A Failed Dream Of Completion

Gaius drops another peanut. It rolls under his seat and stops next to Arthur.

Arthur picks it up. He returns it to Gaius.

Thank you, Arthur, says Gaius. You keep it.

Arthur shoves the peanut into his pocket.

Arthur, says Gaius. What time is our flight out of Paris?

Flight? says Arthur. I don't know. You've got the tickets.

Yes, of course, says Gaius. They'll be in  my back pack. Have a look will you.

Arthur has a look in Gaius's back pack.

Spare pair of chinos. Boxers. A tissue with dried beetle blood on it. Several broken Prismalos. Right at the bottom, a wallet of tickets.

Tomorrow morning, says Arthur. That means we've got one night in Paris.

Have we! says Belle. How lovely. Did you hear that Baldy?

Baldy is eating a Twix.

What? says Baldy.

A whole day and night in Paris, says Belle. We can get in touch with your mother.

Ha ha, laughs Terence. He doesn't have a mother.

He does, says Belle. And she has a phone number. Arthur will have it.

Will I? says Arthur.

Yes, says Belle. It'll be in your phone.

Is Baldy going back to Le Poo in Velay, asks Terence?

I think so, says Belle.

It's not Poo in Velay, says Baldy. It's Pwee.

Poo or Pwee, says Terence. Poo and Pwee. Pwee-pwee.

Stop that, says Belle. Baldy has been missing his mother. It's why he keeps crying.

Saint Roley has finished his Mars Bar. It didn't taste at all like a mollusc. He feels sick, and something brown is coming out of his nostrils. He must be, like Baldy, missing his mother.

No one cares about him.

Sartre is taking small bites of his Kit Kat, and looking out of the train window as green streaks whizz by.

That must be Le Parc Naturel Régional du Perche.

So the TGV is not too far from Paris.

What does yours taste like? asks Saint Roley.

Try it, says Sartre.

No thanks, says Saint Roley. Just describe it.

Everyone stops talking to listen. How will an existentialist describe a Kit Kat?

Sartre is irritated, and not willing to give it much thought.

Like a failed dream of completion, says Sartre.

Just like mine, sighs Saint Roley.