and he felt almost afraid to move, as if he was breaking some sort of unwritten law between the healthy and the sick. But he knew he would just lie awake for hours if he stayed in bed. He had nothing to worry about. Mrs Jones was certain that Scorpia was no longer a threat. He was almost tempted to leave the hospital and catch the night bus home.
Of course, that was out of the question. He couldn’t go that far. But he was still determined to reach the main reception with its sliding glass doors and—just beyond—a real street with people and cars and noise and dirt. By day, three receptionists answered the phones and dealt with enquiries. After eight o’clock there was just one. Alex had already met him—a cheerful Irishman called Conor Hackett. The two of them had quickly become friends.
Conor was sixty-five and had spent most of his life in Dublin. He’d taken this job to help support his nine grandchildren. After they’d talked a while, Alex had persuaded Conor to let him go outside, and he had spent a happy fifteen minutes on the pavement in front of the main entrance, watching the passing traffic and breathing in the night air. He would do the same again now. Maybe he could stretch it to half an hour.
Conor would complain; he would threaten to call the nurse. But Alex was sure he would let him have his way.
He avoided the lift, afraid that the noise of the bell as it arrived would give him away. He walked down the stairs to the first floor, and continued along a corridor. From here he could look down on the polished floor of reception and the glass entrance doors. He could see Conor sitting behind his desk, reading a magazine.
Even down here the lights were dimmed. It was as if the hospital wanted to remind visitors where they were the moment they came in.
Conor turned a page. Alex was about to walk down the last few stairs, when suddenly the front doors slid open.
Alex was both startled and a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be caught here in his dressing gown and pyjamas. At the same time, he wondered who could possibly be visiting St Dominic’s at this time of night.
He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Now he could watch everything that was happening, unobserved.
Four men came in. They were in their late twenties, and all looked fit. The leader was wearing a combat jacket and a Che Guevara T-shirt. The others were dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirts and trainers. From where he was hiding, Alex couldn’t make out their faces very clearly, but already he knew there was something strange about them. The way they moved was somehow too fast, too energetic. People move more cautiously when they come into a hospital. After all, nobody actually wants to be there.
“Hey—how are you doing?” the first man asked. The words cut through the gloom. He had a cheerful, cultivated voice.
“How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He sounded as puzzled as Alex felt.
“We’d like to visit one of your patients,” the man explained. “I wonder if you can tell us where he is.”
“I’m very sorry.” Alex couldn’t see Conor’s face, but he could imagine the smile in his voice. “You can’t visit anyone now. It’s almost one o’clock! You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you understand.”
Alex felt the first stirrings of nervousness. A note of menace had crept into the man’s voice. And there was something sinister about the way the other three men were positioned. They were spread out between the receptionist and the main entrance. It was as if they didn’t want him to leave. Or anyone else to enter.
“We want to see Paul Drevin.” Alex heard the name with a shiver of disbelief. The boy in the room next to his! Why would these men want to see him so late at night? “What room is he in?” the man in the combat jacket asked.
Conor shook his head. “I can’t give you that information,” he protested. “Come back tomorrow and someone will be happy to help you then.”
“We want to know now,” the man insisted. He reached into his jacket and Alex felt the floor sway beneath him as the man produced a gun. It was equipped with a silencer. And it was pointing at the receptionist’s head.
“What are you…?” Conor had gone rigid; his voice had risen to a high-pitched squeak. “I can’t tell you!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“We want the room number of Paul Drevin. If you don’t give it to me in the next three seconds, I will pull the trigger and the only part of this hospital you’ll ever need again will be the morgue.”
“Wait!”
“One…”
“I don’t know where he is!”
“Two…”
Alex felt his chest hurting. He realized he was holding his breath.
“All right! All right! Let me find it for you.”
The receptionist began to tap hurriedly at the keyboard hidden below the top of his desk. Alex heard the clatter of the keys.
“He’s on the second floor! Room eight.”
“Thank you,” the man said, and shot him.
Alex heard the angry cough of the bullet as it was spat out by the silencer. He saw a black spray in front of the receptionist’s forehead. Conor was thrown backwards, his hands raised briefly.
Nobody moved.
“Room eight. Second floor,” one of the men muttered.
“I told you he was in room eight,” the first man said.
“Then why did you ask?”
“I just wanted to be sure.”
