He turned into Castle Street, past the town hall, swastika flags unfurling in the breeze. Tommy lived in a tall, thin terraced house, with chipped stucco and flaking woodwork. Joe leaned his bike against the wall, knocked at the door and waited. There was a workshop opposite, a carriage works by the look of it. Joe made a mental note, in case the bike needed repairs. He knocked again. There was a pub further up the road. It looked a rough-and-ready sort of place, but didn’t they all, these days? He heard footsteps and a voice. Joe turned to face the door as the bolts shot back and a woman in an apron and slippers stood, arms akimbo.

‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

Joe had hoped for a friendlier greeting.

‘Yes.’ He felt his words slide away. ‘Father O’Cleary. It is.’ He ran his finger around the inside of his dog collar. ‘I was wondering if young Tommy is about?’

‘And what d’you want with him?’

Joe shifted his weight. ‘Well, you see,’ he said. He couldn’t admit he was lonely, though he felt a lump of grief rise in his craw. He swallowed hard. ‘Would it be possible to talk to him about the boxing at all? He has promise and it’s a shame to let that slide.’

‘Is it now?’ Mrs Dauvin said. She took a step forward so her face was level with Joe’s. He felt the puff of her breath, smelled the fusty must of her hair. Her eyes were ringed with worry, sunk with hunger and her mouth cast in rigid lines. She poked a finger at Joe. ‘My husband isn’t risking his all for the British so you can hobnob with the Germans,’ she said.

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘No, no. Not at all. Can I explain?’

‘No you bleeding can’t. Now clear off.’ The hallway was dark behind her, but Joe fancied he saw Tommy peering round the door at the end.

‘Tommy, now,’ Joe said, mustering his courage. ‘He loved the boxing, that he did. There’s not so much for the lads to do of an evening, and it keeps them out of trouble. Teaches them discipline. Teaches them–’

‘I said, clear off.’ Mrs Dauvin stepped back inside the hall, went to close the door, then paused, looking past Joe. ‘You can clear off, and all. Bloody scavenger.’

Joe turned to follow her gaze as the door slammed shut behind him.

There was a young boy ten yards or so behind Joe. Even in the gloom, Joe could see he was filthy and barefoot, his clothes in tatters and a look on his face that Joe knew well, the way fear haunts, the loneliness of suffering. He was one of the labourers the Germans had brought in.