Splinter

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Glaucoma surgery, coloproctology, minimally invasive surgery, gastroenterology, oncology – Constantin had considerably expanded the spectrum of treatments available at his hospital in recent years. Originally designed as a facility for specialized surgical operations, it now housed a rheumatology department, a plastic-surgery department, and the obstetric wards to which Marc’s brother was now conducting him.

It took them a long time to climb the three flights of stairs. Benny seemed to be suffering from concussion as well as dragging his right leg, but Marc kept the pistol jammed into his back. His brother had deceived him long enough. First rejection, then his offer of assistance and reconciliation, and now, perhaps, he might be faking his injuries.

They reached the top floor of the flat-roofed building and opened the glass door leading to the wards.

A blue notice board said ‘Perinatal Centre’ in white lettering. The arrow pointed to the right.

‘Where are we?’ Marc asked as they set off along the corridor. The walls of the children’s ward he’d once inspected with Sandra had been hung with colourful pictures including photos of happy babies in the arms of even happier parents expressing their thanks to doctors and nurses. Wherever possible, an attempt had been made to mitigate the typical characteristics of a hospital, for instance with orange walls, hospital gowns adorned with appliquéd Disney motifs and soothing classical muzak in the passages.

Childbirth isn’t a disease, Constantin had always said, but his motto didn’t appear to extend to this part of the hospital.

‘This isn’t the delivery room,’ said Benny.

‘No?’

Marc looked at another sign: ‘OP III/Neonatal Intensive Care Ward.’

‘This is where the problem cases come.’

‘Good God, he doesn’t even know there are complications…’

‘What sort of problem cases?’

Marc’s question went unanswered, because at that moment a door straight ahead of them swung open and a hospital bed was wheeled through. And, on it, his wife.