Free The Reader on the 6.27 by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent

sight of Balthus, who was watering the base of his tree with a long, powerful stream.
    Guylain climbed up the steps to the platform and stood on his white line. It stretched out into the greyness, whiter than ever. The 6.27 arrived on the dot of 6.27. The folding seat opened without protest when he lowered it. He took the cardboard folder out of the briefcase at his feet. Although the ritual was no different from any other day, it was plain to the more sharp-eyed observers that the young man’s movements were less mechanical than usual. The disquiet that habitually set his features in a sad mask had vanished. Those same observers could also see that the blotting paper and onion skins had been replaced by ordinary A4 sheets. Without even waiting for the train to depart, Guylain began reading the first extract, labelled 8.doc, in a steady voice:
    ‘ I like to get to the shopping centre early. Slide my pass into the electronic lock of the little side door at the far end of the car park. The unprepossessing steel door completely covered in graffiti is my entry point. As I walk down the central mall towards my domain, the only sound is that of my footsteps echoing off the shops’ metal shutters. For the rest of my life, I will remember what my aunt said to me one day when she took me to work with her. All of eight years old, I scampered along beside her down this same mall. “You are the princess, my little Julie, the princess of the palace!” The princess has grown older, but the realm has barely changed. A completely deserted realm of over 100,000 square metres, awaiting only its subjects. I greet in passing the two beefy night security guards finishing their final walkabout before going home. They often say something nice about me. I always stop and stroke the head of their muzzled sheepdog as I go past. He’s really a big softie, Nourredine, his master once told me. I love this particular moment when the planet seems to have stopped spinning, suspended between the nascent daylight and the darkness of the fading night. I tell myself that one day perhaps the earth will not resume its rotation and will stay frozen forever as night and day each stand firm in their respective positions, plunging us into a permanent dawn. Then I tell myself that, bathed in this crepuscular glow that gives everything a pastel hue, wars will perhaps be less ugly, famines less unbearable, peace more everlasting, the idea of having a lie-in less appealing and the evenings longer, and that only the white of my tiles will remain unchanged, preserving its lustre under the cold neon lights.
    At the intersection of the three main malls, the big fountain sings its comforting glug glug. A few coins gleam at the bottom, coins thrown in by lovers or superstitious lottery players. I sometimes toss one in as I walk past, when I’m in the mood. Just for the pleasure of seeing it twinkle as it twirls down to the bottom. Perhaps too because that eight-year-old who’s waiting for her Prince Charming to come and set her free at last is still inside me. A real Prince Charming who, having parked his magnificent steed in the car park (an Audi A3 or a DS with a leather interior, for instance), will pop into my dwelling to empty his bladder then sweep me up in his arms and carry me off for a protracted love affair. I’d better stop reading True Romance . That stuff gets me all hormonal.
    I cascade down the fifteen stairs to my workplace in the bowels of the shopping centre. I insert my second fob to activate the mechanism that raises the metal shutter. It makes a terrifying clatter, as if, above my head, giant jaws are crunching the metal as it is swallowed up by the ceiling. Then I have an hour of “me time” until the doors open and the customers arrive. This is the hour I spend at my little camping table revising what I wrote the previous day and typing it onto my computer. I love the idea that my thoughts have matured overnight, like dough left to rise which