‘Anne …? Anne?’

No answer. Oh, yes, she had gone for a walk with Zoltan. What was that guy doing here? Trust Anne to find a Hungarian on the outskirts of Agen. Although they were probably to be found elsewhere too. Sooner or later a Zoltan always makes his way into your life, just when you’ve made up your mind to have your finger amputated by your daughter.

The clock radio had come on. They were talking about a crewed space mission, gushing over the courage of the astronauts spinning at a dizzying 450 kilometres above our heads. It was the same distance from Paris to Limoges – nothing to write home about. Marc had long since sailed higher. He was cold, as if someone had slid a pane of glass down his back. Apart from the line of light trickling from the part-open fridge, it was dark inside the van. His hand was still in the ice tray but his arm was paralysed all the way up to the shoulder. He had been sleeping so well. What did he care about these explorers of the lunar suburbs? He was much further away, much more alone … He was overwhelmed by such a deep sense of abandonment that he had to bury his left fist in his mouth to stop himself crying out in terror. Just then, the camper van began to list and the door swung open.

‘Anne!’

‘It’s freezing. What are you doing in the fridge? Are you hungry?’

‘No, I was in pain. My finger.’

‘And your legs?’

‘I don’t know. It’s my finger …’

‘Mind out. I’ve done some shopping. I need to put it away.’

‘Is Zoltan not with you?’

‘No, he’d had enough. He went to Agen.’

Marc rolled onto his right side, his hand and arm to all intents and purposes fossilised. The Hungarian’s absence was altogether good news. The act he was about to ask his daughter to carry out did not require the presence of a third party.

‘I got cassoulet, cheese, rum and lemon to make hot toddy. Next time we should stop at a campsite so we can hook up to the electricity rather than run off the battery. We could get a little telly as well, couldn’t we? The two of us will be bored shitless in the evenings otherwise.’

‘Anne, I need to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘I have to have my finger cut off.’

‘Do you want to go to hospital?’

‘No. It has to be done here, now.’

‘And who’s going to do it?’

‘You.’

‘Me …? Right now? Before dinner?’

‘I’m serious, Anne. Look, it’s gone all black. The gangrene will spread. We can’t wait any longer. I’m ready.’

‘Couldn’t you have asked the old git in Limoges?’

‘I was scared. I thought it would be OK. You know you can do it.’

‘With what? The bread knife?’

‘Yes. On the chopping board. One clean blow …’

‘You’ve got a nerve asking me …’