The Panda Theory: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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       It was a cave, a modern-day gloomy concrete cave at the back of an underground car park. Many had lived there, some still did, leaving evidence of their squalid existence painted on the walls: smears of shit, obscene graffiti, markings daubed in wine, piss and vomit. Burst mattresses and soiled blankets were piled up like animal skins in a rotting heap, teeming with so many lice, crab lice and fleas that they appeared to be coming to life. The place stank, though it was worse outside, except that it was so cold there you didn’t notice it. Simon’s squatting silhouette stood out from the shadows like a figure in a Flemish painting. In front of him, meths fumes rose from an empty pea tin which was precariously balanced on a small gas stove. Wearing frayed mittens, he held the stove steady with one hand; with the other, he dangled a chicken over the flames by its neck.

       ‘Couldn’t the old bitch have given you a cooked one?’

       ‘She was on her way out of the supermarket. She’d got two for one. It was still kind of her.’

       ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Do they think we’ve got all mod cons here? Pass me the wine.’

       Beneath the scarf wrapped round his head, Simon’s swollen eye was watering. He raised the bottle to his cracked lips and toothless mouth and took a long swig while keeping his eyes on the chicken that had started to char over the flames.

       ‘It’s burning.’

       ‘Only the skin. We’ll scrape it off. I’ll turn it over.’

       Simon grabbed the chicken by its feet and flipped it over, causing its comb to catch alight. He quickly blew it out.

      ‘“Et la tête, et la tête, alouette, alouette …” Light me a ciggy, will you? This is going to take for ever.’

       Gabriel lit a crooked Gitane and passed it over. He was starting to warm up, more because of the fire’s glow than its heat. He took off his leaking trainers and rubbed his feet. He had lost nearly all feeling in them from all the walking he was doing. When there is nowhere to go you spend a lot of time on your feet. He swigged the wine and from beneath his layers of worn clothes he pulled out the crumpled pages of a newspaper that had been wrapped around his chest.

       ‘What’s the news?’

       ‘They’re going to ban cigarette smoking in public places.’

       ‘Must have been a cigar smoker who dreamt that one up!’

       You could never tell if Simon was crying or laughing. Either way, a dry cough shook him like a half-empty bag.

       ‘Oh, it’s all for our own good, isn’t it? Talk about a bloody nanny state! No smoking, no drinking, no fat, no sugar, no sex. It’s as if they don’t want us to die. How nice of them! What else does it say?’

       ‘An inventor has just come up with an indestructible fabric. It’s cold- and heat-resistant and even bulletproof. The Vatican has ordered some for the Pope.’

       ‘Gone off the idea of heaven, has he? He’s only trying to save his own skin, like any old moron. Here, can you hold the chicken a second? My hands are full.’

       The bird was now black at either end. The skin was peeling off like flecks of paint from the lead pipes in the squat they had been thrown out of three days earlier.

       ‘Apparently lead isn’t too good for you either.’

       ‘I know! I once saw a guy riddled with it in Marseille. It took five men to carry him!’

       A fresh coughing fit made Simon double over. But this time he was laughing at his joke about the lead.

       ‘Life’s a killer. Especially for the СКАЧАТЬ