steps and pops her head around the door of room 224. The woman in the room cries all the time; every time the nurse comes in she is in tears, running her fingers over her face, following the line of her lips. She covers her mouth when she speaks. Twice, the nurse found her in front of the bathroom mirror, though she barely has the strength to stand.
But still, she thinks as she leaves the room, worried now, what could the man have had under his raincoat? It looked like a broom handle, in the split second when his coat fell open, there was a glint of metal, of cold steel. She tries to think of something else, something that might be mistaken for a shotgun barrel. A crutch?
This is what she is thinking as the policeman bursts through the doors at the far end of the corridor, the little officer who spent all afternoon sitting with the patient – no more than five feet tall, his handsome face is grave, unsmiling. He rushes past like a lunatic, almost knocking her over, jerks open the door to room 224 and dashes inside. He looks as though he is about to throw himself on the bed.
“Anne, Anne . . .” he yells.
*
The way he’s acting makes no sense, thinks the nurse, he’s a policeman, but you’d think he was her husband. The patient seems very agitated. She shakes her head wildly, raises her hand to ward off the torrent of questions: stop yelling.
“Are you O.K.?” the policeman whispers over and over. “Are you O.K.?”
I talk to him, try to keep him calm. The patient lets her arm fall limply by her side, she looks at me. “I’m fine . . .”
“Did you see anyone?” the policeman turns back to me. “Did someone come into this room? Did you see him?”
His voice is grim, anxious.
“Did someone come into the room?”
Yes, I mean not really, I mean no . . .
“There was a man . . . he said he’d got the wrong floor, he opened the door . . .”
The policeman doesn’t even wait for me to finish. He turns back to the patient, looks at her intently, she shakes her head, she seems confused, bewildered. She doesn’t say anything, she simply shakes her head. She didn’t see anyone. She slumps back on the bed, pulls the sheets up to her chin and starts to sob quietly. All these questions are frightening her. The little cop is hopping around like a flea. I need to say something.
“Monsieur, I’ll thank you to remember that this is a hospital!”
He nods, but you can tell he’s thinking about something else.
“And besides, visiting hours are over.”
He turns back to me.
“Which way did he go?”
I pause for a split second and before I can answer he’s shouting.
“This guy you saw, the one who said he’d got the wrong room, which way did he go?”
I reach down, take the patient’s wrist and take her pulse. This is none of my business, what matters is the patient’s welfare. I’m not in the business of reassuring jealous lovers.
“He took the stairs, over by . . .”
Before I’ve even finished the sentence, he’s off like a shot, racing towards the emergency door, I hear his feet on the stairs, but it’s impossible to tell whether he is going up or down.
But the shotgun . . . Did I just imagine it?
The concrete stairwell echoes like a cathedral. Camille grabs the banister, hurtles down the first few steps. Then stops.
No. If he were the killer, he would go up.
He does a U-turn. The treads are not standard size, the steps are about half a centimetre taller than expected; ten steps and you’re tired, twenty and you’re exhausted. Especially Camille with his short legs.
Panting, he arrives on the third floor, where he hesitates, racking his brain, trying to decide what he would do. Keep going up? No – he would go back into the maze of corridors. Bursting through the doors, Camille crashes into a doctor.
“What the . . .? Look where you’re going, can’t you!”
A quick glance reveals a man of indeterminate age, his white coat freshly ironed (the pleats are still visible), his
But still, she thinks as she leaves the room, worried now, what could the man have had under his raincoat? It looked like a broom handle, in the split second when his coat fell open, there was a glint of metal, of cold steel. She tries to think of something else, something that might be mistaken for a shotgun barrel. A crutch?
This is what she is thinking as the policeman bursts through the doors at the far end of the corridor, the little officer who spent all afternoon sitting with the patient – no more than five feet tall, his handsome face is grave, unsmiling. He rushes past like a lunatic, almost knocking her over, jerks open the door to room 224 and dashes inside. He looks as though he is about to throw himself on the bed.
“Anne, Anne . . .” he yells.
*
The way he’s acting makes no sense, thinks the nurse, he’s a policeman, but you’d think he was her husband. The patient seems very agitated. She shakes her head wildly, raises her hand to ward off the torrent of questions: stop yelling.
“Are you O.K.?” the policeman whispers over and over. “Are you O.K.?”
I talk to him, try to keep him calm. The patient lets her arm fall limply by her side, she looks at me. “I’m fine . . .”
“Did you see anyone?” the policeman turns back to me. “Did someone come into this room? Did you see him?”
His voice is grim, anxious.
“Did someone come into the room?”
Yes, I mean not really, I mean no . . .
“There was a man . . . he said he’d got the wrong floor, he opened the door . . .”
The policeman doesn’t even wait for me to finish. He turns back to the patient, looks at her intently, she shakes her head, she seems confused, bewildered. She doesn’t say anything, she simply shakes her head. She didn’t see anyone. She slumps back on the bed, pulls the sheets up to her chin and starts to sob quietly. All these questions are frightening her. The little cop is hopping around like a flea. I need to say something.
“Monsieur, I’ll thank you to remember that this is a hospital!”
He nods, but you can tell he’s thinking about something else.
“And besides, visiting hours are over.”
He turns back to me.
“Which way did he go?”
I pause for a split second and before I can answer he’s shouting.
“This guy you saw, the one who said he’d got the wrong room, which way did he go?”
I reach down, take the patient’s wrist and take her pulse. This is none of my business, what matters is the patient’s welfare. I’m not in the business of reassuring jealous lovers.
“He took the stairs, over by . . .”
Before I’ve even finished the sentence, he’s off like a shot, racing towards the emergency door, I hear his feet on the stairs, but it’s impossible to tell whether he is going up or down.
But the shotgun . . . Did I just imagine it?
The concrete stairwell echoes like a cathedral. Camille grabs the banister, hurtles down the first few steps. Then stops.
No. If he were the killer, he would go up.
He does a U-turn. The treads are not standard size, the steps are about half a centimetre taller than expected; ten steps and you’re tired, twenty and you’re exhausted. Especially Camille with his short legs.
Panting, he arrives on the third floor, where he hesitates, racking his brain, trying to decide what he would do. Keep going up? No – he would go back into the maze of corridors. Bursting through the doors, Camille crashes into a doctor.
“What the . . .? Look where you’re going, can’t you!”
A quick glance reveals a man of indeterminate age, his white coat freshly ironed (the pleats are still visible), his
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