Splinter

65

‘Keep away from me!’ Marc yelled. He almost lost his footing on the icy ground as he got out of the car in his rubber-soled trainers. ‘Stay where you are, you two-timing bastard!’

There was a stench of petrol and the little car’s radiator fan was humming like that of a clogged vacuum cleaner. Marc gave up holding his brother at bay and stumbled up the driveway as fast as he could. It ended in front of a plain, flat-roofed building with two ambulances parked outside. Unlike Bleibtreu’s establishment, the Senner Clinic did not spend its private patients’ money on fancy architecture or interior decoration. Constantin invested it in ultra-modern equipment and well-trained staff, so the entrance differed little at first sight from that of a public hospital: an aluminium reception desk, a kiosk with the obligatory newspaper racks and bookstall, a big noticeboard beside the lifts and, in the background, the entrance to the visitors’ cafeteria.

Where to now? Where should I go?

Turning round, Marc bumped into an empty wheelchair left there by a young male nurse, who was chatting with the commissionaire. He only saved himself from falling over by grabbing the reception desk.

‘Where is he?’ he shouted, brandishing the automatic. The nurse turned pale and shrank back, hugging his clipboard. A commotion broke out behind Marc. He heard shouts, hurried footsteps, raised voices. Doors banged and cold air streamed in from outside, but none of this was happening in his world.

‘Constantin Senner – where’s he hiding?’

The commissionaire, a thickset man with bloodshot eyes and a triple chin, threw up his arms and trundled his swivel chair swiftly backwards as if he could lessen the impact of a bullet if only he put enough distance between himself and this demented gunman. He opened his mouth, trembling, but couldn’t get a word out. He was as silent as the hospital’s endless-loop publicity film, which was running ad infinitum on a plasma screen just above their heads.

‘Where?!’

‘In theatre,’ the commissionaire croaked eventually. He mopped his moist forehead with the sleeve of his cheap blue uniform. ‘Number 3, third floor.’

‘Okay, now call the police, understand? Until then, I won’t… Hey, what’s that?’

Marc broke off and looked up – at his father-in-law. The promotional video depicted Constantin showing a prospective patient’s family around the hospital. He was convincing the happy group – and, by proxy, the viewer – of the advantages of private treatment.

Marc blinked nervously.

The young wife and laughing child were complete strangers to him. Not so the actors playing the husband and grandfather. The latter, who was just admiring an operating theatre, had introduced himself to Marc as Professor Bleibtreu, and the former liked to be shackled to iron bedsteads in cellars. The video suddenly showed a sturdy male orderly pushing a grey-haired patient into the cafeteria in a wheelchair. It wasn’t the first time Marc had seen either man. The one in the wheelchair had passed him a message from his late wife in the guise of a tramp. As for the lanky orderly, his face had seemed familiar to Marc last night, when he refused to let him into ‘The Beach’. He probably knew the actor from other television commercials.

‘It isn’t what you think.’

Marc spun round and looked into his brother’s face. Benny was cautiously approaching him, favouring his left leg.

‘Beat it!’ The automatic swung in his direction.

‘Put that gun down and let me explain.’

‘No, get lost!’

They were now on their own in the lobby. Anxious faces were pressed against the glass doors flanking the reception area and several people were jabbering excitedly into their mobile phones.

‘Please. I’ll take you to Sandra.’ Benny hobbled towards him with his arms outstretched. ‘Please,’ he implored again, in a voice drained of emotion.

Marc gulped and ran a hand over his face. His legs started to tremble and he felt sick. He was so exhausted he could hardly hold the pistol straight.

‘You’re lying,’ he said, in tears now.

‘No,’ said Benny. ‘Come on, there’s still time.’