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Tas had been concentrating so much on steering the NorseBoat, he’d neglected his cigar. Cigars weren’t like cigarettes; they were living things. They needed constant supervision. Leave a cigarette unattended and it burns down to the filter. Leave a cigar alone and it goes out. After he’d thrown Koenig a cigar, Tas took a draw of his own. Got nothing in return. He plucked it from his mouth and studied the end. It was dead.

He took his Zippo from his pocket and relit his Cuban, rotating the tip to get an even burn. He closed the Zippo with a practised flick, then threw it to Koenig. Koenig caught it with his right hand, and Tas went back to staring at the horizon. It seemed like he was going through the motions now. The way suicide bombers go into a semi-trance before they meet their maker.

Koenig tried to light his cigar, but the blood on his hands made the Zippo too slippery to hold. It shot from his grip like a bar of soap. Clattered along the deck, ended up back at Tas’s feet.

Whoopsie-daisy.

Koenig held up his hands to show how bloodied they were. He said, ‘Sorry.’ His eyes were half shut. The blood loss finally taking its toll.

He watched Tas pick up the Zippo. He saw him frown and look at Koenig. Suspicious. Like he was being pranked.

‘Worried you can’t take an unarmed man, Jakob?’

Ego. The bedrock of all bad decisions.

Tas scowled and made his way to the bow. He flicked the Zippo’s flint wheel. It sparked and lit the wick. A rolling, gentle flame. Like a candle. Koenig held out his cigar to warm up the end. He’d seen people do that on TV. It made the cigar easier to light. Tas reached down and held the flame underneath the end of the cigar.

‘You were wrong before, you know?’ Koenig said.

‘Oh?’

‘You said the first blade on every continent was made from stone. That it was an example of convergent evolution.’

Tas nodded.

‘But that’s not quite accurate,’ Koenig continued. ‘There’s archaeological evidence to suggest that the first blades to come out of Morocco weren’t made of stone.’

‘You have me at a disadvantage then,’ Tas said. ‘What were they made of?’

‘Bone,’ he said.

Koenig’s left arm shot out. He grabbed Tas by the collar. He bunched it up and pulled towards him. Threw his head forwards and butted him. A weak blow from a sitting position but enough to water Tas’s eyes. Tas responded by smashing his fist into the side of Koenig’s head. He felt his ear pop. His vision blurred.

Tas panted.

Koenig panted.

‘Now what?’ Tas said.

‘This,’ Koenig replied.

He reached down with his right hand and grabbed his exposed fibula. It was wet. He gritted his teeth and pulled Tas towards him with his left. By the time Tas realised what he was doing, the tip of the bone was already under Tas’s shorts and pressed against the inside of his thigh. As soon as Koenig was sure it was in the right place, he grabbed the back of Tas’s shirt with both hands. And started pulling Tas towards him.

Onto his fibula.

The pain was worse than anything Koenig had ever felt. He ignored it. Ignored everything but the bone in his hand. He ignored the punches Tas was hammering into his torso, and he ignored the headbutts smashing into his nose and cheekbones. He ignored the bites and hair pulling. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not passing out.

And then Tas understood what Koenig was doing. He saw the danger. Tried to push himself off Koenig. It was futile. Koenig was using his biceps to pull Tas towards him. Tas was using his deltoids to push himself away. Tas was fighting a losing battle. All things being equal, the biceps generate double the amount of force of the deltoid.

Slowly, inevitably, like a knife going into fridge-cold butter, the bone punctured the skin and entered Jakob Tas’s groin.

Koenig kicked with his leg. Made the wound bigger.

Game over.