He immediately noticed how quiet it was, with none of the bustle of Sunday. It was cooler in the shade. Franck tried to stop thinking about his partners, but he couldn’t prevent the image of Alpha coming back to him, Alpha chasing them and forcing their spiel back down their throats, making them sign new amendments, new clauses to their detriment … He focused on the fruit and vegetables arranged on the bright stalls. The tomatoes on the vegetable stall caught his eye. Misshapen, their skin didn’t have the sheen of plastic-wrapped supermarket fruit and they glowed with vitality. The potatoes next to them were earthy, caked in centuries-old mud; the lettuces were bursting with life; the tips of the stacked carrots pointed at him; the courgette flowers were lined up like yellow-stained paintbrushes; and at the front were all sorts of fruits separated into crates, unprocessed, probably freshly plucked from the tree. Yet he was still most fascinated by the great red stand on the other side, the butcher’s stall and the crimson tarpaulin that reflected the light. The sun beat down on it, making everything more vivid, reminding Franck of red velvet theatre curtains. A huge leg of cured ham took centre stage, an enormous thigh presiding over the rest of the meat and charcuterie. In that light, it was fascinating. The ham was fastened to a wooden stand almost a metre in length, and pinned at both ends. The whole leg in all its glory was held in place by a vice for everyone to see, hideous and yet somehow touching. For a moment, Franck saw himself as the ham, trapped there, sadistically sliced and carved up by his partners.

The most disturbing thing was the butcher standing behind the device, cutting off slices with a long knife, even though there were no customers at the stall. It must have been for an order, or to put on display. The giant in his red-stained white coat was leaning over the leg of ham as if worried it would escape, holding the blade flat and slowly sliding it into the flesh. There was something delectable about the movement. Franck thought of Alpha and how good it would feel to take a few slices back for him, so the dog could join them when they were eating instead of just watching. Then at least he would have a real reason to stay with them. It would be a way of getting closer to him, of forming a bond. The dog had the right attitude: in this life, you had to be determined, ready to charge at your prey without mercy and grab your enemy by the throat.

Franck went up to the stall and said something he hadn’t said for ten years.

‘I’ll have some ham, yes, that one, ten thin slices. Actually, not too thin.’

The butcher shot him a stern look, like a tobacconist eyeing a six-year-old kid.

‘Thin or not?’