soon!” I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but it stinks. Anyway I’m not asking your opinion; you’re in no fit state to decide. I’m your friend, for heaven’s sake! Your friend!’
Fabien didn’t know what to think any more. He would have liked to go to sleep, right there and then.
‘Can you walk? No. I’m going to carry you on my back. Put your arms round my neck … There, OK like that?’
Fabien let himself be carried like a parcel as far as the top of the stairs.
‘Wait, I’m going to see if I can open the door. That’ll be easier than getting you out of the window. Sit down on the top step.’
All that was needed for a quiet life was to say yes to everything. Gilles went downstairs and across the hall.
‘Oh great, it’s open! Do you hear that, Fab—’
He didn’t see Martine bursting out of the sitting room. His head exploded under the impact of the bullet fired at point-blank range. For a few seconds the noise of the detonation hung in the hall before being replaced by the habitual silence. Martinelowered her arm and turned to look at Fabien. He had watched the scene with as much emotion as the stuffed stag’s head under which Gilles’s body now lay. Everything appeared to be stamped there for eternity. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; perfect order reigned.
Martine put the revolver down near the telephone on the little table and went up to join Fabien on the landing. She looked tired, that was all.
‘Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.’
They were like two mirrors face to face, each reflecting the abyss in the other. Fabien felt that every movement was incredibly slow and every sound echoed as though he were underwater. He let go, collapsing onto the bed, as if sinking in quicksand. ‘A few minutes ago, Gilles was in this room. He carried me on his back. He went down to open the door. Martine shot him. He’s dead. There’s a lot of blood on the wall under the stag’s head.’ He replayed the film forwards and backwards, without being able to take it in.
‘Is Gilles down there? Is he dead?’
‘Yes. Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Yes. He came on his own. He wanted to take me with him.’
‘I saw his car when I got back. I have to go and tidy up downstairs. Do you want anything to help you sleep?’
‘Yes, I do. Can you wait with me until I’m asleep?’
She came and curled up beside him.
‘Are you going to put him in the freezer as well?’
‘I don’t know. If there’s room … I’ll have to take his car back as well.’
‘It’s Laure’s. Two years ago we went to Amsterdam in it. AtHallowe’en. Laure, Sylvie and me. The weather was like this – rain, rain, rain …’
Martine listened to him, her eyes closed, her cheek resting on her clasped hands.
‘Fabien! Fabien, wake up, we’re leaving.’
‘What? Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know. But we’re leaving.’
She helped him put on his clothes as if she were dressing a sleeping child. It was still dark. Fabien recalled going off on holiday with his father at four or five in the morning to avoid the traffic jams. The sleeping pill had dried his mouth out.
‘I’m thirsty; give me a glass of water. Why do you want to leave now?’
‘I parked your friend’s car in the garage. We could go to Amsterdam.’
‘To Amsterdam?’
‘Yes, you were talking about it earlier. I don’t know it.’
‘It’s far away … I’ll never make it. My head hurts. You said we must never leave this house, never!’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t think anyone would come here. It’s not the same any more.’
‘Oh yes, Gilles … Shit! Léo …’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A little boy of five, his son … Oh my God! Everything’s ruined now. I think I’m going to throw up …’
But it was his head, his heart that was overflowing, not his stomach. He spat a little thread of bile into the basin Martine washolding out for him. Between two hiccups he repeated, ‘There’s nothing left
Fabien didn’t know what to think any more. He would have liked to go to sleep, right there and then.
‘Can you walk? No. I’m going to carry you on my back. Put your arms round my neck … There, OK like that?’
Fabien let himself be carried like a parcel as far as the top of the stairs.
‘Wait, I’m going to see if I can open the door. That’ll be easier than getting you out of the window. Sit down on the top step.’
All that was needed for a quiet life was to say yes to everything. Gilles went downstairs and across the hall.
‘Oh great, it’s open! Do you hear that, Fab—’
He didn’t see Martine bursting out of the sitting room. His head exploded under the impact of the bullet fired at point-blank range. For a few seconds the noise of the detonation hung in the hall before being replaced by the habitual silence. Martinelowered her arm and turned to look at Fabien. He had watched the scene with as much emotion as the stuffed stag’s head under which Gilles’s body now lay. Everything appeared to be stamped there for eternity. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; perfect order reigned.
Martine put the revolver down near the telephone on the little table and went up to join Fabien on the landing. She looked tired, that was all.
‘Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.’
They were like two mirrors face to face, each reflecting the abyss in the other. Fabien felt that every movement was incredibly slow and every sound echoed as though he were underwater. He let go, collapsing onto the bed, as if sinking in quicksand. ‘A few minutes ago, Gilles was in this room. He carried me on his back. He went down to open the door. Martine shot him. He’s dead. There’s a lot of blood on the wall under the stag’s head.’ He replayed the film forwards and backwards, without being able to take it in.
‘Is Gilles down there? Is he dead?’
‘Yes. Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Yes. He came on his own. He wanted to take me with him.’
‘I saw his car when I got back. I have to go and tidy up downstairs. Do you want anything to help you sleep?’
‘Yes, I do. Can you wait with me until I’m asleep?’
She came and curled up beside him.
‘Are you going to put him in the freezer as well?’
‘I don’t know. If there’s room … I’ll have to take his car back as well.’
‘It’s Laure’s. Two years ago we went to Amsterdam in it. AtHallowe’en. Laure, Sylvie and me. The weather was like this – rain, rain, rain …’
Martine listened to him, her eyes closed, her cheek resting on her clasped hands.
‘Fabien! Fabien, wake up, we’re leaving.’
‘What? Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know. But we’re leaving.’
She helped him put on his clothes as if she were dressing a sleeping child. It was still dark. Fabien recalled going off on holiday with his father at four or five in the morning to avoid the traffic jams. The sleeping pill had dried his mouth out.
‘I’m thirsty; give me a glass of water. Why do you want to leave now?’
‘I parked your friend’s car in the garage. We could go to Amsterdam.’
‘To Amsterdam?’
‘Yes, you were talking about it earlier. I don’t know it.’
‘It’s far away … I’ll never make it. My head hurts. You said we must never leave this house, never!’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t think anyone would come here. It’s not the same any more.’
‘Oh yes, Gilles … Shit! Léo …’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A little boy of five, his son … Oh my God! Everything’s ruined now. I think I’m going to throw up …’
But it was his head, his heart that was overflowing, not his stomach. He spat a little thread of bile into the basin Martine washolding out for him. Between two hiccups he repeated, ‘There’s nothing left
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