‘What’s wrong? Pig got your tongue?’ Didier’s expression is ugly. ‘Tell Arnaud if he wants anything here he should come for it himself, not send his fucking English errand boy. Tell him he’s a fucking coward! Does he think he’s safe out there behind his barbed wire?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’
He swipes the bag of croissants from my hand, knocking it into the water. I grip the walking stick more tightly as the other two step to either side, backing me towards the fountain. The boules players have finally noticed what’s going on. There are cries of ‘Eh, eh, eh!’ and ‘Stop that!’ from the old men, all of which are ignored.
‘I know you, Didier Marchant, I know who you are!’ one shouts, as another of them speaks into a phone.
‘Fuck off and die,’ Didier calls back without looking round.
He’s been pumping himself up, getting ready to start. Suddenly he feints a punch, snapping his fist out and drawing back at the last second. They laugh as I step back against the edge of the fountain. I instinctively raise the walking stick but my arms feel cumbersome and heavy.
‘Yeah?’ Didier says. ‘You going to hit me with that? Come on, then!’
He doesn’t really believe I will, and there’s an instant when I have a chance. The end of the walking stick is weighted and thick, and I can imagine the impact as it strikes his head. I can hear the crack of bone again as Georges brings the hammer down onto the pig’s skull, the thud of a falling body. For a heartbeat I’m back in a dark street, seeing blood black and sticky under a streetlight. It makes me hesitate, but Didier doesn’t.
He hits me in the face.
There’s a burst of light. I stagger sideways, swinging the stick blindly. It’s knocked from my hand. As it clatters to the ground something drives into my stomach, forcing the breath from me. I double up, raising my hands in a futile attempt to protect my head.
‘What’s going on?’
The voice is deeper and authoritative. Gasping, I look up as someone shoulders my attackers aside. Still bent over, all I can make out is a pair of bib-and-braces overalls. I raise my head further and see the brawny man from the roadside bar, the one Mathilde called Jean-Claude. Behind him is the boules player who was on the phone earlier, standing well back as the newcomer confronts the three younger men.
‘I said what’s going on?’
Didier answers sullenly. ‘Nothing.’
‘This is nothing, is it? And does Philippe know one of his mechanics is bumming off work doing this sort of “nothing” in the town square?’
‘Keep out of it, Jean-Claude.’
‘Why? So you stupid shits can beat someone up in the middle of town?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘None of my business? Whose business is it if it isn’t mine? Yours?’
‘He’s working for Arnaud. He’s got no right to be here.’
‘And you have?’ The man’s stubbled face is growing darker. ‘OK, if you’re going to beat anyone up you can start with me.’
‘Jean-Claude—’
‘What are you waiting for?’ He spreads his hands, looking capable of snapping all three younger men in half. ‘Come on, hero, I’m waiting.’
Didier looks down at his feet.
‘No? Lost your taste for it?’ The man shakes his head, disgusted. ‘Go on, fuck off, all of you.’
They don’t move.
‘I said go!’
Reluctantly, they begin to drift away. Didier pauses long enough to point at me.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
The man watches them stalk off. ‘You all right?’
I nod, but I have to lean against the fountain to hide my shaking. My cheek hurts from Didier’s punch and my stomach feels bruised, but there’s nothing serious.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement as the old boules player goes back to the game, then retrieve my walking stick and straighten to face the man who’s just saved me. I don’t blame my attackers for backing down. He’s about my height, but there’s the solidness of a rock about him, and the thick hands are so calloused they look incapable of bleeding.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Forget it. I should be the one apologizing.’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Didier’s my cousin. When he screws up it always comes back on the family.’
‘I appreciate it, anyway.’ I lift the dripping bag of croissants from the fountain. Water streams from the sodden pastries as I drop them in a bin. ‘What’s his problem with Arnaud?’
The big man glances at my overalls. I get the impression he’s been trying hard not to. ‘You’re working on the house?’
‘I just came in for building supplies.’
I notice he’s avoided answering my question. For the first time it occurs to me that, if I’m right about him being Michel’s father, then I might have taken his job. But his next statement rules that out.
‘I manage the builders’ yard. I must have missed you.’ Again, his eyes go to the overalls I’m wearing. ‘How did you wind up at Arnaud’s?’
‘I was hitching and injured my foot in their woods. Mathilde patched me up.’
‘I thought you said you trod on a nail?’
It’s my turn to be evasive. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to stir up trouble either.
‘Why is everyone so worked up about Arnaud? What’s he done?’ I ask instead.
