Un

Bertram Hervé had been lying on the bed for two days, staring out the window. It framed nothing but a nondescript white building and a small patch of what he took to be a continuously grey sky, which only changed when it threw down endless, torrential rain that tapped against the panes of glass like maddening fingernails. The nurses came, whispering platitudes into his ear as they went about their business, washing and changing him. It reminded Bertram of when he was younger, on one of the few occasions when he changed his daughter when she was an infant. At least Anna had been too young to know the indignity of what she was being subjected to; Bertram, however, was not, and with each wipe, the infantilisation grew, filling him with a rage that burned within him.

He shifted his head, moving his body slowly to get into a better position. The fog in his brain was now consuming him. He felt it descending, but he fought on, determined it would not win. Bertram Hervé was still alive, and the same electric sparks in his brain were there, just as they always had been, the ones that had sustained him in a career as a police captain for over forty years. There was one thing Bertram was sure of: he would not go without a fight, even though he was now in his eighty-seventh year. He was not one for wanton introspection, believing that trait was better suited to an altogether different type of man. Instead, Bertarm spent what time he could congratulating himself on a life well lived, even if he did not, most of the time, entirely believe it to be true.

He turned his head. His choices of view were limited, and when he grew bored with the window, the television, or the radio, he would focus on the same mould spot on the ceiling, convinced it was growing with each passing day. Occasionally, a nurse came in to move him, the usual comforting platitude thrown his way, but Bertram had seen it all before, enough to know what it truly meant. The message was clear: he hasn’t got long; make him comfortable and looking decent and presentable in case anyone bothers to show up to see him before he shuffles along into the afterlife. Bertram hoped his own message was equally as clear: I have no intention of going into the afterlife: I intend to live forever. I’ll outlive you all; you see if I don’t.

‘Papi?’

Bertram forced his eyes open, a light flickering in them for the first time that day. His grandson and namesake was standing in the doorway. ‘Bertie? Is that you?’ Bertram questioned, his voice wavering. Bertie was his grandson, the only family member to have followed in his footsteps into a career as a police officer. He reminded Bertram of himself in so many ways, from the thick eyebrows which refused to be tamed to the temperament of a man who meant business and could be your best friend one moment, your deadliest enemy the next. Bertie was the next generation, which gave his grandfather tremendous comfort that it would be in good hands, even if Bertie were a little impetuous and too quick to react for his liking.

‘Who the hell else would it be?’ Bertie laughed, throwing himself on the bed and snuggling next to Bertram in the same way he had been doing ever since he was a child.

‘You’re too old for that,’ Bertram said, wriggling unconvincingly. It felt good to have human contact once again. Bertie’s visits were infrequent, but Bertram looked forward to them immensely. ‘What are you wearing?’ Bertram demanded, noticing the white sneakers adorning his grandson’s feet. 

‘When I was a cop-’ Grandfather and grandson spoke simultaneously.

Bertram laughed. ‘You’re not too old for a clip around the ear, petit garçon.’

‘Sure, old man, I’d like to see you try,’ Bertie retorted. ‘How are you doing, anyway?’ he asked. ‘The nurses said you haven’t left your bed in two days. What’s that about?’

Bertram pulled himself into a sitting position, smoothing down his wispy white hair. ‘What reason do I have to do that? Where would an old man go?’

Bertie stood, extending his limbs. He was tall and athletic, unlike his grandfather, who had happily grown into a paunch at a similar age, with overlong light brown hair that fell across his face and a thin, pencil moustache he had been unsuccessfully growing since he turned fourteen. Bertie had grown up worshipping the never-present and ever-working grandfather who would come home chewing tobacco and extolling tales of his latest escapades, which usually involved ensuring that some madman or other was finally locked up. The tales were often victorious, peppered with a splattering of exaggeration, but Bertie hung on every word and knew from an early age that the only future for him was to walk in his grandfather’s footsteps.

‘This place isn’t so bad, is it, Papi?’ Bertie asked, slowly turning around the small but ideally situated room. Somebody had placed a table and chair in front of the patio doors, which opened onto a small veranda. Indeed, there wasn’t much of a view, but this was Paris, after all. Real views came with exorbitant prices, and the Hervés were not rich. Indeed, Bertram’s police pension did not cover the monthly cost of the room.

After the death of his wife Ada, Bertram suffered a stroke, from which he recovered, but his children had decided for him that he could no longer live alone. Bertie’s mother, Anna, Bertram’s eldest child, now lived in Italy and rarely returned to France, nor did Bertram’s son, Fritz, who had made his home in the United States. As the only grandchild, Bertie was the only family member Bertram had close at hand, and as a junior lieutenant in the police force, there were few spare funds to give his grandfather a better place to live.

As if reading Bertie’s mind, Bertram said: ‘There’s nothing wrong with the place if you’re of the mind capable of dealing with it. For me, all I see is people in the queue for death, and I’m just not cut out for it. It’s just-’ He trailed off as if exasperated with himself, ‘Well, here is a good example: Tonight, there will be jelly for dinner and bingo for afters. Tomorrow, an outdoor visit to a local flower market is planned. The day after, we can choose to make pottery pots.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not cut out for any of that, nor am I cut out for spending my afternoons in a day room playing gin rummy or watching some dire black and white war movie.’

‘You could try,’ Bertie said with little conviction, as if he knew better than to try and shower his grandfather with meaningless words.

‘I could try, but I fear I would only hasten my impending and not entirely unwelcome death,’ Bertram replied. He stopped, noticing the hurt expression on Bertie’s face, causing his own to soften. ‘Pay no attention to me; I’m just a grumpy old man with too much time on his hands.’ He clapped his hands together, realising it was time to change the subject. After all,  he did not want to scare off his only visitor. ‘Tell me: how are things with you? I hope you’re keeping the streets of the 7e arrondissement safe.’

Bertie smiled warmly. ‘I wouldn’t dare let you down after you spent almost forty years keeping bad guys off those streets.’

Bertram surveyed his grandson carefully. ‘You have the air of a young man who has had little sleep, and yet here you are, visiting an ungrateful old coot. I recognise the heavy eyes. I have worn those bags myself far too many times, so tell me: what is it that troubles you so?’

Bertie hesitated before responding. He exhaled a breath that he’d been holding for days. ‘We have a murder, and it’s a pretty horrible one.’

Bertram raised a bushy eyebrow, tired eyes suddenly alert and sparkling with interest. ‘Tell me more.’

Bertie gave his grandfather a despairing look. ‘You know I can’t do that. And do you know how I know that I can’t do that? Because that’s what you taught me. I was only fourteen, but I remember the words clearly: Don’t gossip about what you do because loose lips cost lives.’

Bertram pouted. ‘And now you have finally decided to pay attention to me,’ he replied with only a half-disappointed tut.

Bertie sank onto a chair. ‘I should get back to the commissariat.’

‘How are you getting on with the new “wonder” cop?’ Bertram asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.

‘Captain Lenoir is fine,’ Bertie replied. ‘And she gets too much stick just because she’s a woman, and she’s young-’

‘And she just happens to be the niece of the Minister of Justice?’ Bertram interrupted.

‘As I said, Hélène is okay.’

‘Hélène, is it?’ Bertram asked with a smirk. ‘Back in my day, we wouldn’t be so familiar with our subordinates OR our superiors.’

Bertie laughed. ‘Well, things have changed since the dark ages. But again, Lennie is okay.’

‘Lennie? Lennie and Bertie, it sounds like one of those God-awful American cop shows they show on repeat here.’ Bertram said, his face moving into concern. ‘All the same, getting attached to a senior officer with baggage never ends well, my dear boy.’

‘It’s not like that at all,’ Bertie replied. ‘I guess I like working with her because she has a lot to prove, and I understand that because I do too. Working in your old commissariat is pretty daunting, especially when you’re still so respected-’

‘Am I? Moi?’ Bertram interjected with mock sincerity. He waved his hand. ‘Anyway, get out of here: go and save a life.’

Bertie’s mouth twisted. ‘Are you sure? You’ll be okay?’

Bertram picked up a remote control. ‘I’ll be better than okay; I will watch the news. I’d like to see what’s going on in the world. I may not be part of it anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. And if I have to watch another game show, then I will have to admit defeat and do myself in.’ He winked at his grandson. ‘Only kidding. I love my life. Who wouldn’t love such opulent surroundings and such a full and vigorous social calendar?’

‘Papi,’ Bertie said with an exasperated sigh before heading reluctantly towards the door. He hesitated before leaving. ‘I do love you, Papi, you know,’ he said earnestly.

Bertram smiled. ‘And I, you,’ he replied and meant it, despite the deep abyss he felt lost in.