The dog took no notice of his words. It was still fascinated by the racket going on below. Franck stroked the back of the powerful animal, as if to get the measure of it, or to reassure it. It was a kind of wolf dog; its coat was long, both soft and coarse, and it was thick; the dog had an air of arrogance, the majestic indifference of those who know that they answer to nobody. The animal didn’t respond to his touch or show even the slightest sign of recognition. Feeling the need to hold the knife again, Franck slowly picked it up and rose to his feet. The dog took this as a warning. It positioned itself in front of Franck, standing up tall. Franck shone the light from his phone on the dog and its eyes became even more luminescent. He recognised them from earlier in the evening; these were the eyes that had been spying on them from the undergrowth. The dog stared at him as if it was expecting something, straining its neck as if hoping for an instruction. Franck understood this instinctively.

‘Tell me, dog, what is it over there, what is it?’

The dog started to yap and move around. It stopped itself from barking by letting out short little yelps, throaty whines that betrayed its nervousness, while squirming in front of Franck as if it were coming to take orders from him.

In a commanding tone that surprised even himself, Franck shouted: ‘Go fetch! Go fetch!’

And then the dog froze. It shot Franck an eager look, and he wondered if it was going to jump at his throat and devour him, but instead the dog turned and bolted off with startling urgency. It threw itself headlong into the descent like a galloping horse. Franck couldn’t believe it. At the bottom the dog began to bark, barks that rang out in a night that had been suddenly turned upside down. Franck heard stones slipping and rolling underneath the paws of overexcited animals, as if they were fighting one another or the dog; or maybe the dog was trying to eat them all, or indeed the opposite.