The whole concept of pain as simply the body’s way of alerting you to something which needs attention had been explained to Kees when he was a kid by a doctor with grey hair and a gruff manner which fooled precisely no one.
It’d been during the summer holidays, on one of those days perfectly balanced between the end of school far behind him and the start of the new term miles out in front, and he’d decided that climbing the tree at the end of their road was the only thing he wanted to do in life. It was an old oak, and held its branches with a lazy solidity, its bark pitted and rough like the surface of an alien world.
The thought of climbing it hadn’t developed over time, or at least not consciously. As far as Kees remembers, it came fully formed one day as he passed it on his walk to the bus stop, like someone had simply beamed the ready-made thought into his head. He’d stopped, looked up, and realized that one day he was going to sit in its higher branches, see what the world was like from there. He’d kept the thought secret, not telling anyone, and he’d been nursing it for weeks until he woke up one morning and knew that today was the day.
The hardest bit was getting onto the first branch, but as Kees walked towards the tree, which now seemed twice as big as it’d ever seemed before, he could see someone had parked a car right under the lowest branch. Before he knew what he was doing he was standing on the metal roof, not feeling quite safe, and hauling himself up onto the branch itself. From there it had been easier going, and he’d managed to reach about two-thirds of the way up before anything went wrong.
Which it did, in the form of a weak branch, hollowed out by insects or fungi or just cruel fate.
He’d been found by a passerby on the pavement, with scratches all over him and a leg which didn’t move.
At the hospital, lying on a stretcher with a doctor examining his leg, he’d complained of the pain, cried and said he just wished there was no pain in the world. The doctor had stopped what he was doing and told him that pain was simply a message, simply a way of the body saying, ‘Hey, I need a bit of attention here,’ and that in a world without it you’d end up dead very quickly.
And now, years later, with his leg feeling like a nuke has gone off in it, Kees wonders again if ending up dead wouldn’t be the most attractive proposition. As long as it meant the pain went away.
His leg has taken on a life of its own, throbbing with every heartbeat.
Though Kees hopes it’s not, because nobody’s heart should be going that fast. Should it?
He tries to sit up, propping his elbows against wooden boards, and looks around. He’d been brought here last night by one of Van der Pol’s crew who he’d seen around but never knew what he did. Now he knows.
The guy had laid him on the sagging sofa, given him a shot of something, then told him to get some rest.
Which was a fucking joke if ever he’d heard one.
Get some rest, like he’s Florence fucking Nightingale.
Only Kees isn’t laughing as the shot’s worn off and he feels like a nuke has gone off in his leg. Has he already thought that?
Fuck it. His mind’s not working properly.
He hears voices, movement, footsteps and a door scraping open.
‘This the one?’ a voice Kees doesn’t recognize asks.
‘I don’t see anyone else with their leg shot to shit, do you?’
‘OK,’ says the first voice, coming into view.
Kees can see he’s scared, youngish with short brown hair and a politician’s face, instantly forgettable. Probably a junior doctor who owes someone a favour.
The man snaps on blue gloves and starts unravelling the remains of the T-shirt Kees had tied round his leg the night before.
He tries to tell the man that he wasn’t in pain last night, so he doesn’t know why he is now.
‘Shock,’ the man says, working efficiently despite the fact he’s clearly scared out of his wits.
‘I’m going to have to do some work here,’ he says, having finally got the fabric off. He gently probes the wound with a finger. Kees sucks air.
Once finished, the doctor leaves Kees propped up on the sofa. The guy who’d brought him here has gone out, saying he’ll be back later. As he left Kees heard a key turning in a lock.
A TV across the room is on silent, a news show, words scrolling fast along the bottom. The view changes from the anchor to a street scene, a row of houses, one of them taped off with police tape.
Kees sits up a little straighter.
He knows the street – that’s where he and Bart had been two days ago. He looks around for the remote, finds it and hits unmute.
Now the screen’s changed again, the face of a man, black curly hair unmistakable. It’s the man they’d gone to meet.
‘… and sources close to the police are saying that the man shot and killed yesterday at his home in Amsterdam-Zuid by police was being arrested for the deaths of Dafne Kosters and Nadine Adelaars. As with any shooting, an internal investigation has been launched, though when the results of that will be released remains, as yet, unclear.’
Kees brain is in overdrive. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he needs to call Smit. Only he’s locked in a room, fuck knows where, and has no way of getting him a message.
Across the room there’s the noise of a key being inserted in a lock. The door opens and the man steps back in.
‘Boss wants to see you,’ he says. ‘Now.’