A male baby was born to the Gardin family on the 1^st March 1960. He was the last of six children born to Jacques and Beth Gardin. His birth had been a difficult one. Beth Gardin, although delivering her five previous children with ease, had a complex birth of numerous complications. The mid-wife struggled to deliver him within the confines of their humble farmhouse kitchen lit by flickering candlelight. With two unkind but essential vaginal incisions Pierre was released from the haven of the formative womb and thrust unceremoniously into humanity. He was born through anguish, pain, toil and sweat.

His mother suffered from postnatal depression and rejected the infant from birth. He was unplanned and was the summation of his mother’s loathing for the drunken father. Therefore Pierre’s ‘tableaux of life’ was shaped from the very beginning of his formative years.

When Pierre was two his father violently left home leaving his wife to care for the six children. Each day Beth Gardin would be reminded of her estranged husband in the form of ‘Pierre, the unwanted’. Such emotions painted the canvas of his early years.

Pierre was a solitary child who did not crave the company of others. He would sit on his own in the fields and pass the time of day in silent, unproductive contemplation. He learned about nature and became at one with the elements from a young age. He had no need for human interaction other than the basic needs for food, shelter and strained companionship. His brothers and sisters tolerated his presence but would not readily communicate with him unless required to.

The pain of life started when he was six years old. He had to attend school and was forced to socialise with his peers. He would favour solitary seclusion over group work and his teachers respected this and left him very much to his own devices. He was the target for bullying and this was a feature of his elementary years. He would suffer in silence and display his physical wounds for his mother to ignore at the meal table. His cries for help fell on deaf, yet communal ears.

Everything changed when he went to Secondary School. Pierre was minding his own business sitting on the school field in the spring sunshine. Paul Metroc, the established school bully and the tallest in the year group, approached him with his cronies in tow.

"There sits the poor, lonely Pierre Gardin! His clothes don’t fit, he stinks and he looks like a cows arse!"

The minions laughed in unison, worshiping their macho leader. Paul pushed Pierre hard on the shoulder. Pierre ignored his social advancement and turned away in desperation.

"So, the farmer’s boy has nothing to say, hey?" Pierre stared out to the mountains for natural succour.

"So, you are ignoring me. Well try this for size!" Paul twisted Pierre’s nipple firmly through his t-shirt. Pierre felt the intrusion but did not react.

"So the tough guy wants more?" He twisted again drawing blood from the penknife’s incision hidden within the palm of his muscular hand. Pierre stood and faced his opponent. He stared him full in the eye. Paul started to make light of the situation recognising that he had gone too far and sought a way out.

"Hold on, fella! I meant you no harm!" Paul shouted earnestly.

Pierre placed his hands on Paul’s throat and squeezed tightly. Paul tried to resist but his colour began to change and he fell to the ground, gasping for air. Paul’s minions came to his aid and tried to pull Pierre from the clutches of their leader. Pierre, a large solidly built teenager used to hard farm work, offered complete and full resistance. They were powerless to resist him. Pierre released Paul from his vice like grip and proceeded to pound his body with blows and punches until blood emerged from his screaming, cowardly mouth. His final stratagem was to bash Paul’s engorged head on to the hard earth until he spoke no longer. Silence filled the school field and the audience stood motionless.

The silent corpse of Paul Metroc stared at Pierre. His face was motionless and the pupils dispersed to let the teacher on duty through. An ambulance was called and Pierre was left surrounded by the impotent minions who had shifted allegiance to him. The next stage of his life was formed on this sunlit school field in Riberac.

For the rest of the summer term, following his twenty-day exclusion, Pierre and his brain-dead followers caused little disturbance to school life. A few fire extinguishers were set off, they were caught smoking in the toilets but no physical action was taken on their part. Pierre began to almost enjoy school as his peers looked up to him and showed him the respect he had always craved from his family. However nothing had changed at home and his siblings and mother ignored him.

When the summer holidays arrived, bringing his fourteenth birthday, he spent most of the days hanging out in Riberac with his gang. They would taunt passers by and generally create mischief. When they became thirsty a visit was made to the Leclerc supermarket where they filled their deep pockets with beer and wine, free of charge. Bernard Lutrec was the most accomplished shoplifter and usually came away with the greatest stash. He was also close to Pierre and was his second in command.

The 8^th of August was the day that shaped Pierre’s future destiny. It started as any other with a silent breakfast; heavy farm duties and a long walk into Riberac. Pierre, wearing denim jeans, trainers and a closely fitting white t-shirt entered the market place. It was fairly quiet for a Friday morning but he managed to find Bernard walking away from a fruit stall removing a couple of apples from his deep, Fagin-like coat pocket.

"Hey! Bernard!" called Pierre.

"Salut, Pierre," Bernard responded with a broad smile as they shook hands and exchanged a kiss of greeting. They sat heavily on a bench and started to eat the apples. As they ate Bernard pulled a hand full of 200-franc notes from his inside pocket. He proceeded to count them.

"Where did you get that from, Bernard?" asked Pierre.

"This is the product of my latest venture!" he replied showing his perfect teeth through his tanned, olive coloured face.

"What scheme is this?" Pierre inquired.

"It is very simple. Last night I was drinking in the Bar De Commerce when I was approached by an attractive, older lady." Pierre listened with interest trying not to appear shocked. Bernard continued,

"Her name was Bernice and she had recently divorced her husband and she was out on the town looking for a good time!"

"You didn’t?"

"I did and she paid me for it," he replied clearly showing his post-virginal status for the whole world to see.

"What was it like? Did you enjoy it?" asked Pierre who was clearly excited by this news.

"Sure, she was a good screw. Adventurous, yet fulfilling my every need!"

"Where did you do it?"

"At her apartment on the outskirts of Riberac. I left her when she fell asleep and drained the contents of her purse and jewellery case. Easy money for easy, enjoyable work, hey?"

Pierre mulled over their recent conversation, reflecting for a moment then asked,

"What will you do if she sees you around Riberac? You should never shit on your own doorstep!"

"She’ll probably stare, shout some abuse but she won’t do anything."

"Why not?"

"I don’t think that she would involve the police as she has had sex with a minor. I’m only fourteen, like you!"

"You crafty bastard. This sounds like good money. I think that I’ll give it a go tonight. I’m dressed to pull and have a body better than yours to attract the chicks!"

"You wish," Bernard responded with a sharp punch to Pierre’s muscular bicep. They wrestled for a moment much to the disgust of the market traders who had to witness this scene on a daily basis.

With the wrestling over they made their way to the public convenience to have a quick wash and tidy up. One of Bernard’s regular clients happened to be waiting in the toilets. Bernard entered the cubicle with him and earned himself another 250 francs performing a trick. Pierre continued to wash his face, ignoring the moans of pleasure coming from the cubicle. After all he was the lookout for this illegal operation.

Paul stared into the cracked, stained mirror. He saw the face not of a boy but that of a young man. The nose was perfect, not too large or small and beneath it was the first black down of puberty. His dark hair fell across his right, blue eye and he felt the soft stubble of his first shave. Pierre’s skin was tanned and unmarked by acne. He continued this visual assessment as he looked at his chest. Two well-formed pecs pressed against his tight t-shirt and two bronzed, muscular arms protruded form his top. He flexed his muscles, the product of many years of hard farm labouring. What he saw pleased him and he knew that it would please others, especially of the female kind.

The cubicle door opened and Bernard emerged wiping his face and he rinsed his mouth out from the sink tap.

"Let’s go. We have plans to make!" ordered Bernard. They left the toilets with a satisfied client remaining for a few minutes to avoid suspicion, or arrest.

As dusk approached the two boys talked under the shade of a tree. Their plans had been formalised. They would spend the evening in the Bar De Commerce and see what would happen. Pierre found the plan exciting but he was also fearful, as he was still a virgin to the female species. They ordered another beer and scanned the streets for clients as they chatted.

Two hours later Claudette Renoir entered the market place. She was fed up with work and life in general. At 29 she was still untouched by a man and longed to regain her teenage years of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Her teenage years had been filled with looking after her elderly and sick parents. Their swift death had released her from this bondage and this was her first night of freedom and she intended to enjoy it and live life to the full from this day forward. Her sacrifice had not gone unrewarded. Her parents had left a vast fortune and several properties to their only child. She had plans and losing her virginity was the highest of her priorities.

Pierre was the first to see Claudette. He straightened and offered her an appealing smile as she approached their outside table. She caught his stare but continued to walk, ignoring this pubescent advance. Mademoiselle Renoir turned right and left the market place feeling that her legs would give out in passionate excitement if she remained.

"Did you see that?" uttered Pierre in amazement.

"Yes. Her name’s Claudette Renoir and I have it on good authority that she has come into a tidy fortune as her parents have just croaked it!" Bernard replied. "She would make a good client for your first time. She’ll be back! Mark my words!"

As Bernard completed his sentence Claudette returned to the market place and duly sat at the table next to the aroused youths. She ordered a glass of wine and pulled a novel from her bag and commenced to read.

"Go on!" urged Bernard. "She’s ready, willing and able! I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?" He stood, left a 100 franc-note and followed his next potential female client to her waiting BMW. Pierre had nothing to lose and he moved towards Claudette’s table with his beer in his trembling hand.

"Hello, my name’s Pierre. May I join you?"

Claudette’s wish had been answered and she invited this tall youth to join her. She was about to take a journey back into time and fantasy.

Pierre awoke in a large, comfortable double bed. To his side was Claudette and the white sheets and duvet were scattered around their warm bodies. Pierre rubbed his eyes, proud that he had lost his virginity to such a worthy woman. He stretched his arms and reached for the alarm clock. It was half past eight and he had missed his farm duties. He did not worry or care as he had no respect for his family but just wanted to care for his own desires. Pierre climbed out of bed and put on his black, satin boxers. He scouted around the bedroom and found her handbag. Without hesitation he pulled the notes and credit cards from their haven. He moved onto the jewellery box and took the best, antique items.

"Is that you, Pierre?" called a sleep-warmed voice from the consummated bed.

"Yes, my love. Go back to sleep and I will prepare some breakfast," responded Pierre quickly. Claudette’s eyes remained closed and he left the room picking up his clothes on the way. He was leaving fully loaded and eager to tell Bernard about the fruits of his passionate labour.

Pierre’s life continued in a similar pattern until he was eighteen. Through his fraternisation of numerous women he discovered a taste for alcohol and drugs. Both were freely available and helped to ease his professional duties especially when the client was older and less attractive. His dependency on alcohol and drugs was growing and he needed to enrol more clients to pay for this vice. His youthful, Adonis looks were suffering under the self-inflicted chemical invasion of his body and his ‘pulling power’ was reduced as a result. Pierre also missed Bernard who was killed by a client as he was blackmailing him. His bitter end came in a snuff movie where he was the temporal star. Pierre was powerless to intervene, as Bernard had not told him where he was going or what he was doing on that day. Pierre was racked with guilt with his impotence and dearly missed his best friend. He had to steal to supply his addiction and this is where he met Françoise.

The rain fell heavily in the Rue De Sacristain. Pierre was huddled in a shop doorway sheltering from the driving, cold rain. He had spent the past four months on the street since his mother had thrown him out after he punched her in the face following an argument. Suicide was an option but Pierre did not have the means to carry it out. His body ached and he longed for his next hit of smack. He pulled the blanket over his head in preparation for sleep.

"You, there!" a voice spoke above the noise of falling, heavy precipitation. Pierre flicked the corner of his blanket away from his face to view the speaker.

"I’ve been watching you from my apartment. What on earth are you doing out, on a night like this?" asked Françoise Mauvais. Pierre coughed and cleared his parched throat that was inflamed by an infection.

"What’s it to you?"

"Nothing, I suppose. But I do not like to see a fellow human being suffer," she replied compassionately.

"Be on your way. I have nothing to give you!" shouted Pierre. He was intimidated by her concern and tenderness. He was used to being a toy for the wealthy, not the receiver of philanthropy. Françoise was undeterred and retorted,

"Why don’t you come back to my apartment for a warm up? I will fix you some soup and you can dry out a little until the rain stops."

"I don’t want your charity. Have you got any smack?" he inquired.

"No, I don’t touch the stuff. But I have some dope. Do you want some?" Pierre did not verbally respond but rose to his full height and followed this angel of mercy. They entered the warm confines of the humble apartment.

Françoise spent several hours talking with her charge. As Pierre’s defensive barriers broke down he became more relaxed and secure. Françoise suggested that he might like to take a bath and he duly obeyed removing his stained, smelly clothing and climbed into the bath of hot, foamy water. She gathered his clothes and placed them in the washing machine on a 60-degree wash. Françoise left Pierre to enjoy his bath in peace.

The hot water soothed his aching body. The pincushion arms were the last to resist relaxation but they surrendered in the candlelit bathroom heavily scented with lavender. He was contented and ready to face the demands of future existence. Gone were the whisperings of suicide; he was going to make something of himself. There was a light knock at the door.

"Are you ok?"

"Yes, fine!" answered Pierre after clearing his throat.

"May I come in?" asked Françoise. Pierre paused, all too familiar with this routine sexual overture.

"Sure! It’s unlocked." The beech door opened and Françoise entered wearing a leather bikini. Pierre stared at her youthful, slim body and became aroused.

The alarm woke Pierre and he reached out to turn it off. His arms were bound and movement, however partial, was impossible. Next to him laid Françoise, very pale, with blue lips almost touching his face. She was naked and her body bore the marks of frenzied sex and abuse. He looked at his chest; it was heavily scared. What had happened? His mind was a blur but he urgently needed to escape from this sad scene. Pierre reached for his trousers; they were almost out of reach. The nylon ropes cut into his wrists as he extended his arms towards his goal of release. He found his flick knife and cut the ropes rubbing his aching wrists. Pierre sat on the bed and surveyed the room.

The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver. A man’s voice spoke first.

"You have paid the price for your sins. Françoise is dead and you will suffer the consequences."

"Who is this? What do you want?" asked Pierre, his voice shaking with emotion as he sat next to the stiffening, pale corpse.

"You do not need to know my name. I am, I mean was Françoise’s boyfriend. Her infidelity has cost a life. No one betrays me and gets away with it!" the voice responded, heightened with emotion. Pierre started to panic. He knew that he had not killed Françoise. Why should he? She had been kind, shared her body with him and that was that. This casual meeting should have ended as all the others. From this man’s untimely intervention all had been ruined. Pierre was angry.

"Listen here, you bastard. You cannot blame me for her death. I’m innocent. So what if I slept with her? She’s a big girl now and capable of making her own decisions."

"Bravely spoken! But you will go down for this Pierre Gardin." These words shook Pierre and he recognised the voice.

"Claude Bonet. How good to hear your voice after all these years. I thought you had left for Bordeaux to join the police force." The voice faltered but did not regain its former confidence.

"Pierre, I need to meet with you. I have made a mistake and need your help to put it right," pleaded Claude.

"You need my help? You are the one who killed your own girlfriend, not me!"

"Please meet me in Bertric-Buree, by the church."

"Why should I?"

"I may have something that you want."

"Have you any drugs?"

"Anything you desire!"

"What time?"

"7.30pm. Be there!"

"Ok," Pierre replaced the receiver and threw the white sheet casually over Françoise’s body. He picked up his freshly laundered clothing and left the apartment silently.

Pierre hitched a lift to the picturesque village of Bertric-Buree. He positioned himself behind a large gravestone to hide his presence. A white Renault pulled up outside the church and a fat man emerged for the small confines of the car. Pierre recognised him instantly as Claude Bonet and remembered how he used to taunt him at school. Claude was such a willing victim and used to squeal like a pig when the gang tortured him. Pierre smiled in satisfaction and looked forward to their meeting.

"Pierre I have what you require," panted Claude who was obviously out of breath and sweating from his exertions and excitement. Pierre walked towards him.

"Get back into the car. We are going for a little ride. I’ll drive!" Claude handed the keys to Pierre like an obedient puppy dog. They climbed into the car and sped off towards Riberac. Pierre threw the car around the curves and was aware of Claude’s heavy frame pressing against him on each right hand curve. Claude broke the silence,

"How could you sleep with my lovely Françoise?"

"Easy, she begged for it. I gave her what she wanted, muscle not flab!" Pierre struck Claude in the stomach to punctuate his verbal abuse.

"We were happy together. I gave her everything, " he sobbed through his pain.

"Listen fat guy, you have always been a wimp. Now pass that cocaine over here. I need a snort or two!" Claude obeyed and passed the plastic wallet to Pierre. He stopped the car to prepare his fix. Claude looked out of the mud-splashed window. They had stopped on a farm track just outside the village. Pierre, using a 200-franc note, snorted the contents of the sachet up his nose in four long lines. His head spun and his confidence grew. He turned to Claude,

"I have never like you, fat boy. Once a pig, always a pig," sneered Pierre. Claude looked at his adversary and marvelled at his physique. He had always looked up to Pierre and envied his good looks and brutal charm. He had fantasised about him for years. Could this be his chance to consummate his latent passion? Claude reached over and squeezed Pierre’s thigh. The reaction was instant. Pierre punched him on the nose and the physical touch ceased immediately. Claude held his bleeding nose and whimpered,

"Why did you do that? Bernard was your best friend; he was gay. Let’s call it quits. Let me go!"

A red mist flooded Pierre’s eyes, a combination of natural anger and cocaine. Without hesitation he clutched Claude by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from their sockets. For an instant he saw Paul’s languid eyes flash before him but this was replaced by many kilos of blubber pulsating in the confines of the passenger seat.

As the mist cleared Pierre realised that he was sitting in the driver’s seat of the Renault. A slumped corpse was his partner and he felt no compassion for this twisted latent homosexual. What kind of man could kill his own girlfriend? Indeed how could such a man have a girlfriend in the first place?

Pierre’s rational mind stepped into gear. He had to dispose of the bodies. If discovered they would be linked forensically back to him. He started the engine and turned the car around, noticing a small farmhouse as he completed his three-point turn.

Under the cover of darkness a solitary, white Renault saloon coasted down the farm track without the benefit of its engine, thereby ensuring complete discretion. The car pulled into the drive of a British owned property. Pierre climbed out and opened the boot. He peered over his shoulder to check his privacy. The house was empty, awaiting the immanent arrival of the English family. Pierre pulled two, stiff corpses from the boot towards the well. The former was light and easy to dispose of down the 64-foot drop. The latter proved more of a challenge. With the aid of a saw the body was cut into twelve pieces and individually dropped into the water of the well.

As Pierre started the engine he was absolved of his former guilt. The water of the well would conceal his guilt and he drove towards Riberac eager to secure another fix.

Steven Longman-Marshall

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