Stupid tourists, or bloody kids!  Pompier Gregoire Laçon irritably shifts the small extinguisher he carries from one hand to the other and shuffles wearily, his heavy boots leaving deep imprints in the sandy pink soil.  The heat rising from the sun-baked ground lifts the hairs on the back of his neck, making the skin tingle.  The chirruping cicadas sound like a million carnival maracas all shaking at once.  Gregoire drops moodily into a gully, the land rippled like a fold in a tablecloth, from where the barely-discernible trail of smoke curls lazily into the cloudless summer sky.  A scent tantalises.  His brain tells him it’s barbecue, insides gurgling at the thought of spit-roasted pork dripping fat onto glowing embers.  All thoughts of hastily-abandoned luncheon vanish as he crests a gentle rise.  There’s a fire all right, but not of the kind Gregoire’s been expecting. 

Horrifically burned down to tendon and sinew – faceless and unidentifiable – the barbecue smell is explained; incinerated flesh competes for supremacy in his revolved nostrils with the astringent, cleansing perfume of pine.  Gregoire’s empty stomach rolls and he belches bile, swallowing rapidly and instinctively taking several steps away from the sight.  He can only tell that the figure lies on its back because what’s left of the arms are drawn up in front of the remains of the face as if attempting a fruitless defence.  Hiccupping with shock, Gregoire fumbles his mobile ‘phone from his pocket, and rings for help.

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