?’

The Feldgendarm looked down at Joe, taking in his clerical suit and dog collar.

‘Juden,’ he said. ‘Jews.’

‘Are they now?’ Joe’d never met a Jew, though he’d prayed for them all his life. As far as Joe could see, they did no harm, not now. And hadn’t the Jewish lands been occupied by the Romans? Bit like Ireland, in its day, or Jersey, now. To have your homeland occupied was a terrible thing and people didn’t always do right.

‘So where are they going?’

‘Away,’ the Feldgendarm said.

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because they are corrupt, a danger.’

‘This lot wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Joe said. He knew the Jewish businesses had been taken over, but hadn’t thought much about it. ‘What have they ever done to you?’

‘Move,’ the policeman said.

‘I only asked,’ Joe said. ‘What are you going to do with them?’

‘Move.’ The policeman butted the stock of his rifle in Joe’s chest.

‘Don’t push me like that,’ Joe said.

The harbour clock struck five. No time to stay. It was already getting dark. Joe pressed on one pedal, teetered, caught his balance and cycled off.

‘Mind you take care of them now,’ Joe said over his shoulder, nodding towards the group. He cycled along the esplanade. Tommy Dauvin lived somewhere in the streets behind. He stopped, twisted round and looked, but the group was out of sight.

A shove was all it had taken and he’d crossed the road to the other side. What kind of a Samaritan was he? A coward, that’s what, didn’t have the stuff of charity, or of martyrs. One arrow in his leg, one turn of the rack. Couldn’t even stand up to a young policeman. If the police treated Joe like that, what chance did that lot have? How could he be seen as a saviour of souls, when he’d rather save his own skin?