Pierre

by Primula Bond

  PIERRE

  Primula Bond

  Copyright

  Mischief

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.mischiefbooks.com

  An eBook Original 2015

  Copyright © Primula Bond

  Cover images: iStock

  Primula Bond asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780008173524

  Version: 2015-12-21

  Dedication:

  For the boys in my life

  They know who they are

  ‘Can the Cushite change his skin, or a leopard his spots? If so, you might be able to do what is good, you who are instructed in evil.’

  Holman Christian Standard Bible

  ‘A person is “hors de combat” if:

  (a) he is in the power of an adverse party;

  (b) he clearly expresses an intention to surrender; or

  (c) he has been rendered unconscious or is otherwise incapacitated by wounds or sickness, and therefore is incapable of defending himself;

  provided that in any of these cases he abstains from any hostile act and does not attempt to escape.’

  The Geneva Convention

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  More from Mischief

  About the Publisher

  INTRO

  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

  ‘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 childhoo
d 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.

  In the main photograph a dark man is standing centre stage, dressed in the black frock coat, floppy white collar and dandyish ribbon tie of Toulouse-Lautrec and other debauched artists. He’s motionless, in sharp focus. His eyes are trained steadily on the camera despite the kaleidoscope of movement whirling around him, burlesque dancers in a blur of lace and feathers, high-kicking legs, outstretched arms, frilly knickers, grinning red mouths. It’s highly stylised, the female dancers reminiscent of the ballerinas of Degas, the males and the stage design recalling Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge in Paris during the fin de siècle era.

  Photographs by Serena Folkes.

  Those black eyes are burning into the lens, burning through to the photographer. To the viewer. They may not be clouded with pain and drugs in this picture, but they’re the same eyes that opened and looked at me, all too briefly, in room 202.

  ‘I’m not sure I should have authorised those interviews, trusted broadsheets or not.’ Nurse Jeannie interrupts my thoughts, making me jump. She is rushing down the corridor, adjusting her breast watch and the neat row of pens in her pocket. ‘Mr Levi’s absolutely exhausted. He’s a little more communicative, but mostly to grumble. Dr Venska and I are concerned that all this attention might set him back.’

  ‘You look pretty knackered yourself,’ I tell her, flicking the magazine into my basket of clean towels. I busy myself lifting a pile of Dr Venska’s files off the spare chair. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off for a moment?’

  ‘Between you and me, I’m quite high on all the excitement.’ Nurse Jeannie eyes the chair longingly, but remains leaning across the shelf above me. ‘But yes, I am tired. So, as most of the others are on other duties this morning, how about you help me get him ready for the day?’

  I sit upright, still holding the files. They still feel suspiciously flimsy. ‘Really? I’m going to meet the mysterious man in room 202 at last?’

  ‘Not so mysterious, Rosa. Don’t deny you’ve managed a few sneaky peeks at him during your night shifts.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘How do you know that?’

  Nurse Jeannie points up at a neat little camera screwed to the ceiling. At the series of identical cameras, angled at intervals down the corridor.

  ‘Our clients pay a premium for guaranteed security, Rosa. Which is why we try to call them clients, or guests, rather than patients. So we make it our business to know pretty much everything that goes on within these walls.’

  Heat spreads up my throat and into my cheeks. At least the CCTV cameras aren’t inside the rooms. At least they can’t read my mind. Can’t read the thoughts I have of awakening that particular client, like the Sleeping Beauty, with love’s first kiss on those firmly closed lips.

  ‘I’ve just, I’ve just been checking on him, Nurse. These summer nights –’

  Nurse Jeannie smirks. ‘You about to break into that song from Grease?’

  I hesitate. I have to prove that I’m trustworthy.

  ‘He often requests the garden doors to his room be left open. Sometimes when I’m taking a break outside he calls out.’

  ‘Don’t look so anxious, Rosa. You’re not doing any harm. But it’s best you put away any ministering-angel notions. He’ll more than likely ignore you.’ Nurse Jeannie rubs at her closely cropped hair. ‘By the way, you had the right to know the bare facts about his history but remember, discretion is our priority, even for part-timers.’ She leans closer over the desk. ‘Unless they’re having a baby, or dying, it’s top secret why our clients come here.’

  ‘Understood, Nurse Jeannie.’ I tug at the white plastic belt I have buckled round my waist to try to make the sack-like uniform fit me better, but all it does is bunch the fabric and make my breasts and hips look enormous. ‘So what’s our mission?’

  ‘Well, as you’ve undergone the appropriate training, we’ll give him a wash. Most of them look forward to being bathed like babies, but our man in room 202 doesn’t like it. He’s obsessive about hiding his old scars, which is odd, as he doesn’t seem to care about his new injuries. However, as you know, cleanliness and hygiene are essential for every resident, no matter how grand they are. It’s the one time when we can treat them all the same. No arguments.’ Nurse Jeannie raises her arm to knock at the door. ‘Oh, and take the belt off, Rosa. It’s not a regulation accessory.’

  I undo the belt, leave i
t on my chair. I smooth down the frumpy uniform, but it’s wrinkled and sweaty where it’s been cinched round my waist. No time to sort it out, or change. I pick up the basket of towels, slide the magazine under the top one.

  Jeannie opens the door and pushes me in ahead of her.

  ‘Mr Levi? I’d like to introduce you to our newest recruit, Rosa Cavalieri. She joined us about the same time as you did. Before that she was living in Rome. Not sure why she would leave such a beautiful city but – well, between you and me I’m guessing it’s to do with a broken heart.’

  ‘Nurse Jeannie, I told you that in confidence! Mr Levi doesn’t want to hear a load of crap about me!’ I put the basket of towels down and fiddle with the metal tab of my zip. ‘I thought you said discretion was our top priority?’

  There’s a creak from the shadowy bed and what sounds like a snuffle of laughter. But somehow I doubt that’s possible. Not after Nurse Jeannie has painted a picture of this patient as a cross between the Elephant Man and Hannibal Lecter.

  ‘Just trying to inject some personal touches into the proceedings, Rosa.’ Nurse Jeannie steps over to the other side of the bed. ‘I believe you’re earning some extra pennies here two or three days a week while you – what’s your other job, Rosa? Waitressing, was it?’

  ‘Something like that. I do evening work. In a bar.’ I run the zip up and down beneath my throat. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate by telling you any more about it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘See? She’s perfect for our purposes. A hard worker. And discreet to the death.’ Nurse Jeannie’s brusque Scottish accent melts a little. ‘So we decided to throw her in the deep end and give you a lovely scrub down, Mr Levi. I hope you don’t mind.’

  There’s no answer. Maybe he’s passed out. It’s boiling in here. It’s one of the hottest July days we’ve had but the occupant of room 202 has the curtains pulled and, from the lack of traffic noise, the windows shut. Perspiration prickles along my scalp but at least my hair isn’t catching in my eyes and sticking in tendrils to my neck.