My words jammed on each other. Mickey had released his hold on me and was slowly sliding down to the ground, the fingers of one hand splayed out as they clawed at my sodden dress.

‘Mickey.’ My voice scraped against my teeth.

The US airman lay sprawled on the slick road on his side, as though he’d had enough of all the fuss and decided to sleep. Eyes closed, mouth slack. I dropped to my knees, hands shuddering as I brushed his wet cheek.

The back of his white shirt was covered in blood.

*

I think of that moment as a dividing wall. There is what came before. And there is what came after. With that moment standing between them, a wall with death dancing upon it.

I sat in Léon Roussel’s office, aware of a dull ache pulsing in me. I’d made a statement. Included the stevedores. Described the one with the black whiskers and the metal bar.

‘But you saw nothing?’ Léon pressed me.

‘No.’

‘No one who came too close? Who might have stabbed him?’

‘We were all too close. All falling over each other to escape the water.’

‘Eloïse, did you see a knife in anyone’s hand?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

He rose from his seat and came to sit on the front edge of the desk, less than arm’s length from me. I could touch his thigh if I reached out. I wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. I had lost faith in my version of reality right now.

‘Eloïse.’ His voice was gentle but his eyes were a policeman’s eyes locked on mine. ‘Do you have a knife?’

‘No. I have no knife. Mickey was murdered with a knife. Léon, I am not a murderer.’

He seemed to hold his breath and when he finally released it I was aware that in some way we had crossed a line.

‘Then let’s look at the alternatives,’ he said calmly. ‘Either he was stabbed by some random attacker just because he was American and anger had spilled over.’ He ticked the point off on his fingers. ‘Or . . .’

‘Or he was targeted for some other reason. By someone who wants to create more serious ill-feeling between the American airmen and locals.’

My voice shocked me. So steady. So controlled. Thick black shadows were shifting at the back of my mind, edging forward, and it took an effort to think straight.

‘I want you to go home, Eloïse. The first time you watch a man die, part of you goes with him.’ He eased forward and ran a hand softly down my wet hair. ‘Go home to your horses.’

I let the weight of my head rest for a moment in his palm. ‘We are at war,’ I said, ‘but the people of France don’t know it.’