The A26: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ His hard-on was so big that he hadn’t been able to do up his flies again. On the way back to the car his feet made a squelching sound with every step.

      ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have knocked my watch down. There’s a torch in the glove compartment.’

      ‘Would you like some help?’

      ‘That would be good. Thank you.’

      The pair of them had been wading about in the mud, Maryse’s backside just a few centimetres from Bernard’s nose. A whole life kept on a leash. The girl had made no more noise than the air escaping from a punctured balloon when he had jumped on her. Lying on top of her wildly flailing body, he held her head down in a puddle. It had gone on for quite some time, the girl was sturdy. But the grip of Bernard’s hand on the back of her neck had finally proved too much for Maryse’s ‘nearly’ eighteen years. ‘Strong as death! I’m as strong as death!’ His eyes were like a hound’s when it bays at the moon. The movement in the water of the puddle became still. Soon it reflected nothing but a sky empty save for one quivering star. Bernard had loosened his grip. A slender gilt chain had got twisted round his wrist, at its end a small disc inscribed ‘More than yesterday and much less than tomorrow’.

      The hardest part had been dragging her to the far side of the building site. There he had heaved the body into one of the holes which would be filled in with vast quantities of concrete the next day, and covered her with earth. Maryse no longer existed, had never existed perhaps.

      Bernard let the chain drop back on to his belly. It was unbelievably heavy. He had thought he would give it to Yolande as a present. What would become of her without him? Nothing. She had stopped becoming the best part of fifty years ago.

      She would go on, every morning knitting the little scrap of life which she then unravelled every night, tirelessly, without ever thinking there might be an end.

      ‘Bernard, there’s the grocer’s van!’

      ‘I’m tired, Yoyo. Do you really need something?’

      ‘Yes! Those little chocolate biscuits with the animals on. Please …’

      ‘OK. Give me my coat, will you?’

      ‘Get a few packets, just in case.’

      Since Monday evening there has been no news of young Maryse L., born on 4 April 1975 at Brissy. The young woman was last seen close to the Jean-Jaurès bus stop. She is described as one metre sixty-four centimetres tall, of medium build, etc. Anyone with information should contact the police in …

      Bernard did not think the photo was a good likeness.

      Newspaper photos never looked like anything, or rather they all looked alike, sharing a family resemblance, hangdog and miserable. The papers said any old thing. They never had anything very interesting to report, so they told lies. There wasn’t so much as two lines to be said about the girl. Apart from a handful of individuals, no one knew Maryse existed. Her death made no difference. What album had they dug that photo out of? She couldn’t be more than twelve in it. The silly smile of the young girl turned his stomach.

      ‘Oh Bernard, you haven’t eaten a thing! That’s no use, and you know you like shepherd’s pie.’

      ‘I have, Jacqueline, I’ve had some. I’m just a bit out of sorts, that’s all.’

      ‘I can see that. You haven’t touched your food. Have you seen Machon again?’

      ‘Yes, on Monday. Everything’s fine.’

      ‘Everything’s fine, my foot!’

      Jacqueline put her pile of plates down on the corner of the table and wiped her hand over her face as if removing an invisible spider’s web. She had had this habit ever since they’d been at primary school together. Jacqueline was his best friend. They might have got married, had children, a dog, a caravan, the most modest of lives but a life even so. But there was Yolande. Jacqueline had waited for a long time, and then married Roland. They had the restaurant across from the station.

      ‘Are you coming on Sunday, for Serge’s First Communion?’

      ‘I don’t know, maybe.’

      ‘But you’ve got to. He’d be hurt … I suppose you’re fretting about Yolande, is that it?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Of course it is! She’ll take advantage of you for your whole life, that one! Why don’t you put her in a home? It’s about time you started taking care of yourself. Have you looked in a mirror recently?’

      ‘You know perfectly well that’s impossible. She’s not capable of —’

      ‘Give me a light, will you? Yes, Roland, I’m coming, just a second! And he’s a bloody nuisance too, that one. Can’t do a damn thing for himself. It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

      ‘Please don’t start, Jacqueline.’

      ‘What? What would we have left if we no longer had our regrets?’

      ‘Remorse, perhaps.’

      ‘Sometimes I think I might prefer that. At least it would mean we’d done things.’

      ‘Things? They don’t leave much of a trace behind them.’

      ‘Well, did you want to leave pyramids behind you? Things aren’t just stuff made of stone, your churches, castles, monuments! It’s the little things, like when you used to go fishing in craters on bomb sites, smoking your first P4 round the back of the bike sheds, all the things we said we were going to do even if we already knew we’d never do them … I’m coming, I tell you! Please come on Sunday, just for me.’

      ‘All right, I’ll be there.’

      Jacqueline got up with a sigh. She could almost have supported the tray on her ample bosom, leaving her hands free to carry other plates, other dishes. It must feel good to lie sleeping on those breasts, like being on a cloud. A long time past, down by the canal, the weather was hot. There was a scent of cool grass. He had laid his cheek on Jacqueline’s white breast. Beneath the thin stuff of her bodice he could feel her quivering, giving off a fragrant dew. Fish were jumping, snapping at dragonflies. The air was alive with a thousand tiny things. One of them had said, ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’

      *

      The small fluorescent green letters on the screen were no longer making proper words. They were now just long wiggly caterpillars, line upon line of them.

      ‘Is something wrong, Bernard?’

      ‘No, a spot of dizziness, that’s all. It’ll be the new medication, no doubt. Take over from me, François. I’m just nipping out for a breath of air.’

      ‘Certainly. Why don’t you take some time off?’

      ‘I’ll think about it.’

      Where did those rails along the platforms go? Not all that far. They joined up again over there, behind the warehouses, the end of the world was within arm’s reach. Everything was rusty here, down to the ballast stones, even the grass clinging to life at the edge of the track. The railway СКАЧАТЬ