“Only me.”
“Well, if you need somewhere urgent and you’re not fussy, try Bettaccom on Lancing Street. They cater to blue-collar workers like us.”
“I already have contacts. But I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Fair enough. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Is there overtime?”
His grin grows even bigger.
“There is always overtime. Come to the staff entrance at eight tomorrow morning. We’ll take your final details and fit you out with a uniform. Then I’ll arrange for one of the old hands to show you the ropes.”
He has a deceptively firm handshake, and while he continues to grin broadly, I nod my appreciation. By the time I leave,midday has just passed, and I decide to grab a coffee and a sandwich before starting my search for somewhere to live.
Finding a place to rent—a task I thought would be easy—turns out to be problematic. The first agency I approach informs me they have nothing available for two months, so I turn around and head out. In the afternoon, similar stories are given four more times. There are other options. Before I met Albert, I knew a couple of private landlords around King’s Cross station who rented shared rooms by the week. I don’t like approaching them as Gabriel’s friend, but I will not rule out the idea. I am ready to throw in the towel for today and head back to the hotel, grateful I had not checked out yet, when, as a final resort, I decide to try the agency my new boss recommended.
When I enter into an arrangement of empty desks and find the shop deserted, I am about to turn and leave when a frowning goth girl appears from the back with a cup of soup noodles in one hand. After thumping the carton down, she orders me to sit. Although she doesn’t appear particularly keen to help, she pulls out a map and shows me the location of three properties on their books. One available immediately is perfect, with not more than a fifteen- to twenty-minute walk to the hospital. Twisting around her computer screen, she shows me photos of a room with an adjoining bathroom then runs through the terms. I agree to a monthly arrangement, paying a month’s rent and a month’s deposit upfront. I could argue the extortionate downpayment, but I am guessing she would not be the one to negotiate with, and besides, I need this place. When I confirm payment in Euros, she calls up someone who I assume is the landlord, who agrees to let me have the keys immediately.
By eight o’clock that night, I have parted with the equivalent of two thousand pounds in cash, checked out of the hotel and moved my bag into the tiny one-bed box room. The space is smaller than my walk-in wardrobe in Eagle House, but the location and anonymity are priceless.
That evening, Romano sends me the attachment with a hint at the password.
ALPP#.
He does not have Albert’s imagination. The clue is a reference to Aksel Larsen’s passport number.
I lie back on the bed and begin looking the file over. The information is not much help, detailing Leblanc’s impressive academic record and brilliant medical career. I skip past long documents written entirely in French that I’m unable to decipher until stumbling upon a few that pique my interest.
A typewritten police report in French from the turn of the century accompanies a scanned newspaper clipping about protests in the heart of Paris. From the clashes with police, I assume the gatherings were illegal. One clipping shows protestors carrying banners with phrases like ‘avortement est un droit fondamental’ and ‘mon corps, mon choix’, which I assume to be pro-abortion. A young and angry Sylvie—circled in red on the clipping—is caught front and centre angrily pushing away a policeman twice her size. In another, she is in London protesting European participation in the invasion of Afghanistan. All public displays of dissent point to her time in medical school, as there are no further police reports. After that, there are letters of praise from charitable organisations for her voluntary work.
I toss my phone onto the bed and stifle a yawn. Last night’s operation for Romano had kept me awake, and today has been hectic. I know I should sleep, except the room feels unusually cold. When I reach for the room’s radiator beside the bed, the cast-iron casing is freezing.
After a steaming shower in the cramped, plastic cubicle, I dry off completely, throw on sleeping sweats and climb into bed. Staring at the ceiling, I feel something still out of place. Red and blue neon light from a store sign on street level bleeds past the slats of the room’s white blind. Closing my eyes, I press the heel of each hand into my eye sockets to block out any light. Lorenzo’s face floats into view, laughing at something I said or did. I consider sending him a message. Until I remember Romano’s caution. But the reality hits me hard how much I miss Lorenzo, his shared body warmth, and proximity. I miss Lorenzo’s heat more than I miss the Tuscan sun.
Gabriel would never let his emotions distract him from anything, but Gabriel did not spend the past weeknights in Lorenzo’s bed, allowing himself to be lost to lovemaking.
I take a deep breath and tell myself that the sooner I find out what Sylvie Leblanc knows—if she can talk at all—the sooner I can return to Monticiano and, more importantly, to Lorenzo.
With that plan crystallising in my mind, sleep finally comes.
Chapter Seventeen
Hospital
After almost five weeks of working days—with no word from Romano—my new boss, Ravi, considers me capable and responsible enough to handle nights. Until then, I’ve been restricted to basic tasks on the lower levels of the hospital, nowhere near Leblanc’s room on the sixth floor. He tells me that nights tend to be quieter, but when emergencies occur, there are inevitably fewer porters available to handle them. What could start as a peaceful shift can quickly spiral into a stampede, with everyone needing you at once.
The upside is that I am as good as invisible. Besides black trousers, Ravi has offered me a choice of uniform—a light-blue or white polo shirt worn beneath a navy-blue short- or long-sleeved pullover. I opted for the latter to cover my wrists. He’s also loaned me a pair of steel-capped boots which, he tells me, have saved him from broken toes on more than one occasion. Iwill often be called to wear personal protective equipment such as gloves, a facemask, and sometimes even Perspex goggles or a face shield when dealing with toxic items.
I also follow Mrs Bellacci’s advice and store a disguise in my bag, keeping an eye out for props that might come in handy. I find a set of light-blue scrubs with a tiny ink stain from a leaky pen on the breast pocket dumped into a laundry bin. Unfortunately, the doctor’s white coat I’d had my eye on had the physician’s name embroidered on the pocket.
‘You’re punctual,’ Ravi told me when I reported for duty on my first night shift, before getting straight down to business. ‘I like my guys to be punctual. As a newbie, you do not want to piss off your tired colleagues. As usual, when your assistance is called for, report to the scene in fifteen minutes, which means getting a shift on if you’re at the other end of the hospital. And don’t give the nurses attitude. They’re only doing a job. Security handles any nighttime incidents, but, as you know, we’re sometimes called upon to help. And we’re told not to talk to the patients, but take that with a pinch of salt. Many are bored and can’t sleep, and some don’t get visitors. They welcome a chat. The nurses won’t mind as long as they know you’re not taking advantage.’
I find comfort in the work, which is physical but not often mentally demanding. During the day shift, I speak only when asked a question and become a listening ear when my coworkers want to vent. Most of the time I listen to moans and groans about the job or their lives. Everybody seems to be working towards something else, their real calling being just around the corner. Stories tend to centre on lucrative financial schemes, joining family members abroad or breaking into the entertainment business. Ravi rolls his eyes after he comes to fetch me and chances to overhear a colleague’s rant. Accompanying me to another ward to move a patient, he tells memost of his team, those who talk up their prospects the loudest, are the ones who have been with the hospital the longest.
On the second day of working nights, I’m sent to clean up the secure areas of the sixth floor. My pass gets me through the double security doors, and, as Ravi instructed, I head to the nurse’s station first to ask the nurse on duty if there’s anything I can do or any priorities that need my attention. After that, I’m left alone to empty bins and tidy furniture along the corridor and in any vacant rooms.
He told me that occupied rooms are off-limits because we would be in deep shit if we woke or rattled any of those patients.