Moon in a Dead Eye by Pascal Garnier Page A

blood-spattered sketch. The bullet had ripped out his right eyeball which now lay half a metre from his head, staring up at the moon from the freshly mown lawn. A big white marble. Mashed-up face aside, Monsieur Flesh did not look dead; it was as though an echo of life was left in him. Martial would not have been surprised to see him get up, pick up his eye and put it back in place, grumbling as he went. But he didn’t get up. The revolver at the end of his arm was heavy and searing hot against his thigh. Martial felt incredibly serene, at peace. If the others had not descended onhim practically all at once, crowding in on him, he would have happily gone to bed. Maxime snatched the gun from his hand and began circling the caretaker’s body, flapping his arms up and down as though trying to fly away.
    ‘Oh, Jesus! … And with my gun as well! … You fucking idiot! Why the hell did you do it?’
    It was the first time Maxime had sworn at him, and Martial felt a certain sense of achievement. Nadine bent over and began vomiting. Léa had turned into a pillar of salt, utterly white, while Marlène was hiding her face in her hands, letting out little mouse-like squeaks. Odette opened and closed her mouth, unable to produce the slightest sound, flailing about hopelessly like a person drowning. The moon had returned to its quarters and averted its gaze, displaying complete disinterest in this clutch of homunculi. Maxime came and stood squarely in front of Martial.
    ‘Come on, why did you do it, you stupid bastard? Why?’
    ‘I don’t know. It just happened … It wasn’t me …’
    ‘It wasn’t you?! Well, who the hell was it then? Of course it was bloody you! And with my gun!’
    Odette placed herself between Maxime and her husband.
    ‘You mustn’t talk to him like that, Maxime. Martial’s very sensitive …’
    ‘Oh please, Odette, I think the time for niceties is past! In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a dead man lying in front of us! But no, everything’s just hunky-dory!’
    Léa stepped towards Martial and Odette, who now formed one inseparable bloc.
    ‘How are you feeling, Martial?’
    ‘OK … Yes, OK, I think … He was there, by the hedge. I held my arm out towards him, I said, “Monsieur Flesh …” It went off… My whole arm shook, the shot rang out and I saw him almost lifted off the ground … It was the gun, you see, it wasn’t me …’
    ‘We’ll have to call the police.’
    Maxime stepped in, pouring with sweat.
    ‘The police? Are you mad?!’
    ‘We have to!’
    ‘Wait, it was
my
gun he fired. Do you have any idea what that means? Anyway, it was an accident. Martial clearly isn’t in his right mind.’
    ‘But … what else do you suggest we do?’
    Odette clung to her husband, nervously muttering over and over, ‘Not the police! Not the police! Not prison …’ Nadine was sitting on the ground, rubbing her temples as she rocked back and forth, eyes closed. Marlène had crouched at her side like a frightened little poodle.
    Maxime went on, ‘All we have to do is hide the body. Just get rid of it somewhere.’
    ‘Have you completely lost it? And where do you suggest we do that?!’
    ‘Behind the gypsy camp, in that patch of scrubland.’
    ‘But … that’s … You can’t be serious!’
    ‘Just think about it for a second, Léa. What do you want to do, tear Odette and Martial’s life apart and ruin ours while you’re at it? Say “to hell with it all”? You could never stand the man anyway. Why should you give a toss? We’re the only witnesses and as long as we keep our mouths shut, no one’s going to come sniffing around a bunch of poor old pensioners minding their own business. Martial, are you up to this? Say something, damn it, it’s your neck on the line!’
    The truth was Martial no longer felt he had anything to do with all this. The moonlight was amazing; everyone and everythingseemed to have been chalked up on a blackboard. Any minute it could all be rubbed off