He knows it’s not the right answer, he knew it before he spoke, but she was really getting on his nerves. Whenever she puts on her I-know-more-than-you-do airs, whenever she rubs it in, he could just slap her. And then there’s her bare skin, the hollow in her collarbone, her legs, and he’s sure she wants it too, so why is she provoking him? Most of the time he feels comfortable with her. And then sometimes he feels like she takes over and he follows, not quite believing it. It should really be the other way round, is what he sometimes tells himself, not quite understanding.

Jo kicks off her sandals, scrunches against the door, knees to her chin. She finally unclenches her jaw. “Where do you want to go?”

Her changing the subject makes him feel a little more relaxed. And he’s happy to take her wherever she likes, there are loads of quiet spots he knows well, they’ll find one of those.

As soon as he turns the key in the ignition, “Paper Planes” by M.I.A. bursts out of the speakers and makes them both jump. Saïd leans over to turn down the sound. They don’t hear the first knock on the driver’s side front door. It’s only when the rear-view mirror explodes that they react.

“Are you fucking crazy!” Saïd yells, jumping out of the car.

Manuel stands facing Saïd, Patrick a little further away. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

“Fuck, Papa, this is insane!” Johanna roars, also getting out of the car. She stands facing her father.

Manuel grabs her by the wrist. “You’re fifteen, so you keep your mouth shut. I’m still in charge.”

Her father’s grip on her wrist bone is like a wolf trap: except for chewing her own flesh, she can see no way of getting away from it. Except to bite his, perhaps – and she sinks her teeth into his hand. He lets go but lashes out with the back of his hand so hard she’s in a daze, sitting on the gravel. She holds her chin and gingerly touches her nose with her fingertips, to check. There’s no blood but it hurts, and she starts sobbing softly.

“Get back into your shitty car.”

The father’s voice is like a roar in her buzzing head, and Saïd looks at her, bites his lip powerlessly and clenches his fists.

“It’s OK, Manuel, the little shit’s leaving. You, fuck off,” Patrick adds.

Saïd spits on the ground at Manuel’s feet. “It’s the second time you’ve done it, and now you’ve touched my car, so —”

“So what?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Did you tell your mate how you supplement your wages?”

“Shut the fuck up!”