Spit. Vomit. Dissolve the insects in a great magma of gastric acid.

‘I only made the connection a few days later, when some local guys started talking about a disconnected steering rod, a twisted bolt, a sheared-off nut.’

Clotilde threw up in front of him, over the old linoleum tiles of the mobile home, over her bags, the peppers and the marinaded beef, over her shoes. Cervone didn’t look away.

Don’t believe it.

Don’t imagine for one second that it might be true.

That Nicolas might have chosen to say nothing, not realised the danger, preferring instead to put the car keys back in secret and not be yelled at.

‘You wanted the truth, Clotilde. You asked me for it. I’m sorry.’

The image of Nicolas appeared in front of her eyes, his face, a few moments before impact, just before the Fuego hung weightlessly in the void. That stubborn impression that had pursued her all these years: that Nicolas knew. That Nicolas had been aware of something she didn’t know. Nicolas hadn’t looked surprised when the car hadn’t turned, as if he’d known why they were going to die.

Of course, that explained everything.

He was the one who had killed them all.

~

‘Aren’t you having anything?’

There was a hint of irony in Franck’s question.

Clotilde had thrown everything away, peppers, stufatu ribs, exotic fruits. The promised wifely feast had turned into a jumble of cubes of ham, sliced tomatoes and tinned sweetcorn.

Franck had given Valou 20 euros to go to reception and get a tray of chips, a coffee Magnum, a strawberry Cornetto and Clo, what would she like?

‘Thanks. Nothing for me.’

Clotilde had decided not to speak. Not straight away. Not now. Not like this.

There was only one thing she wanted to do.

Melt into strong arms. Beat her fists against a manly chest, weep a torrent of tears into the hollow of a shoulder, curse life while screaming into the ear of someone who would, in return, murmur calming words of love. Abandon herself completely to a man who would understand, who would say nothing and simply love her.

Franck wasn’t that man.

She got to her feet, stacked the plates, cleared the table, picked up a sponge, a basin and a cloth.

‘I’m going to my parents’ grave. After doing the washing up. The Marcone Belvedere. I won’t be long.’

~