Saïd gets back into his car, raging like a trapped animal. “Fucking morons,” he blurts, starting the engine.

Jo gets up, rubbing her thighs. Her face is sticky with tears and sweat; she rubs her eyes with the bottom of her T-shirt.

His mouth in a sudden snarl, Patrick goes up to Manuel. “What did he mean by that?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Not at all —”

“Are you doing business with that Arab?”

“Fuck it, leave me alone.”

Patrick takes his head between his hands. “You’re out of your mind, Manuel. Seriously, what are you up to? And with that piece of shit? Are you crazy? Were you going to tell me?”

“Stop it, you’re not my wife.”

“We’ve been mates for twenty years, man. Twenty years! And you wheeler-deal behind my back with a kid who fucks your daughters?”

The fist breaks loose and smashes into Patrick’s cheekbone. There’s a soft, almost yielding crack. Patrick slowly massages himself then belts like a bull, head first into Manuel’s stomach, his fists pummelling his ribs. Manuel staggers and catches Patrick bodily to make him let go. But he can’t; the other man is sinewy and insistent like a mosquito. So the dance continues, their feet raising dust like hooves, their heads red and sweaty, their fists clenched, their arms like lead, muscles tense. Manuel is the stronger one but Patrick is quick and furious about having been betrayed. It increases his strength. Their panting from the effort and the heat are like groans of love, or death rattles.

“Stop it!”

Jo’s voice is like a wave. They can barely hear it. She has to shout two or three times before they break up, mouths frothy, noses wet, their breathing hoarse and irregular.

“Nobody’s fucking me,” Jo hisses. “You’re morons.”

She shakes her head like a little mule, her eyes full of tears she’s holding back with all her strength because being a crybaby isn’t her style. Crying from pain because of a blow is one thing, but otherwise you’ve got to keep your self-respect.

“But you’re still in cahoots with him,” Patrick insists, not letting go of his resentment, ready to fight again.

“We’ll talk about it later, just the two of us.”

The kid clearly didn’t hear; Patrick realizes that, and their old fools’ complicity immediately resurfaces, as solid as their anger. “You don’t know these kinds of guys, Jo. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“These kinds of guys?”

“When they’re not wheeler-dealing, they go off to Syria or else get themselves blown up at airports.”

“You two’ve totally gone round the bend.”

“Just watch the news.”

“You know nothing about life, you’re fifteen years old.”

“We know them, we work with them.”

The two men shoot a volley of responses in front of an astounded Jo.