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all my nails,’ Leonard said, proving his point by peeling back a yellowed thumbnail that flipped up like a car door. ‘A lot of long-termers get problems with their breathing. So far I’ve been lucky with that.’
    That night Marc ran between bed and buckets with diarrhoea. He stumbled off his bunk next morning, shivering and barely able to stand. None of the other prisoners helped because he stank so bad.
    ‘Back to bed,’ a guard yelled, when Marc staggered on to the quayside.
    Marc felt awful: when it seemed life could get no worse there was always some new depth to plumb. His feverish mind thought about escape, but how could that happen when he could barely move?
    The man in the bunk above took pity and fetched Marc some bread and water when the evening meal came. The guard Marc encountered first thing next morning showed less sympathy and forced him to stagger across the quayside to meet up with his gang.
    He barely survived the three-kilometre walk to the maintenance depot and his supervisor left Marc behind, hosing down equipment and sweeping the yard.
    *
    Marc was starting to hope that Fischer had forgotten about him, but he woke that night with a hand on his throat.
    ‘How’s life?’ Fischer asked, smiling nastily as his muscular arm drove Marc down into his bed slats. ‘Night shift can be boring, you know? Old Fischer needs entertaining.’
    A couple of the other prisoners stirred as Fischer dragged Marc from his bed, then marched him ashore to a guard hut by the main exit gate.
    The security set up was identical to the Oper , with prisoner jackets piled up inside the door and a table where guards took their breaks. But the Adler had more than double the number of inmates so there were more guards around.
    ‘Patrol the perimeter,’ Fischer told a fat guard, who sat at the table puffing a small cigar. ‘I need to have a private conversation with my young friend.’
    ‘I just sat down,’ the guard complained, but one whiff of Marc sent him running for the door.
    Fischer shut the door with a backwards kick, then shoved Marc hard against the wall, before eyeballing him.
    ‘So, what information have you dug up for Old Fischer?’
    ‘It’s hard,’ Marc said, trying to hide his fear. ‘They’re not French. I can’t even understand what they’re saying.’
    ‘Didn’t ask for excuses,’ Fischer said, but then stepped back abruptly and laughed. ‘Christ, you reek of shit. Aren’t you gonna thank me for setting you up with gang sixty-two?’
    Marc scowled, which made Fischer laugh and bunch his fists.
    ‘You want me to wipe that look off?’
    Fischer threw a punch, but Marc ducked. This pissed Fischer right off. He pinned Marc to the wall with one knee before launching a volley of slaps and punches that left Marc doubled up, leaning breathlessly against the back wall.
    ‘Listen to the little snitch cry,’ Fischer roared, smirking as Marc fought off sobs. ‘Tell you what, snitch, how about you get down on your hands and knees? Old Fischer’s boots need a good tongue cleaning.’
    Marc caught his breath and looked at Fischer’s shabby, mud-crusted, boots.
    ‘Crack on,’ Fischer ordered. ‘I haven’t got all night.’
    Marc fought pain and tried to remember his training. He felt sure Henderson would be ashamed of him: sick, weak, living day-to-day without any kind of plan. But even though Fischer would hurt him badly, Marc had too much pride to lick Fischer’s boots.
    ‘No,’ Marc said, shaking his head slowly.
    Fischer cupped his ear, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘You’re not deaf,’ Marc said bravely. ‘Clean your own damned boots.’
    Fischer’s punch slammed Marc so hard he felt like his guts would burst. Next Fischer swept Marc’s legs away, making him slam the floorboards, hard and face first. Marc expected more blows, but Fischer was surprised by another guard stepping into the hut.
    ‘What?’ Fischer shouted irritably, but seemed