I searched for his blond head and clambered up on a chair in a shop doorway where an old woman had been dozing before she fled inside. No sign of Isaac. But further down the road was a sight that jerked a moan from my lips. Six men in a circle. Big men, muscles like stevedores, heads thrust forward, threatening a lone figure at the centre of the circle. Wolves on a boar. The figure was no weakling, ready to defend himself with fists up, but he didn’t stand a chance.

‘No!’ I screamed, and threw myself into the crowd, elbows flying.

The lone figure was Mickey, my mechanic from Chicago.

*

I reached Mickey just after the first blow had been thrown. His lip was split, blood spooling down on to his white shirt. At least he’d had the sense not to wear uniform, but he oozed American-ness with his crew-cut and his aftershave and his strong American teeth. His sense of owning the space he stood in. He blended into Serriac’s ancient streets as well as a giraffe would.

‘Leave him,’ I said, and waved an arm around the circle to keep the Marseille men at bay.

A man doesn’t hit a woman in public, though the biggest one with fists like meat-cleavers and dense black whiskers looked ready to do so.

‘Eloïse!’ Mickey exclaimed.

He tried to push me behind him but I stood firm at his side. Mouth dry.

‘He has done nothing wrong, nothing to hurt you,’ I said to the whiskers.

‘He’s a fucking Yank. Bringing nuclear bombs to French soil. And you call that nothing wrong? Get out of my way, stupid bitch.’ He pulled a short metal bar from under his jacket and the circle grew tighter.

The gun at the bottom of my bag was itching to come out.

‘Run, Eloïse,’ Mickey shouted.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. It was one of the wolves behind me, and I smacked his arm away, but right at that moment a great wave of people came charging into us all, crushing and pushing and pressing us back, as they rushed to escape whatever it was that was coming up the street.

A jet of high-pressure water hit us. Soaking and battering us. Knocking some off their feet. I held tight against Mickey to keep us both upright, but more people backed into us, jostling shoulders, scrabbling to get away, when a great red truck barged its way along the centre of the road. The brigade des sapeurs-pompiers. Léon had called in the fire brigade.

Shouts of protest surged around me and I heard Mickey’s voice let loose a piercing cry. His arm abruptly clamped around my neck with a harsh grip and I felt his weight drag on me.

‘Mickey, let’s get out of . . .’