9
Believ
The first light of dawn wakes me from a sleep that would have been welcome. The last few nights have been not only full of nightmares, but also far too short.
From one discussion to the next, the ghost kept me awake. He didn”t have to exert much effort; he”s captivating, and I”m particularly receptive. His words glide by, enveloping me in a spellbinding melody. The breadth of his knowledge seems infinite, despite the confusion that persists in clouding his mind. Although he retains no memory of what he experienced, he’s able to relate historical facts with amazing accuracy, in such detail that you would swear he had witnessed the events he describes.
So here I am, hanging on his every word, relieved to see him ward off the night and my tortured dreams, before being caught up by my exhausted human condition.
But that”s not all.
Between his all-consuming aura and the spacing of my missions, I feel numb, like a spectator of my own existence in a kind of in-between state, the consequences of which I”m unaware. Torn between two addictions. Torn between the ghost I feel closer to with each passing moment and the vocation that keeps me alive.
I stand up to get out of bed and immediately fall back down, overwhelmed by the dizziness that makes the room spin around me.
“What”s the matter with you?” the ghost asks pleasantly.
“Vagal malaise,” I grumble in a hoarse, sleepy voice, unsure of understanding this weakness that could just as easily be the result of a fatal letting go.
With a little concentration, I manage to get to my feet and swallow a cup of sweet coffee. The sugary taste causes me to grimace in disgust, which doesn”t escape the ectoplasm, whose vapors spasm. Is he making fun of me?
“Are you okay? You”ve never had hypoglycemia?”
No sooner have I finished formulating my sentence than I realize my clumsiness. He”s probably been a victim like most people, but like everything else, he”s forgotten it.
He frowns before evaporating, sulking. Decidedly, in addition to being touchy, he”s a tad proud. And what if he had once been one of those insufferable, unjust kingpins I abhor? Why should I help him?
You”re out of your mind, poor thing! If you”d been a saint, I wouldn”t say so, but frankly, I don”t see what gives you the right to judge him! Especially since it”s all just wild speculation!
Okay. If I start lecturing myself, we”ll hit rock bottom.
“That”s it! Stop your whims; we have to infiltrate the morgue today.”
He reappears as he disappeared, a sign that he”s never really far away, and gives me a devastating smile that makes me melt in spite of myself.
“Ah, here”s some interesting information at last.” He chuckles, obviously impatient.
The advantage of being in the middle of nowhere is that the authorities are grouped together in central and adjacent posts. So, I don’t have to look very far to find the morgue where my stiff was taken, although I can only speculate, since I couldn”t find anyone to confirm it.
After about twenty minutes on my bike, I arrive at the ugly modern building that stands out in an industrial zone on the outskirts of town. While the surrounding area has the picturesque charm of an old-fashioned village, this place gives the impression of a glass-and-steel blockhouse. I deduce that the morgue is in the basement, unless they”re planning to steam the bodies.
The first problem: getting into the building undetected will be no easy task. A flock of police officers roam the parking lot, heralding an even greater number inside. As for wandering the corridors in search of the lower floors and the fridge, that”s out of the question.
“It”s swarming,” says my customer, concerned.
“We need a plan.”
Obviously, we can”t just jump into the lion”s den without having a story to tell when we”re caught. But which one?
“How about pretending to be a cleaner?”
“Have you looked at me? No one will believe it for a second. Besides, I don”t even have an access card!”
“Go to the reception desk,” he encourages me pragmatically.
“You”re out of your mind, I tell you!”
“Are you all right, miss?” a uniformed stranger interrupts.
Just what we need! An agent strides toward me.
“Yes, I”m new. I”m new. Well, I”m not. I”ve been sent to replace a colleague.”
He stares at me uncomprehendingly.
“’For housecleaning,” I explain, before giving him a smile that is as hypocritical as it is radiant.
“Ah!”
He gives me a surprised look, then fixes his eyes on my motorcycle.
“Nice bike! It”s the first time they’ve sent a biker,” he raves, clearly interested in my unusual appearance.
While this detail is likely to be my key to success, it will also be my undoing, as he”ll remember it.
“I”ll accompany you.”
Now I”m stuck.
I give the ghost a confused look, which the cop doesn”t seem to notice, and follow him inside. He stops at the reception desk and calls out to his colleague.
“Look what I”ve found,” he says. “A replacement for the cleaning. You’ve got the info for her badge?”
The young cop gives me an embarrassed smile and plunges into watching his screen. His frantic search makes him more and more livid, as if he”s blaming himself for not finding the necessary accreditation to let me wander around the building. Poor guy, if he only knew...
“I don”t think so,” he admits feverishly. “I”m sorry, miss, but I can”t let you in without an official document.”
His colleague glares at him, urging him to continue, despite his jerky breathing.
“Can I ask you to wait here?” he asks, pointing to the deserted waiting room for civilians.
“Would you like a coffee?” offers the heavyweight, under the saucer-like gaze of the teller, who seems unaccustomed to such attentions.
“I”d love to, but I”d rather have a cup of tea with a splash of milk, if you have it,” I say, in a hurry to get rid of him.
He freezes for a moment, unsure whether he can comply with my request, before racing off in the opposite direction.
I sit down on the chair opposite the door to keep an eye on the comings and goings before disappearing.
“Hey!” I murmur in a sort of shouted whisper that makes me realize that calling a stranger without knowing his first name is as impossible as feigning impassivity under pressure. “The ghost!”
“At your service,” he replies, striding unobtrusively past the room”s glass walls.
“We”ll have to be quick. Have you located the morgue?”
He nods, a mischievous gleam in his emerald eyes.
“I”ll be right behind you.”
Following in the apparition”s wake, I run through the corridors. It”s still early and, despite what I had guessed, most of the police force must be in the parking lot for the shift change. We quickly slip into the stairwell and make our way to the second basement.
The morgue is there, but it’s rendered inaccessible by an electronic door with a sealed lock.