‘Ah. Here he is,’ a familiar, deep rumbling voice said on the other side of the room.
Elvis opened his heavy eyelids and waited patiently until his brain slowly made sense of his surroundings. The room was overly bright and austere. There were several scents on the air. A medicinal smell of cleaning fluid, unwashed skin, oranges and cabbage. The sound of medical machinery in the background, bleeping. A Tannoy announcement somewhere further away that Dr Awaad should report to the paediatric ward.
He was in hospital. Was he with his mother?
Trying to turn, he realised he was in a neck brace. He was the patient. Not her. The muscles in his lower back were on fire. His bottom was almost entirely numb. The tingling in his toes reminded him he was cold. Swallowing was agony.
‘I—’
The words wouldn’t come. He smacked his lips until a redhead appeared by his side, holding a glass of water, trying to position a straw on his tongue. The smell of cabbage came with her. Her signature scent. Good old Marie.
‘Here you go. Have some of this,’ she said, smiling. ‘I brought you a cake. I know you don’t like cake, but I baked it myself. And if you don’t like that, I got you a twelve-pack of crisps.’
He took a tentative sip. Realised he was parched. Then, drained the glass, though the water scratched like shards of broken glass on the way down.
‘You had us all worried for a minute there,’ the rumbling voice said.
A tall figure loomed behind Marie. Long and lean and topped with a shock of white hair. His face came into focus. Unsmiling. Large hooded grey eyes framed by the dark bows of his eyebrows.
Elvis winced by way of greeting. ‘It hurts everywhere,’ he said, his voice cracking.
‘I’ll ask the nurse to give you more painkillers, shall I?’ Marie asked. She stood, scraping her chair on the vinyl floor. Left the room, reaching up and patting Van den Bergen’s shoulder as she did so.
Van den Bergen took a seat, folding his long frame so that he would fit by the bedside. Elvis relished the fatherly presence. Wished his mother was there to comfort him.
‘Do you remember anything?’ Van den Bergen asked, leaning forwards so that Elvis didn’t have to move his head to see him clearly.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘There were some guys in an alleyway. They went after my informant and then came for me. They knocked me out. Next minute, I’m in a warehouse and …’ He allowed the terrible memories to flood through him like fast-acting poison. Wishing he could unthink those thoughts. When the tears came, he had no energy or inclination to stem their flow.
‘We’ll get you counselling, Dirk,’ Van den Bergen said, patting his hand. ‘You don’t have to talk about it now.’ He reached into his cardigan pocket and brought out a blister pack of some medication or other. Popped two bright red pills into his hand and swallowed them down with a gulp of Evian from a vending machine bottle. ‘And that bastard Stijn Pietersen has been silenced for good. He’s back behind bars, thanks to George and her dad. He’ll go down and stay down, this time. Even the most expensive brief in the world won’t get him off. But there is something I need to tell you, I’m afraid.’
Almost too weary to listen to his words, Elvis started to drift off to sleep. He registered the mention of his mother but that was all. Opened his eyes again, sensing somebody was in the room apart from Van den Bergen.
‘Did you hear any of what I just said?’ Van den Bergen asked.
‘Eh?’ Elvis smiled at the handsome Arne, who was now standing at the end of his bed, bearing a bunch of really horrible orange and yellow flowers.
‘Your mother …’ his boss began, standing and offering a curt smile to the newcomer. He turned back to Elvis. Opened his mouth to speak. Seemed to think better of it. ‘It’ll keep,’ he finally said. ‘Main thing is, we got the bad guy. That’s all that matters. Live your life, Dirk. It’s spread out before you now like a feast. Eat your fill, son. And savour every mouthful.’