Bag firmly closed, they rush down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, Jo stops her sister and shoves the bag into her arms. “Wait here.”

She zigzags between the others, who’ve spread into the corridor, making her way amid the laughter to the kitchen, where she grabs a bottle of champagne and a box of pizza. Back to Céline, she motions her to the exit with a nod. A techno cover of Aretha Franklin accompanies their escape.

Think, think, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free.

They don’t come across either Garance or Côme. They don’t look at anybody.

And nobody looks at them.

Manuel has stopped punching. His fists are red, his head drenched in sweat. He seems to be trying to snap out of it, but it’s a long process. He feels empty inside, as though a huge blankness has eaten his insides, and he can’t even feel his own breathing, though he can hear it, loud and raspy, panting with terror. It seems to be filling the whole space of the garage. Time is passing through his throaty breathing and his irregular heartbeat.

“Fuck, Manuel…” That’s all Patrick manages to say, but Manuel doesn’t answer. He’s not even sure he can hear him. So he repeats, “Fuck, Manuel. Fuck. Fuck. Is he…? Fuck. Oh, fuck.” Patrick still isn’t sure. He’s telling himself maybe it’s going to be all right. “It’s going to be all right,” he says out loud. Softly, at first, just to himself, then to his motionless friend. “It’s going to be all right. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s going to be all right.” He’s comforted by his own voice, even if it’s talking rubbish. His hoarse voice, in this garage shiny with humid heat, has the fleshy tone of great tragedies, of empty promises. “It’s going to be all right.”

Check, first. Yes, but the blood – he doesn’t want to get his hands sticky, he’s already thinking police – ballistics – murder – prison. He must think for the both of them. He owes him that much, to this tall, wild guy who’s still out of breath from punching so hard and so long. Taking over, Patrick puts his fingers on Saïd’s neck in spite of the blood. The weight of the broken jaw on his hand makes him want to vomit. The silence under the skin confirms what he already knows; you don’t survive this kind of beating.

“Don’t move. I’ll get a tarpaulin.”