Et tu y étais heureux, ignorant tout du reste du monde et de la catastrophe qui allait s’abattre. Ce jour de drame, tu étais parti faire paître les moutons. D’ordinaire, tu préférais les taches plus physiques. Tu étais l’homme le plus musclé et le plus en vue du village.La fille du chef t’était promise. C’était la plus ravissante et la plus coquette des filles du village. Dans quelques jours, elle aurait dix-huit ans et avec la bénédiction de tous vous vous marierez.C’est pourquoi, aujourd’hui allongé dans l’herbe, tu rêvassais à ta nuit de noce, peu enclin à retourner au village. Tu attendis que le soleil soit bas, tu ne pouvais paresser plus longtemps, il était temps de ramener les moutons dans leur enclos.Tu reviens donc vers le village. Mais quelque chose ne va pas... Des flammes ! De la fumée recouvre les toitures. Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ? Un banquet qui a mal tourné ?! Il n’y avait pourtant pas de banquet prévu...Cela t’inquiète. Tu te précipites, laissant les moutons sur. He was still wearing his bra. He didn't even realise. His headwent back to his hands. His eyes closed again. Little snippets from thenight before danced in his brain. The sound of the hustle and bustle inthe bar. The smell of the toilets as Doyle had held him. The taste of hiscum. Art shook his head a little. What had he done? How had he let it getto that point? Questions raced through his brain, as fast as the hangoverwould let them. He could have stopped it, couldn't he? Why hadn't hestopped it? Had he wanted to stop it? Could he stop it now?The deep, hum of a phone text alert sounded from behind him, running histrain of thought off the tracks. The screen lit up, turned towards theceiling. Art didn't open his eyes, instead choosing to fumble blindlybehind him with his outstretched arm. When he finally found it he liftedit close to his face, squinting though the haze of black eyelashes toread the text. He didn't recognise the number."Hey babe. It's Doyle from last night. The guys.
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