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near strangers. They probably work in accounts. Then a Peugeot 606 driven by a Korean appears. A lot of people in the factory dislike the Koreans. That’s the way it is, no special reason. This guy’s reputed to make the women who clean the factory clean his apartment for no pay, the bastard. Someone shouts: ‘Search the car.’ One way of prolonging the fun. Suggestion adopted immediately, and executed. While a group of workers obstruct the saloon, Nourredine moves over to the door and glances at the back seat. Empty.
    ‘Would you open up the boot please, sir.’
    The Korean, his face terrified behind his thin, steel-rimmed glasses, suddenly winds up the windows and locks the doors, and signals that he doesn’t understand. He turns green, blinks very quickly, and breathes haltingly, opening and shutting his mouth soundlessly. A fish in a goldfish bowl, ridiculous.
    What happened? Did he panic? Or is it a deliberate attempt to force his way through? The car jumps forward and knocks down three workers. The crowd roars, around twenty men grab the bodywork and shake the car which bounces on its springs, almost lifts off the ground. One of the felled workers gets up and, standing in front of the bonnet, takes charge of the operation. Clear a space to my left, to my right, together, one … two … the car rocks … and three … one last push turns it on to its left side and it falls back with a crunch of crushed metal. The Korean, thrown against the left-hand door, hides his face in his hands and doesn’t move.
    ‘What’s he carrying that’s making him so scared? Drugs? Weapons?’
    The boot’s locked and won’t open. Grab the key from inside the car? Nourredine’s against it, too complicated, and might end up in a fight. Karim stands beside him with a little half-smile, and nudges him with his elbow.
    ‘How much will you pay me to open it?’ There follows a howl of protest. ‘Just kidding. We’re entitled to, aren’t we? Today’s our big day.’
    He takes a minute screwdriver from the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and inserts it into the lock, turning it gently with his fingers, listening for the slightest reaction. He locates the notch, twists, applies some pressure. The boot opens with agrating sound and there, thrown in haphazardly are a computer and three boxes full of files. The game’s up. Nourredine, a man who’s never touched a drop of alcohol, feels intoxicated. Shapes sway around him. If you take one step, you’ ll drop. They’re moving the files out. A hush falls on the little crowd. Haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. His blood pressure rockets then falls. Want to puke. Quignard’s frank, direct handshake: Your boss, not a bad guy, huge misunderstanding … Bollocks, yes. And what about you, seeing everything through rose-tinted spectacles, you poor bastard. He shakes his head vigorously, the dizziness over, feels only rage.
    Someone gives him a leg up and he climbs on to the car. All those faces turned towards him: Nourredine, the semi-skilled Arab worker, and beneath his feet, the Korean manager, cringing in his car. A surge of pride. The car rocks. Big smile.
    ‘Better not rock it too hard. Right, this is what’s happening. The Koreans are moving the files out in secret, to make it easier to close the factory down behind our backs. Are we going to let them get away with it?’
    A hundred and fifty voices: ‘No way!’
    ‘I propose we occupy the admin section and confine the managers to their offices …’ The workers hold their breath. ‘… until our demand on the payment of our bonuses is met. There’s one solution to all this, just one. The warehouses are full. They sell the stocks under our control, and use the money to pay the agreed bonuses before they do anything else.’
    The assembled workers discuss the idea, it offers something concrete at last. Selling the stocks is a good idea, they’re worth more than the total owed on bonuses. Maybe, but