Pierre

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

INTRO (#ulink_031fdd6f-105a-5162-ac9f-5959ecdb2a89)

He has amazing eyelashes. Long, thick, and black. They fan out over his hollow cheeks when he’s asleep, which is most of the time. They’re like spider’s legs. And I mean that in a good way. I like spiders.

We’re forbidden to go into his room, which is precisely why I can’t resist. I mean, what’s a NO ENTRY sign and two muscle-bound bouncers barring a closed door if not a blatant invitation? That’s pure temptation. That’s an order just begging to be disobeyed. At least, it is to me.

The drugged stillness in there at first was absolute. And the whiteness. The white sheets. The pallor of his bruised, sleeping face. His arms are white, streaked with dried blood. The muscles are slack. In the first week or so his left leg was up in traction to treat the fractured femur, his bed crowded with pulleys and weights.

I wonder, when the poor guy occasionally wakes to a room with no colour in it except the redness of his own blood, if he thinks he’s dead?

I doubt he’s been aware of my little visits. He’s heavily sedated. He wouldn’t be able to flick away a fly if it landed on him. But poco a poco he’s swimming to the surface. Little by little, reluctantly or otherwise, that instinct for survival is kicking in.

After they removed the traction I sneaked in the back way as usual, through the open door from the garden to avoid his minders, and went to stand at the end of his bed. And his eyes opened. Those spidery eyelashes bristled, became a thorny protective hedge.

At first they seemed blank and unseeing, yet something was stirring beneath the surface.

They dropped shut again, but I know what I saw.

I’m not like Dr Venska, stalking the corridors in her tight pencil skirts and teetering stilettos, clutching her clipboard against her high, pointed breasts. She’s some sort of therapist. The others joke that it must be sex therapy, the amount of time she spends in his room. But the word on the ward is that Pierre Levi’s about as articulate as the Sphinx, and Dr Venska’s about as sexy as a stick of rock.

The notes she tosses into the filing tray after each unproductive session consist of just one word: unresponsive.

He may be unresponsive by day, but at night it’s a different story. I’ve heard his terrors, when you can hear his screams all the way down the corridor. They find him shouting or crying, wide-eyed, sweat drenching the bed as he recoils from something or someone who isn’t there.

So no, I’m no shrink. I’m not qualified to go around probing and analysing. But I do have a theory. I know that behind those beautiful black stubborn eyes lurks more than just pain and anger.

It’s fear.

After all, someone tried to kill him.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_557a2107-7c0a-5b16-b468-8fec15c0890f)

‘Only the most exclusive clients are admitted to the Aura Clinic, Rosa. Celebrities, aristocracy, oligarchs. Even royalty,’ Nurse Jeannie explained as she took me through the routines on my first day here. ‘But there was quite a commotion when the poor young man in room 202 checked in. Excessive even by our standards. He’s our only client ever to have been accompanied by the police rather than his own security detail.’

‘They bring security with them?’ I looked at the rows of closed doors hiding all those sick, secretive people. ‘So they’re paranoid as well as rich?’

‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’ She slowed her pace beside me. ‘Some of them have good reason to look over their shoulders, believe me.’

I pointed at the guestlist she was holding, matched the name with the room number. ‘Levi? I’ve read about him and his brother. Powerful players in the arts world. That’s an Eastern European name, isn’t it? Transylvanian, like the vampires?’

Nurse Jeannie smiled. Her nose wrinkles like a cheeky kid’s when she smiles.

‘Funny you should say that. He does have something of the night about him. You know, that impenetrable air of mystery and tragedy. And danger. That deathly pale skin, that black hair.’

‘Goodness. You sound a bit smitten!’

‘He’s not my type. But I’m sorry for him.’ Her smile faded. ‘That vampirical air took him to the brink of a career in film. By all accounts he used to be drop-dead gorgeous.’

‘Used to be? Why, what’s happened to him?’

‘It was a hit and run. He was over from LA on family business and his brother’s ex-wife drove straight at him. It’s possible it was a case of mistaken identity, but he remains under police protection until she’s caught.’

‘Christ. Does everyone in this place have such a dramatic story?’

Nurse Jeannie tipped her head towards mine. ‘Not unless you count plastic surgery and hair transplants as dramatic.’

We continued our progress up the corridor, past room 198.

‘So this Mr Levi, is he terribly disfigured, like The English Patient?’ I tried to peer at the notes she was carrying. ‘Or is he brain-damaged?’

‘Neither. His head scans are clear. There’s existing scarring over his torso from a childhood fire and he sustained a fractured pelvis and two broken legs from this latest episode, but there’s only temporary facial abrasions. The problem goes deeper than that. It says here that he seemed fine initially. Demanding the use of a phone as soon as he was out of Acute Admissions, sorting out some crisis in Morocco.’ Nurse Jeannie ran her pencil down his records. ‘But since he’s been referred to the Aura Clinic he’s stopped talking. So you see, most physical injuries, the outward signs, can be fixed with time. It’s the internal, invisible destruction that’s harder to heal.’

I glanced over at Pierre Levi’s door, at the hefty guard perched on a jolly yellow-moulded plastic chair that was too small. Someone had obviously instructed him to try to be inconspicuous by wearing a cheap suit instead of a uniform, but it wasn’t working. He and the gun holster that bulged under his arm looked totally out of place in these hushed, convent-like surroundings.

‘Maybe he’s naturally silent.’

‘Not by reputation. That’s the sad thing. You probably know that he was a renowned artistic live wire, creating these risqué shows full of music and dance and colour. And behind the scenes he was famous for his hot temper and even hotter girlfriends.’ Nurse Jeannie smiled brightly as the guard glared at her. ‘Dr Venska says he’s withdrawn. Assessing him is proving to be a tough ask.’

‘You mean she may as well try to spin gold out of straw?’

‘A great way of putting it, Rosa. Those fairy tales sprang from centuries of human experience, didn’t they? But yes. No one knows if he’ll ever be the same up here.’ Nurse Jeannie tapped at one raised eyebrow under her choppy sandy fringe. ‘The light has gone out.’

The glow of pleasure at my new boss’s approval swelled to unpleasant heat as we marched on. They’d kitted me out with a regulation white uniform, but although it was too loose the combination of nerves and synthetic material was making me sweat.

‘When will I meet him?’

‘Not for a few weeks, until he’s cleared for general access. Not until they arrest his attacker.’

* * *

But today’s the day I officially come face to face with Pierre Levi.

The madwoman who nearly killed him has finally been caught in New York. Apparently she was planning to perform a hat trick by harming both his brother Gustav and Gustav’s fiancée. There’s been a flurry of press interest over the last few days, resulting in raised levels of noise and activity, phones ringing, doors flinging open and closed, disrupting this normally hushed, secretive institution. The staff have got all hot under the collar, patting their hair, smoothing their white coats, dancing attendance on the high-ranking detectives and film crews.

My post at the nurses’ station filing notes and my other tasks such as scrubbing floors have made it easy to hover about trying to eavesdrop on what’s going on in room 202.

This morning, though, the fuss has died down. I’m early for once, and the wards are quiet. They seem deserted, though that’s just an illusion. There’s always someone within earshot of an alarm button. I get changed and as I settle at the desk to await instructions I spot the colourful cover of Wow! magazine, left on the shelf.

Not surprisingly, given all the brouhaha round here yesterday, it falls open at an article about Pierre Levi. There are brief details of the hit and run that landed him in here, the campaign of hate and the arrest in New York of this Margot Levi person, but the few mugshots and long-range pictures of stretchers, ambulances or police cars are far outnumbered by a series of bright, swirling photographs taken inside what looks like an old-fashioned music hall.

The title of the piece is: THE WAY HE WAS.