Anne and Boudu were sharing a tin of sardines when Marc resurfaced. It was light outside. The pain in his right hand, wrapped in a towel, had dulled slightly, leaving a vague heat like a fire smouldering under ash. He realised he could now move his legs. His mouth was coated, caramel-like, with the taste of rum. He would have given anything for a big cup of coffee at Tinette’s café. It was freezing. Anne was wearing her coat and hat. Everything around him looked messy and dirty. How had they come to live like tramps so quickly? Open tins of food, crusts of bread, orange peel, dirty glasses, various food wrappers … and a smell like an upturned dustbin, like burnt flesh …

‘Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?’

‘It stinks in here. Can you open the door, please?’

‘You must be joking. It’s freezing outside. How’s your hand?’

‘It’s OK.’

‘You’ve found your feet again, at least. You gave me a bloody great kick before you keeled over, you bastard. Want a coffee?’

‘Yes … No, not here, it smells too bad. In the village.’

‘Will you be all right to get there?’

‘I think so. Anne, what did you do with my finger?’

‘The fingertip?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know. It must still be on the chopping board … Wait … yes, it’s there.’

‘That’s what stinks. We need to bury it. Then we can go to the café. Help me up.’

Pissing with one hand is not easy, especially when you’re still wobbly on your feet. The pale rays of sunlight were beginning to melt the duvet of white ice covering the bramble leaves. Little by little, Marc began to feel more sure of himself. Anne was waiting behind him holding the chopping board and something which could have passed for an old piece of chorizo.

‘Where shall we bury it then?’

Marc scanned the ground around him. ‘Anywhere’ is not an easy place to pinpoint. He felt as if he were on a beach trying to choose where to lay his towel.

‘Are you going to make up your mind?’

‘There.’

Marc pointed to a random tuft of grass on the embankment. Anne was about to pull it up when he stopped her.

‘No, not there. It’s too close to the road. Everyone will drive over it.’

‘So?’

‘That won’t work. It’s a piece of me, after all … Imagine the tractors … We need to find somewhere more suitable.’

‘Shall I make you a little marble mausoleum to put it in, with your name in gold letters? It’s just a piece of rotten meat. Make your mind up, or I’ll throw it into the bushes.’

‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

‘Watch me!’

Before Marc could grab her arm to stop her, using the chopping board as a racquet she had sent the defunct index finger flying over the brambles into the bottom of the ditch, where it bounced off something big and red. Marc was open-mouthed.