Free The Islanders by Pascal Garnier

best thing to do. Olivier’s snores travelled from the armchair where he was slumped in the lounge to the kitchen where Jeanne was peeling vegetables. The alcohol and sleeping pills had finally overcome his nerves. Rodolphe had gone for a walk around the block, calm was restored and she felt at home again.
    After leaving the flat opposite, Olivier had gone through every stage of hysteria, from absolute dejection, convinced his only option was suicide, to almost mystical bursts of elation which made him want to run naked through the streets, banging his fists against his chest, blaming himself for all the wrong in the world and briefly hearing the voice of reason telling him to hand himself in at the nearest police station. Only after the two Mogadon pills had kicked in could a more pragmatic solution be considered. With Olivier out for the count, Rodolphe had stretched out his limbs and sighed.
    ‘Well, here we go again!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The two of you, with the body of an innocent victim on your hands. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t suppose you’re planning on calling the emergency services, are you?’
    ‘No more than you are.’
    ‘Ah, but it would suit me just fine to see the back of that arsehole. One quick phone call and it’s timber for Olivier the olive tree!’
    ‘You wouldn’t do it.’
    ‘And why not?’
    ‘Because you love playing the game, and it’s not over yet. And because there’s nothing to say you didn’t go with them last night or decide to join them later.’
    ‘Ah, come on! Have pity on a poor blind man! Would you really point the finger at your own brother? Anyway, what makes you so sure you’d escape the blame?’
    ‘I’m not pointing the finger at anyone. I don’t care who did it. The police, on the other hand … You’re the one who brought the guy home. People will have seen you together all around town.’
    ‘So what? It’s not my flat he died in.’
    ‘No, the one directly opposite. Give it a rest. I know exactly where you’re trying to go with this, and you can stop it now.’
    ‘Fine. So what do you suggest? Fausses-Reposes forest?’
    Jeanne had gone back to the flat. She had a hell of a job getting Roland’s already stiffened limbs to lie straight against his body. It was like grappling with a partially defrosted chicken. Then she got on with cleaning the bathroom. Later on, when it was dark and Olivier had woken up, they would take the body down to the car and dump it in the woods. Just another settling of scores between rough-sleepers …
    Jeanne undid her apron. The pressure-cooker valve was beginning to whisper, puffing out steam which condensed in fine droplets on the dirty windowpanes. It smelt good, like sweat after making love. She and Olivier had only done it once, in the cabin deep in the woods. It was in August when everyone was away on holiday. They had made love because it needed to be done, like getting a passport or a vaccination. They were both virgins. Nature had done its best to help things along. It wasn’t good or bad; they didn’t know what it was. The air was heavy. Pulling their underwear back on afterwards, they felt damp, sticky and strangely sad. Later, when they brought little Luc there, they recognised thesmall brown bloodstain on the makeshift sofa, formed of the back seat of a Peugeot 203. It looked like an official seal.
    From the moment she opened the door to Olivier, she had known for certain their destinies would be entwined again. It was like opening a book on the page it had been left at the night before. They had been asleep for twenty-five years and now they were waking up again, side by side, the stuff of fairy tales. Never mind that he had aged, that he was an alcoholic; their real life had always gone on in parallel to the life other people led. They had their own ways, their own language which made them constant. This deep conviction gave rise to a quiet strength that nothing in the world could undermine.
    The