hair quite grey, he is standing frozen, hands in his pockets, flustered by Camille’s frantic appearance . . .
“Did you see a man go past just now?”
The doctor takes a deep breath, struggles to recover his dignity and is about to stalk off.
“Are you fucking deaf?” Camille roars. “Did you see a man go past or didn’t you?”
“No . . . I, um . . .”
This is answer enough for Camille, he turns on his heel, jerks the door as though trying to rip it off its hinges, tears back downstairs and into the corridor, he goes right, then left, gasping for breath, there is no-one. He retraces his steps, breaks into a run when he suddenly has a nagging hunch (doubtless fuelled by exhaustion) that tells him he is going the wrong way: the moment such doubts creep in, your pace begins to slacken, in fact it becomes impossible to run faster. As he reaches the end of the corridor where it turns at a right angle, Camille crashes into an electrical cupboard. The door is seven feet high and plastered with lightning bolts and other symbols, all of which mean “Danger of Death”. Thanks for the tip.
*
The true art of a job like this is to leave as unobtrusively as you arrived.
This is no easy feat, it requires determination, concentration, vigilance and a cool head – qualities rarely found in one man. It’s like a hold-up: when things go wrong, it’s usually at the end. You show up with non-violent intentions, encounter a little resistance and unless you can keep calm, you find yourself spraying bullets and leaving carnage in your wake, all for want of a little self-control.
This time, I had a clear run. I didn’t encounter anyone, apart from some doctor loitering inexplicably in the stairwell, and I managed to dodge him.
I get to the ground floor, I walk quickly towards the exit. In hospitals, everyone is always in a hurry, but no-one ever runs, so when you walk quickly it attracts attention, but I’m gone before anyone has time to react. Besides, what is there to react to?
On my right, the car park. The cold air feels good. Under my coat, I keep the Mossberg clamped against my leg; no point scaring the patients now – if they’re in A. & E., they’re already in a bad way. Down here, everything seems calm, but I’m guessing that things are kicking off upstairs. That pipsqueak fucking cop is probably sniffing around like a prairie dog, trying to work out what happened. The little nurse isn’t really sure what she saw. And, O.K., maybe she talks to the other nurses. A gun? Are you kidding? You sure it wasn’t a heat-seeking missile? Maybe they tease her. You know you shouldn’t be drinking on the job! You been smoking crack again, girl? But then one of them says: all the same, you should maybe say something to the ward sister . . .
But by then, I’ve had more than enough time to get back to the car, start her up and join the queue of other vehicles leaving the hospital; three minutes later, I reach the street, I turn right and stop at the traffic light.
Now, this is a spot that might offer a window of opportunity.
And if not here, then somewhere close by.
All it takes is a little determination . . .
*
Camille feels beaten, but he forces himself to run faster. He takes the lift, tries to catch his breath. If there were no-one else in it, he would pound in the walls, instead he simply takes a deep breath. Arriving back in reception, he calmly assesses the situation. The casualty department is teeming with patients and nurses, paramedics are constantly coming and going, a corridor on the right leads to an emergency exit and another on the left leads out to the car park.
There must be at least half a dozen routes by which a man could leave the hospital without being noticed.
Protocol would suggest questioning witnesses, taking statements. But who would he question? Who is there to give a statement? By the time his team arrived at the scene, two-thirds of these people would have been discharged and their
“Did you see a man go past just now?”
The doctor takes a deep breath, struggles to recover his dignity and is about to stalk off.
“Are you fucking deaf?” Camille roars. “Did you see a man go past or didn’t you?”
“No . . . I, um . . .”
This is answer enough for Camille, he turns on his heel, jerks the door as though trying to rip it off its hinges, tears back downstairs and into the corridor, he goes right, then left, gasping for breath, there is no-one. He retraces his steps, breaks into a run when he suddenly has a nagging hunch (doubtless fuelled by exhaustion) that tells him he is going the wrong way: the moment such doubts creep in, your pace begins to slacken, in fact it becomes impossible to run faster. As he reaches the end of the corridor where it turns at a right angle, Camille crashes into an electrical cupboard. The door is seven feet high and plastered with lightning bolts and other symbols, all of which mean “Danger of Death”. Thanks for the tip.
*
The true art of a job like this is to leave as unobtrusively as you arrived.
This is no easy feat, it requires determination, concentration, vigilance and a cool head – qualities rarely found in one man. It’s like a hold-up: when things go wrong, it’s usually at the end. You show up with non-violent intentions, encounter a little resistance and unless you can keep calm, you find yourself spraying bullets and leaving carnage in your wake, all for want of a little self-control.
This time, I had a clear run. I didn’t encounter anyone, apart from some doctor loitering inexplicably in the stairwell, and I managed to dodge him.
I get to the ground floor, I walk quickly towards the exit. In hospitals, everyone is always in a hurry, but no-one ever runs, so when you walk quickly it attracts attention, but I’m gone before anyone has time to react. Besides, what is there to react to?
On my right, the car park. The cold air feels good. Under my coat, I keep the Mossberg clamped against my leg; no point scaring the patients now – if they’re in A. & E., they’re already in a bad way. Down here, everything seems calm, but I’m guessing that things are kicking off upstairs. That pipsqueak fucking cop is probably sniffing around like a prairie dog, trying to work out what happened. The little nurse isn’t really sure what she saw. And, O.K., maybe she talks to the other nurses. A gun? Are you kidding? You sure it wasn’t a heat-seeking missile? Maybe they tease her. You know you shouldn’t be drinking on the job! You been smoking crack again, girl? But then one of them says: all the same, you should maybe say something to the ward sister . . .
But by then, I’ve had more than enough time to get back to the car, start her up and join the queue of other vehicles leaving the hospital; three minutes later, I reach the street, I turn right and stop at the traffic light.
Now, this is a spot that might offer a window of opportunity.
And if not here, then somewhere close by.
All it takes is a little determination . . .
*
Camille feels beaten, but he forces himself to run faster. He takes the lift, tries to catch his breath. If there were no-one else in it, he would pound in the walls, instead he simply takes a deep breath. Arriving back in reception, he calmly assesses the situation. The casualty department is teeming with patients and nurses, paramedics are constantly coming and going, a corridor on the right leads to an emergency exit and another on the left leads out to the car park.
There must be at least half a dozen routes by which a man could leave the hospital without being noticed.
Protocol would suggest questioning witnesses, taking statements. But who would he question? Who is there to give a statement? By the time his team arrived at the scene, two-thirds of these people would have been discharged and their
Similar Books
