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

Perhaps it will sail away one day.’

      ‘I was only joking.’

      ‘Have you been to the sea much, Bernard?’

      ‘No, never. The closest thing I’ve seen to the sea is Lake Geneva.’

      ‘Would you like to go?’

      ‘Yes, why not?’

      They carried on walking in silence, Bernard trying to imagine a body of water greater than Lake Geneva, Simon racking his brains to think of the ultimate island.

      The multicoloured lights strung among the trees outside Béatrix ice-cream parlour were still on. A waiter in shirtsleeves was clearing tables and stacking chairs. A few stragglers hung around the rotunda hoping for some excitement before returning to their hotel rooms to stuff themselves with sleeping pills. The more optimistic ones made straight for the casino whose lights could be seen flickering through the trees. It was only ten thirty, and Simon wasn’t ready to go to bed.

      ‘One last drink?’

      ‘No, I’d better get going. I have to look after my mother. Thanks again for dinner, I really enjoyed it.’

      ‘OK then. See you around.’

      ‘Tomorrow’s market day.’

      ‘I’ll see you there then. Good night.’

      Simon ordered a pear brandy in the lounge. Two men were playing snooker, badly, but they strutted around like world champions. While waiting for his drink Simon inspected the bookshelves and lighted on an old, yellowed copy of Treasure Island. He settled into a cracked leather armchair and thumbed through it, hoping to recapture the pleasure he had felt when he first read it. The island had not changed, but he had.

      Anaïs was snoring loudly on the sofa, a spirituality guide propped open on her chest like a little tent. The blanket had slid off and her dress had ridden up, revealing her legs splayed wide. She wasn’t wearing any knickers. Her bushy pubic hair crept up over her belly. Bernard saw nothing indecent in the scene; he was just a bit surprised that that was where he came from. He put the book down, taking care to mark her page, before lifting his mother up and putting her to bed. He tucked her in, pulled the quilt up to her chin and planted a kiss on her forehead. She rolled over with a moan.

      On market days, Rue Jean-Jaurès was unrecognisable. The stalls lining the pavements hid the empty windows of closed-down shops. A constant stream of people swarmed down the narrow street, their heaped baskets occasionally colliding and creating pedestrian traffic jams. The cool morning air fragrant with the smells of flowers, fruit, roast chicken and fresh fish could tempt even the most abstemious to indulge. Trestle tables sagged under the weight of mountains of cherries, transformed by sunlight into piles of shimmering rubies. Simon couldn’t resist buying himself a handful, biting into them as he walked. There were no subtle shades here, only vivid kaleidoscope colours.

      Market traders improvised skits to charm customers into parting with their cash. In front of a stall selling local handicrafts in the shape of goatskin drums, snake-head charms, plywood Bantu masks, glass-bead necklaces, elephants made out of tyres and an array of boiled leather hats, a German tourist was haggling over a bag that appeared to be made from reptile skin. The seller was a burly African wearing a thick overcoat despite the heat.

       ‘Nein! Moi acheter, mais pas vrai croco!’

       ‘Si! Croco véritable!’

       ‘Si croco véritable, moi pas acheter. Imitation, oui.’

      The vendor rolled his eyes, but since neither of them had much grasp of the language the transaction soon descended into farce. The poor man’s prospective customer was a hardline eco-warrior, signalled by her tow-coloured hair cut in a severe bob and Birkenstock sandals. From the way she was clutching it to her chest, it was obvious she liked the bag, but the idea that it might have come from a living creature repulsed her. Still, the consummate salesman would not back down.

      ‘Vrai croco! My uncle kill it with his hands! Good price for you!’

      ‘Nein! Plastic, yes, animal killed, no.’

      It was all getting too confusing. The trader wearily agreed to knock the price down, reluctantly admitting that the bag was indeed made of plastic, ‘but good plastic!’ The German woman left delighted with her purchase while the stallholder counted the banknotes, making a gesture to indicate that she must have a screw loose.

      Further up, where the road opened out in front of the post office, two trucks stacked with tapes and CDs vied noisily with each other, belching out the voices of dead or obscure singers, accordion music, Algerian raï tunes, rock and local folk in a primordial cacophony. Other vehicles spewed hunting gear from their open flanks; everything from thick hand-knitted socks to deerstalkers, long johns, tartan shirts, sheepskin-lined gilets and the full range of combat trousers.

      There were garments to tempt the ladies, too. Almost inconceivably large flesh-coloured knickers and bras hung from metal hoops, swaying among flirtily floral nylon blouses and other items from an era so remote that it was difficult to imagine any survivors still out shopping.

      In front of one of these stalls, Simon felt a hand on his shoulder.