‘Here. For medicinal purposes.’ She uncorked a bottle of scotch and handed him a large slug in a tall tumbler, but even as she reached across to him she saw he was already asleep. ‘The first friendly bed you’ve slept in for a long time, Peter Hencke. Enjoy it.’ She sat on the end of the mattress, looking at him.

When he awoke it was dark still – no, that couldn’t be, it had been dawn when they arrived. Had he slept the entire day? The only door in the room apart from the entrance had been left open, leading to an extravagantly decorated bathroom full of mirrors and tiles and polished brass, with a pile of fresh cotton towels at the foot of an ornate cast-iron bath. The water was hot, and soon he was soaking up to his neck, having laced the water with scented salts he found in a glass jar. He tried to remember the last time he’d had a bath. He couldn’t. Then he felt a cool draught across his chest and arms as the outer door opened and someone entered the bedroom.

‘By the sounds of all that splashing I suppose it’s a silly question to ask if you’re dressed yet? Do you know that war-time regulations allow us only a couple of bucketfuls of water in the bath? You’d best be careful. Be pathetic if someone turned you in for a criminal waste of water.’

‘At the moment they would certainly find me unable to put up a great deal of resistance.’

‘Then you’d better make yourself presentable. There’s a robe hanging from the back of the door. Throw me your clothes; I’ll get them cleaned.’

In a minute he was out, towelling his hair until it was again dark and sleek, trying to make himself look respectable in a cotton robe which was pink and too short and which exposed the smooth, hairless skin of his chest. She tried hard not to stare.

‘Good morning. Or is it?’ he enquired.

‘It’s eight p.m. You’ve been asleep fourteen hours.’

‘Tell me, how much longer will I be here? I hate to complain, I suppose it’s every man’s dream to be locked inside a brothel, but after the prison camp I can do without being locked up anywhere.’

‘Can’t tell, maybe not long. But Aunt Mary …’ She twiddled her fingers nervously, not wishing to look at him. ‘She said she’d like to help. Not personally, of course, but …’ The young girl inside her was babbling a little. ‘She said she’d be happy – you know – to send along one of the girls. On the house, so to speak.’

At last it was blurted out and he began to laugh. ‘That’s … very nice of your Aunt Mary but …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

She blushed. ‘A man of principle, Peter Hencke?’

‘No, Sinead. Don’t make me what I’m not.’

He could sense her relief and thought he understood. He was hers. This was a great adventure for her and he, or at least his safety, was her prize. The stories that would be told by her friends and family for a long time to come would be her stories, no one else’s. She didn’t want some tarted-up part-time hooker spoiling it with tales about him she couldn’t possibly hope to match. He smiled at her secret, happy to play along.

‘Don’t you know that Nazis are supposed to drink babies’ blood and screw nothing but young virgins?’

‘What! And go to bed only with teddy bears?’ she chuckled. ‘What sort of Nazi are you, Peter Hencke, sat here wearing a fluffy pink dressing-gown and nothing else beyond a smile?’

They both began to laugh, from relief, from the bond of growing friendship and shared secrets, from the fact that neither had found much to laugh about for so long, until they both collapsed on the bed, sobbing with the effort.

They were still laughing when they heard the commotion downstairs. The banging of doors. The raised voices. Feminine screams of surprise mixed with male shouts of authority.

‘Holy Mother, it can’t be! A raid?’ she gasped.

‘I thought you said the British …’

‘They never have …’

The door was flung open. One of the girls stood panting, her ample chest heaving beneath a flimsy covering of lace. ‘American MPs! Looking for one of their sodding sergeants,’ she shouted before disappearing to warn others.

Hencke’s eyes searched desperately around the room, for a way out, a means of escape. He didn’t need to say anything.

She shook her head, her face pale. ‘There’s nowhere to run, Peter.’

‘Then I am lost.’

She bit into her lower lip. ‘I won’t have it. No!’ In one action she kicked off her shoes and scrabbled at her sweater, tugging at it until she popped out. ‘We’ve maybe one chance.’ The zip was undone, the skirt already falling to the floor, with the petticoat following. ‘You’re not American. You’re a civilian having some fun in a brothel.’ Stockings, suspenders. ‘If they believe that, maybe they’ll leave us alone.’ She tore at the straps of her bra with a ferocity which caused something to give. Then it was her knickers and she was standing there naked, glowing. ‘So pull your bloody finger out and get into bed!’

She had rushed across and was leaning over him, pulling at the robe, when the door burst open once again. The form of a young military policeman filled the doorway, all metal helmet, armband, white webbing, razor-sharp creases and polished boots. He had a night-stick in his hands and a nervous tic around his left eye, which was trained on Sinead and had to be torn away before finally settling on Hencke. The soldier took one step into the room.

‘So, what’s going on here?’ His voice was youthful, light on the authority of age and experience and lacking totally in any sense of occasion.

Before he could move further than a pace Sinead was in front of him, blocking his path, hands on the curve of her naked hips, her full breasts wobbling with indignation as she faced up to him.

‘What’s the matter with you stupid Yanks? Never seen a woman getting laid before? If you’re here for lessons you’ll have to wait your turn like all the rest. In the meantime just bugger off and let a girl get on with a night’s work!’

The tic around the MP’s eye seemed to double in intensity and he made no attempt to move further into the room, which he could only have done by touching Sinead. He seemed embarrassed to be confronted by a woman, stark naked and a good twelve inches shorter than himself. It hadn’t ever happened to him before. Not a completely naked woman, not under any circumstances. Never.

‘Christ, Peterson,’ a voice called from down the corridor. ‘What the devil are you up to? Is he goddamned there or not?’

The soldier looked up nervously from his inspection of her bright red nipples and glanced again towards Hencke, studying him for a fraction of a second before looking back down at Sinead and her nakedness.

‘Er … no, Sarge! Not in here.’

‘Are you certain, asshole?’

The MP was looking distinctly uneasy and beginning to sweat. Sinead, confusing him by switching her tactics, had hold of his night-stick and was stroking it tantalizingly between her breasts.

‘Come back later, soldier, when I’m through with this one. Let’s have some fun,’ she whispered.

He shot another nervous glance in Hencke’s direction, comparing his profile to the description of the errant soldier they were seeking. There was real anguish in his eyes. He was mortified while he looked at Sinead, yet he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off her. ‘No, definitely not here, Sergeant,’ he croaked.

‘Then what are you waiting for? Get your butt up to the next floor,’ the disembodied voice of authority came back down the corridor, just as Sinead’s fingers reached in the direction of the soldier’s shirt buttons.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he whimpered, and was gone.

Sinead closed the door quietly before she turned round. She had a brave half-smile on her face which she tried desperately to turn into a convincing look of triumph, but the lower lip began to wobble and in a moment the resistance was gone and tears were flooding down her face. She threw herself into Hencke’s arms and sobbed great tears of tension and relief. She was still crying when she lifted her head and began kissing him passionately, her salty tongue probing between his lips.