How's the Pain?: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

had also forced him to stop for an hour, leaving him feeling shaky. He was in luck, a Belgian couple had just cancelled and there was one room left at the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. He had planned to stay just one night, but when he woke up to a glimpse of spring sunshine, a coffee and some excellent croissants, something in the air had made him want to truant for the day.

      He still hadn’t touched his ice cream, which was beginning to resemble a jaundiced cowpat. He toyed with his spoon, looking at his reflection in its curved surfaces. What had come over him, inviting that lad to dinner? He probably took him for an old queer. What if he didn’t turn up? He hadn’t seemed too bright, but that was what he liked about him: his honesty, his awkwardness, and that bandaged hand he moved about like a glove puppet. There was no denying it, he had made some strange choices since his arrival, like this ice cream he had never even wanted in the first place and which was now just a mess. He tried a mouthful anyway. All the flavours had mingled together and it was impossible to identify a single one. It was just cold and sweet.

      While he was fishing for change in his jacket pocket, his revolver almost fell out.

      ‘Shit, it really is time to call it a day.’

      ‘So why’s this man invited you to dinner then? You don’t think he might be a poofter?’

      ‘Don’t think so, no. He seems normal.’

      ‘What’s “normal”? Everyone seems normal, but they’re not really. Anyway, you’re a big boy now, you can look after yourself.’

      ‘Don’t you want any more of your chop, Mother?’

      ‘No, it’s too fatty.’

      ‘Lamb’s always a bit fatty, that’s what makes it so tasty. You never eat anything.’

      ‘Well, you can’t do everything. Eat or drink, you have to make a choice.’

      ‘You drink too much. You smoke too much as well. No wonder you’re always tired.’

      ‘I like being tired, it’s relaxing. What are you doing today?’

      ‘Not sure. It’s a nice day, might go for a walk down by the river. How about I make you some vegetable soup for tonight? You like veggie soup, don’t you?’

      ‘If you like. How’s your hand?’

      ‘It’s all right. I went to see Dr Garcin this morning to get the dressing changed. He asked after you.’

      ‘And what did you say?’

      ‘That you were fine.’

      ‘You’re a rotten liar … just as well.’

      ‘And what are you going to do?’

      ‘Same as usual. A nice nap before I go to bed.’

      It was a place only he knew. You went under the bridge before taking a pebbly path beside the Volane for about fifteen minutes. Then you had to jump from rock to rock, without worrying about getting your feet wet, to reach a little sandy cove shaded by gnarled willows. No one could see you. The bubbling of the water drowned out the hubbub of the town and the cars on the road above. He had discovered this spot when on holiday here at the age of ten. It was in the days when his mother was selling strange herbs with Daphne. He’d never much liked that lady. Firstly, she was ugly, with all that red hair and hippy clothes. She couldn’t smile properly either; every time she tried, stroking his head, she looked like the wicked stepmother offering Snow White the poisoned apple. She smelt bad and painted her nails black like claws. If he’d been a dog, he would have bitten her.

      Bernard leant against the warm rock, took off his shoes and socks and wiggled his toes in the grey sand. The pebbles formed a pool where the water could catch its breath before continuing along its course, foaming at the mouth. Dragonflies flitted across the surface and sometimes you might see a trout circling in the clear water below. They were beautiful, the dragonflies, as delicate and glittery as Tinkerbell. The trout were pretty too; so gentle, so shiny, so alive. Once he had caught one in his hand. That was a moment he would never forget. It was like holding life itself between his fingers with its golden eyes, supple body, shimmering scales and gills that pulsed like pipe valves. He stroked it for a long time, too long. It bucked one last time and all that was left in his hands was a limp, motionless object. He had tried to put it back in the water but it had instantly capsized, baring its white belly to the sky. He had buried it tearfully, right there under the willow stump. Even after washing his hands ten times, it took two days to get rid of the smell of sludge. He never did it again.

      No, this Monsieur Simon Marechall was no queer. He had invited him out because he liked him, simple as that. It was spending all her time shut away in that dump of a shop that made his mother see the dark side of everything. Anyway, he had known queers who were no worse than the people who didn’t like queers. All you had to do was say no. Once he had said yes, just to see what would happen. It was in the third year of secondary school and the boy’s surname was Gambin or Gamblin or something. Gamblin’s dick had the same effect on him as the trout between his hands. He let it go. Gamblin wanted to be a diver when he grew up. He swam like a fish. Everyone dreamt of being something then: diver, pilot, fireman or farmer. But Bernard had never found his calling.

      ‘What do you want to do for a living?’

      ‘Dunno.’

      Having miraculously got to the end of the fourth year, borne along like a stowaway, he was advised to take the vocational route, not being academically inclined. Baking, hairdressing, mechanics, plumbing – he was happy to have a go at anything, only nothing went right. However hard he tried, however much he concentrated, nothing went in. Sometimes he thought he had understood, but he was so used to being taken for an idiot that when things seemed too straightforward, he undid everything he had done and it would all go to pot. It was only during his military service that he finally achieved something, passing his driving test first time. It was the best day of his life – well, not the whole day. That night, after celebrating with some mates, he had gone joy-riding in a Jeep and ended up inside for two weeks. It was still a good memory though. The best. In truth, he had no other memories to speak of, just little things like the trout, Gamblin’s dick, random bits and pieces that resurfaced now and then for him to toy with in his head, the way a baby plays with its feet. Mostly, though, each day just wiped out the day before.

      A fly landed on his knee. It was young and quivering with energy. In a fraction of a second, Bernard held it captive under his hand. He could feel it batting around inside. It tickled. Slowly he spread his fingers and the insect zigzagged away. When it came to catching flies, he was unbeatable. Shame you couldn’t make a career out of it.

      He stood up and looked for a really flat pebble. Skimming stones was another of his talents. The pebble glanced across the surface of the water like a flying saucer, bouncing six times before reaching the opposite bank. It was a hot day. He took his clothes off and lay in the current, holding his injured hand up towards the sky like a periscope so as not to get the bandage wet. He wasn’t thinking about anything now. It was just nice to dissolve into the water.

      Leaning back in his chair with his head tilted back, Simon smoked a cigarette and watched Bernard tucking into his daube of beef, his nose almost in his plate. It was a fascinating sight. The young man used his fork like a dagger, stabbing it into the meat to hold it in place. Then he cut off big chunks which vanished into his mouth with mechanical regularity. As he swallowed each barely chewed mouthful, his throat and shoulders shuddered slightly before he began all over again, taking the occasional glug of water to wash it down.

      ‘You’ve got quite an appetite!’

      ‘I always do. I’ll eat anything – and the food here’s damned good, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is very good, yes.’

      In no time at all, the plate was wiped clean, sparkling as if it had just come out of the dishwasher.

      ‘Aren’t you going to finish yours, Monsieur Marechall?’

      ‘Help yourself!’

      ‘I