Page 47 of The Square

The door is ajar. “Mr. van den Berg? Sir?”

A head is visible in shadow as I spring onto the mattress and pull the covers over me.

Liam continues snoring.

I slide the sheets to the side of my face just enough to see the head of the laaitie make its way into the room. Arno, I believe he’s called.

“Mr. van den Berg?”

Liam snores, loudly. And as he does, I move about under the sheets and make noises suggesting that I’m not going to be easily awakened.

“Mmmm,” I moan. Liam snores. It times surprisingly well.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.” Arno, half-whispers. “I was looking for—”

Liam snores very loudly and I toss in the sheets in concert.

Arno stops talking and begins backing out of the room.

Fok me, man. I cannot believe this might have gone over.

And just as I’m about to throw the sheets from me and count my blessings that the absurdity of this recent turn of events seems to have worked out in my favor…

Arno opens the door and reenters the room.

Fok die kak, man. Are you kidding me right now?

I continue peering from under the sheets as he steps into the space.

Liam snores. I rustle.

Arno makes his way toward the bed.

I had really, really hoped to make it through today without killing anyone. I truly had. But if Arno takes two more steps in this direction, he’ll be leaving me with limited options.

And then, at the very last moment before he lands at my bedside, he curves away from the foot, takes up the empty bowl of pap and wors, and makes his way back to the door. He pulls it open, steps into the hall, looks back into the room once last time, and closes it behind him.

Jesus. Christ.

If I read that sequence of events in a book... I would cry bull kak.

I cast the sheets off, make my way to the door, open it a crack to make sure he’s gone, and then close it again. Liam continues his symphony of sleep.

Goddamn it, man. This may well wind up being harder than I thought. And my next thought is… is it even worth it? Even if I do get free from here, what do I think I’ll do? I’ll still have to escape into London, find clothes, charter a plane, and then set about figuring out where Christine and Danny are. If they are.

And it occurs to me that that’s entirely the wrong order. The wrong sequence. The first thing I should be attempting to do is to determine if Danny and Christine are. Out there. At all. If they aren’t, then…

I should just determine if they are.

I dart back over to the bed, reach underneath, and start rummaging through the pockets of Rip van Liam. I find his mobile and retrieve it.

Several years ago, Christine, Danny, and I set up root numbers. Numbers that the three of us could memorize and that I would see to it were forwarded to whatever mobile devices we happened to be using. In perpetuity. That’s how I was able to reach Danny back on the plane from Cape Town. However many… weeks? Months?… ago that was. I took a gamble that it would still be active. And it was. And now, I have to take that gamble again.

I could reach out to Christine, I suppose. But when last I left them, Danny and I were on far better and less being-shot-at terms. I start to dial, but then think better of it.

I don’t know what kind of service Liam and the assembled crew here are using. Commercial, private, secure, unsecure, monitored… I have no idea. Calling is far too risky a proposition.

I choose to text.