This time I spot him. He’s standing up, a thin feverish man in the back row who’s taken possession of the rubbish bag. In his right hand he’s now holding a crushed water bottle. He weighs it up, judging the length and power required for another shot, but as he pulls his arm back to make the throw Duval steps swiftly out of his corner, and seizing the man’s wrist, twists it sharply behind his back. The heckler lets out a yowl and his face contorts with pain, but all eyes are on Nora as she heads down the aisle, the sheer vicinity of her menace opening up a path before her. On she goes past the rows of detractors, past Duval still holding fast to the heckler, until she reaches the exit doors at the back and punches through them using the flat palms of both hands.

‘People, this is uncalled for,’ Chavez is shouting. He waits for the room to settle. ‘Look, I understand your frustration and I appreciate the problems some of you are having, but nobody wants to be taking matters into their own hands. Nora is entitled to her opinion as are all of you here, but understand this – the government sees its tolerance of illegal aliens as a form of foreign aid. We do what we can with the money we’re given and the laws we live by. If you want things changed around here, lobby your county commissioner or write to your local senator. We need a bigger budget, more helicopters and more manpower. The border is nearly two thousand miles. You want to see a wall that long? You need to build it.’

Only now, as Chavez folds away his notes and shakes hands with Bob and Jeff Hogan, do the people in the back rows begin to pay attention to the mewls of outrage coming from somewhere in their midst. ‘Did you see that?’ The heckler stands shakily supporting his right arm in his left. His eyes dart from one puzzled face to another. ‘Did you see what he did? Look at it!’ His voice rises to a whine. ‘My wrist, I think it’s broke!’

The car park is empty. Most people have stayed behind for crisps and beer but I couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. The townsfolk of Ague, lighting their torches in the darkened gloom of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and I want no part of it. I just want to go home, back to the children and the apolitical bubble of Temerosa.