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put his eye out. Just imagine that! And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech – I want you to really imagine it.’
    Aurélie pictured a shattered eyeball, and it was awful. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She and the baby’s mother were around the same age. She liked the way she was
dressed; perhaps under different circumstances they would have become friends. She had been on the lookout for a new scarf, and she could have asked her where she had bought hers. She liked it a
lot, and thought the turquoise complemented her colouring. She could have gone to the same shop and bought herself one, but in a different colour so it wouldn’t be copying. An image flashed
before her of the two of them in their scarves, drinking coffee and laughing as the baby looked on from his buggy. But instead she stood there feeling like a child as she accepted her scolding. She
wondered whether this was the right moment to explain herself and apologise.
    The woman hadn’t finished. ‘Better luck next time.’ Her eyes narrowed. Her sarcasm exhausted, she exploded in anger. ‘You make me sick.’
    Aurélie nodded. She made herself sick too.
    ‘What did you think when you got out of bed this morning? I know – I’ve got a brilliant idea: I’ll go out into the street and throw a stone at a baby. You’re
a genius. Round of applause!’ She clapped and clapped, and Aurélie stood still, looking at the ground as she accepted this bitter ovation. ‘Bravo!’ cried the baby’s
mother. ‘Bravo!’ Just when it seemed this would never end, she pulled her phone from her pocket. ‘And when the police come, what will you tell them? I can’t wait to hear . .
. One moment.’ The stone had fallen nearby, and she took out her handkerchief and gently picked it up between gloved fingers. ‘Fingerprints. In case you make a run for it.’
    Aurélie nodded. She wasn’t going to make a run for it.
    The baby’s mother seemed to be examining her. Then, in a single motion, she reached out and yanked a stray hair from Aurélie’s head. She held it up, and said,
‘DNA.’ She placed the hair next to the stone on the handkerchief, which she folded and put in her coat pocket.
    ‘So what will you tell them? Why did you do it?’
    Aurélie rubbed the spot on her head where the hair had been plucked. She knew she owed her a full and honest explanation. She looked at the ground. ‘It’s an art
project,’ she said. ‘I’m at art college.’
    ‘Art!? Painting a picture, that’s art. Carving a statue, that’s art too. There’s a guy coming to town who thinks that shitting into a bottle is art. Maybe it is, I
don’t know. But this is the first time I’ve ever heard that attacking a baby can be a work of art. You know what? I think it might even catch on. You’ll get full marks for your
project. You’ll be rich. You’ll be just like Monet, only instead of painting lily ponds you’ll be hurting children. Here comes one now – quick, go and kick her in the
face.’
    The square was no longer busy with commuters, and a toddler was nearby, holding her father’s hand. She looked as if she had only just learned to walk – her legs were stiff and wide
apart, her steps faltering. She was a picture of delight as she put her new-found skills to work. The last thing Aurélie wanted to do was kick her in the face.
    ‘I didn’t know I was going to hit a baby,’ she said. ‘I could have hit anyone.’
    ‘Oh, that makes it better. That makes it fine.’
    ‘I thought it would just land in front of someone, and they would stop and look at it. Or maybe it would bounce off their shoulder or their back without hurting them. People are wearing
quite thick clothes at the moment.’
    ‘And you gave no thought to it hitting someone’s head?’
    She had done. She had worked out that it would be very unlikely, and had supposed that if it did hit someone on the head it would only give them a surprise and maybe sting a bit, but nothing