Felicite lounged back, as far away on the seat as she could get, studying the girl’s mirrored image in the window glass. It was a good idea: would be an experience she hadn’t enjoyed before but had to savour now she’d thought of it, as she had to taste every forbidden fruit. The others probably wouldn’t like it – they’d be frightened, like Henri – but they’d do as they were told, as they always did. She’d have to rearrange things with the estate agent in Namur. And speak to Eindhoven and Lille to tell them everything was postponed. Simple reorganization. She was good at organization. That’s why everyone had been so happy – relieved – for her to take over, after Marcel’s death. Yes! Felicite decided. She’d definitely do it.

Cool was forced to slow by the volume of traffic on his back-street negotiation around Antwerp but it wasn’t until he was almost clear of the city that he was brought to a positive halt at traffic lights. Felicite didn’t move when Mary snatched for the door handle, exaggerating her laugh at the child’s helpless yanking on the useless, unconnected lever. The woman did react, though, when Mary opened her mouth to scream. Sure of not being seen from the outside, rain-sodden gloom, she lashed out, hard, before the cry was formed, catching the unsuspecting girl fully in the face to strangle the sound into a whimpering gasp, as much of astonishment as of pain.

‘I told you I’d slap you, didn’t I?’ said Felicite casually, as the flat grey ribbon of the sluggish Schelde river broke occasionally to their left through the vast skeletal forest of cranes and container rigs of the port. ‘You’ve got lessons to learn. Rules to obey.’

Mary glared malevolently across at her, lips tight against any blood leaking from the split inside her lip and cheek.

‘You’re still not going to cry, are you?’ demanded Felicite hopefully.

‘No,’ Mary allowed herself, tongue against the cut. The blood tasted nasty: metallic.