He heard Latulipe's question and realised he was hearing it for the second time.
"
Then he saw the crates of empties he had helped the Ukrainians stack in the yard that afternoon, and heard the striptease music playing through the disco fire exit. He saw a crescent moon hanging above Latulipe's head like a crooked halo. He remembered that Latulipe had asked him to come outside a moment. And he supposed he should hit Latulipe back or at least block the second blow, but indifference or some sense of chivalry stayed his hand, so that the second blow hit him pretty much where the first had, and he had a brief memory of being back at the orphanage and running into a fire hydrant in the dark. But either his head was numb by then or it wasn't a real fire hydrant, because it didn't have half the effect of the first blow, except to open a cut at the corner of his mouth and send a flood of warm blood tracking down his chin.
"Where's your Swiss passport? Are you a Swiss or not?
Talk to me! What are you? You fuck up my daughter's life, you lie to me, you drive my wife crazy, you eat at my table, who are you? Why do you lie?"
And this time, as Latulipe pulled back his fist, Jonathan kicked his feet out from under him and laid him on his back, careful at the same time to ease his fall because there was no nice tuft of windblown grass from the Lanyon to cushion him: the yard was paved with good Canadian asphalt. But Latulipe was undeterred and, scrambling gamely to his feet, seized Jonathan's arm and frog-marched him into the dingy alley that ran along the back of the hotel, for years an informal urinal for the male population of the town. Latulipe's Jeep Cherokee was parked at the far end. Jonathan could hear its engine running as they shuffled towards it.
"Get in!" Latulipe ordered. Pulling open the passenger door, he made to force Jonathan into the seat but lacked the skill. So Jonathan climbed in anyway, knowing that at any point in his ascent he could have felled Latulipe with his foot; could probably have killed him, in fact, with a kick to the head, for Latulipe's wide Slav brow was at just the height for Jonathan to smash the temples. By the interior light of the Jeep he saw his Third World air bag lying on the back seat.
"Put on your belt.
But Jonathan obeyed anyway. Latulipe started the engine; the last lights of Esperance disappeared behind them. They entered the blackness of the Canadian night and drove for twenty minutes before Latulipe pulled out a packet of cigarettes and shoved it in Jonathan's direction. Jonathan took one and lit it from the dashboard lighter. Then he lit Latulipe's. The night sky, through the windscreen, was an immensity of rocking stars.
"So?" said Latulipe, trying to maintain his aggression.
"I'm English," Jonathan said. "I quarrelled with a man. He robbed me. I had to get out. I came here. It could have been anywhere."
A car overtook them, but it wasn't a baby-blue Pontiac.
"Did you kill him?"
"So they say."
"How?"
Shot him in the face, he thought. With a pump-action shotgun, he thought. Betrayed him. Slit his dog from head to tail.
"They say his neck was broken," he replayed, in the same evasive tone as before, for he was overcome by an absud reluctance to tell yet another lie.
"Why couldn't you have left her alone?" Latulipe demanded in tragic exasperation. "Thomas is a good man. Her whole future waiting for her. Jesus Christ."
"Where is she?"
Latulipe seemed to know no answer except a fierce gulp.
They were heading north. Now and then Jonathan caught sight of a pair of headlights in the rear-view mirror. They were chase-car lights, the same each time he looked.
"Her mother went to the police," said Latulipe.
"When?" Jonathan asked. He supposed it should have been Why? The chase car was closing on them. Stay back, he thought.
"She checked you out with the Swiss Embassy. They never heard of you. Would you do it again?"
"Do what?"
"This man who robbed you. Break his neck."
"He came at me with a knife."
"They sent for me," Latulipe said, as if that were another insult. "The police. Wanted to know what kind of guy you are. Do you push drugs, make a lot of phone calls out of town, who do you know? They think you're Al Capone. They don't get a lot of action up here. They've got a photo from Ottawa, looks a bit like you. I told them, wait till morning, when the guests are sleeping."
They had reached an intersection. Latulipe drew off the road. He was speaking breathlessly, like a messenger who had run his distance. "Men on the run here go north or south," he said. "Best go west to Ontario. Never come back, understand? You come back, I'll ― " He took several breaths. "Maybe this time it will be me who does the killing."
