The woman has swallowed a fly. She is with two men. Three cyclists, their bicycles propped up against the glass partition outside the café. A group of people at a nearby table tell her to raise her arms. She raises her arms and swallows. One of the men goes for a glass of water. The woman stands as if she is about to dive into the sea which glitters westwards. A bit like Angela with her blonde bob. Beyond her, hills green with prickly pears and pine trees. The church clock begins to strike 8.00 am, slow and ponderous, the old bronze bell vibrating, green with verdegris, with age, with prayer. It’s Sunday and most people are still in bed, recovering from those parties that kept him awake in last night’s heat. The snarl of scooters in narrow streets. Then the recycling containers being emptied at 6.00 am.

The Englishman watches them, stirring the top of his café con leche, a bag of croissants and a loaf of bread beside him wrapped in tissue. The loaf is called a Tramuntana, though the connection is hard to follow. Everything has to be marketed now. Even bread. The woman swallows a little water. He thinks of the fly stuck in the darkness of her throat, clinging to her tonsils or windpipe, pushing out an egg that might grow into a tumour. These things can happen. The world being full of malevolence. Or just full of itself. Life-forms. Life.

The church bell falls silent. The old church sacked by Republicans ...