She spat out that she hated him. He said he didn’t believe her and she screamed back that she didn’t give a fuck what he believed: that all she wanted to do was get back to Cyprus. He’d reached out to touch her, but she’d shrugged him away, not wanting even the slightest physical contact. “You’re being juvenile,” he said. “Have been juvenile,” she qualified. “Welcome to the graduation.” “You’re not very good at sarcasm: it comes out wrong.” “What the fuck are you good at?” “What I do.” “What’s that?” “John’s free: you saw it happen. That’s what I’m good at.” “I’m impressed!” “You should be. And the sarcasm still isn’t working.” “Go fuck yourself!” “The barnyard language doesn’t work, either. Never has.” Like everything else in the operation, which Janet now accepted Baxeter had personally organized, the reunion with the fishing boat went perfectly and there was no difficulty landing at the shoreline break near Cape Pyla from which they’d embarked.
