The Janeites by Nicolas Freeling Read Free Book Online Page B

you. Proper ambush. Now what or who could be behind that, would you say?” They would have a lot of trouble believing Raymond’s saying that he simply didn’t know
    “Can’t help us at all? Pity, that. Materially, not a great deal to go on. Uh, Doctor, when you’re up and about, you’d have no objection to popping in to the office like, the Chef would want to have a word, d’you know?” Only too obvious that they didn’t believe a word he said.
    When he could see – two beautiful black eyes like that beast, a lemur is it? (all he needed was rings on his tail) – the angel was a great comfort. You couldn’t call her Pretty; the sort of ratty dark-blonde hair which looks dirty even when clean – and she was clean from hair to toenails to underpants – and a coarseness of feature, but never mind, she was kind and good, and she got prettier by the day. On the other shifts, nice girls all. Not up to his Angel though.
    The Professor dropped in for a chat with Dear-Colleague; alarmingly technical but kindly. Baldish when seen, with bits of fair gingery hair sort of strewn about; more to the point a marvellous pair of hands. The nose – no, his own – might look a bit aquiline, the cheekbones a bit slav, but good-as-new. The antrums and septum and suchlike dodgy affairs had not been as damaged as might have been feared. You’ve a good hard head, dear colleague; going to be right-as-rain. Consolidating nicely. Don’t worry about the headaches; they’ll wear off.
    Being short on next-of-kin means there aren’t any bloody visitors (the police left behind an odd mentholated smell). On behalf of the Company Paul dropped in. He doesn’t know Paul at all well; quietish chap, with interests in medieval philosophers, Giordano Bruno and the like, and Paul is not particularly interested in Dr Valdez.
    “Anything you want? Clean pyjamas or whatever?” He has always mumbled; his lips move in a funny way. “Books or anything?”
    “I’m fine. Lovely girl here got me a toothbrush.” Hospitals are accustomed to the living-alone, unperturbed by the homeless, the indigent, or the mad. Angèle had asked whether there were phone-calls needing to be made. Sensible-Silvia (who had just cleared the police off the doorstep) was professionally discreet; cancelled his appointments for the coming days; said nothing to anybody. Janine, subduing hysteria and filled with a humble domestic zeal, was spring-cleaning the flat, in a virtuous glow at getting herself filthy. Paul, being a historian, could never be surprised by anything that might happen. Thus, the Jews of medieval Strasbourg, whose notions of medicine were in advance of beliefs commonly held, had gone outside the town in the search for purer water. But they hadn’t reckoned with the accusation of poisoning all the Christian wells, and got massacred in particular nasty fashion. ‘Anything that can go wrong will’ is also a Jesuit tenet.
    It is very good to feel grateful for a network of solidarity. There you were; big-chief Hawkeye. But of a sudden – lost, in the middle of a desert. But you’ve got your modern-day convenience – your mobile phone, your credit cards, your little briefcase with the magic microchips. Except that you haven’t: nightmare. How are you to be rescued? The helicopter appears. It’s a big Deputy with a belly and expensive sunglasses, who bawls at you. ‘What the hell are you doing here? This is a forbidden area; this whole desert is radioactive; stand here over five minutes you’ve lost your balls. Papers! No papers? I’m putting handcuffs on you boy. Do your explaining to the Sheriff in Las Vegas; feel grateful if he doesn’t slam you in the drunk tank.’
    Shuddering Raymond opened his eyes, and there was Paul, placidly smoking a cigar and using a coffee-cup as an ashtray. Mate, if Angèle comes in here she’ll have your balls.
    “Needed, Paul, is a good Act of Contrition, is what we need.”
    Because of course Angèle did come in, and