Free The Islanders by Pascal Garnier Page A

valve began to whistle loudly: the soup was ready.

The Islanders
    ‘I don’t know, I don’t know …’
    Olivier was stirring his spoon around the bowl like a child reluctant to eat his soup.
    ‘You should listen to Jeanne, Olivier. She’s right, there’s no risk of getting caught.’
    ‘But a man’s dead, for God’s sake!’
    ‘Yes and what about your life? Do you really want to throw it away because of one stupid mistake? Dozens of people like Roland die every day of cold or hunger or in fights, and no one even bothers to write about it. Anyway, trust me, Roland didn’t give a shit about life.’
    Olivier didn’t know what to think. His brain was still dulled by booze and Mogadon pills. Jeanne had laid out her plan with disconcerting matter-of-factness. He had sat listening open-mouthed, as if she was telling him about the last film she had seen. It seemed crazy to him, utterly crazy. He had reached that stage of hangover between delirium and lucidity when the guilt and shame set in and you feel torn in every direction, all roads leading to disaster. One glass, just one glass of the Scotch Rodolphe had brought home with him and he would be able to make a decision.
    ‘But, Jeanne, have you really thought about what I’m dragging you into?’
    ‘What about you? Have you thought about what you’ll drag me into if you don’t accept my help? This is no one’s fault, Olivier. No one’s to blame.’
    Rodolphe got up from the table and placed the bottle of Scotch in front of Olivier.
    ‘Shall I pour you a glass?’
     
    Around one in the morning, the bottle was almost empty and Olivier’s bowl remained untouched, the soup long cold. For the last hour he had been checking his watch every five minutes.
    ‘Shall we go then? Can we go now?’
    Jeanne replied calmly that it was still too early and there was a chance they might pass someone on the stairs. Liberated by having made a decision, Olivier was no longer afraid of anything. How could he have considered handing himself in? Even if he had strangled Roland, it was only an accident or rather, as Rodolphe had explained, he had merely been the instrument of destiny, of Roland’s destiny, which was always going to play out the same way. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he had done him a favour, but it was getting there. And then there was Jeanne, who had come running the moment he needed her, ready to do whatever it took, just like the old days. He was ashamed he had ever doubted her. It was not just a coincidence; not for nothing were they being brought together again under such similar circumstances. There was another way to look at things than the nice ordered way we were taught. One day, a long time ago, he had sold out, given in, put on the starchy suit he had been handed, and that was why he started drinking, to cauterise this ugly wound. Tonight, he could have drunk enough to float an ocean liner and he still wouldn’t feel pissed. His head was perfectly clear.
    Jeanne stood up and glanced out of the window. There was no one around. As luck would have it, she had found a space to park her car right outside the building.
    ‘I think we can go. How do you feel?’
    ‘Fine, absolutely fine. I’m ready.’
    Jeanne shook her brother, who was dozing with his hands resting on his stomach and his legs outstretched.
    ‘Rodolphe, we’re going.’
    ‘Huh? Oh, right, yes. I’ll send you a signal if I hear anything on the stairs.’
    There was no longer anything frightening about Roland’s body. It was just a cumbersome object that Jeanne and Olivier were wrapping up and tying inside a rug. A great big Christmas present. The telephone began to ring as they were heading out of the door. Jeanne and Olivier looked at one another, each bending over and holding one end of the rug. For a fraction of a second Olivier pictured Odile in her nightdress, biting her thumbnail in the pink light of the bedside lamp. It was such a bizarre image that he had to hold back a