Epilogue
AIMÉ
It was beginning to warm up, the weather not quite as bitterly wet and wintry, and Aimé was grateful – he hadn’t expected the metal of the rifle to be so affected by the temperature, hadn’t expected to feel the slight sting of it so cold in his hands.
“Alright, support it like that— Yes, that’s right, your finger on the trigger here, you see how it’s braced? You can envisage, I suppose, where you’ll feel the recoil?”
“How much recoil?”
“Not much,” Jean-Pierre said softly, giving him an encouraging smile – Aimé wondered if the butterflies swarming inside him had more to do with that pretty smile or the fucking killing machine in his hands, and more than that, the fact that he’d asked for it, asked for Jean to show him. “This is an old favourite of my carabines – there’s not much of a kick to it. Adjust your feet, shoulder to the target… Yes, like that, bien joué.”
Behind them, Aimé could hear Heidemarie laughing as she argued with Brigid about whether dogs should (could, would) play fetch – judging by all the nasty words she was calling the utterly disaffected puppy, Brigid was very much winning the argument. Colm and Paddy were working together inside, rolling out a new carpet to cover the wood floors they’d laid down.
“Eyes forward,” Jean-Pierre instructed him, and Aimé obeyed, looking at the cans lined up on the wall. “Imagine a line from the sight of the rifle, just like we talked about – and squeeze.”
Aimé kept breathing, didn’t hold his breath like they’d kept warning him not to, and pressed on the trigger – the blast of the rifle was fucking loud, and he felt the recoil through his face with the butt of the thing so close to his fucking cheek, but it wasn’t as much as he’d been scared of, and it didn’t hurt.
The can he’d hit went flying, and he heard himself faintly laughing through the ring in his ears as Jean-Pierre clapped his hands and kissed the side of his jaw in celebration.
FIN.
