And then all of a sudden Romeo was there in front of him, a flaming red burn across his cheek. Standing on the edge of the open area between the bike stands with his arms spread out, ready to risk leaping straight into the bicycle and knock him flying.
Time becomes most essential in a person’s life when none is left. Only then are seconds registered one by one, and right now Marco could feel them running out.
The city traffic was flowing just behind Romeo’s back, and the rapidly approaching Pico was catching up to Marco from behind. What now? He could ride directly into Romeo and bring him down with him, or else let the bike crash straight into the parking stands, in which case he would be thrown over the handlebars and into the path of an oncoming bus. But why not? At least it would all be over, he thought in this measured fraction of time, his face contorted with anguish and tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Help me!” he screamed, his voice resonating from the surrounding buildings. Rain-drenched faces turned toward him as his ankles grated agonizingly against the pedals and chains of parked bicycles before the full impact sent him somersaulting out into the street.
He heard horrified screams behind him and the squeal of brakes in front. Then he felt something hit him hard and blacked out.
–
“Can you hear me?” asked a voice he didn’t know. He nodded cautiously, but hadn’t the strength to completely open his eyes. Only when a hand stroked his cheek and the voice asked his name did he surface into reality.
“My name’s Marco,” he heard himself say from a distance. “Marco Jameson.”
“You understand Danish, then?”
He felt himself smile as he nodded. Then he opened his eyes fully and found himself looking into a face that was mild yet concerned. Had he just said his name?
“Can you feel your toes, Marco?”
He nodded. Yes, he had said his name. He shouldn’t have.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?”
He couldn’t give an answer. Over the shoulder of the paramedic, Romeo was staring straight at him.
“He’s my brother,” Romeo said. “We’ll take care of him. Our father’s a doctor. He’ll be here soon to pick him up.”
Marco looked pleadingly at the paramedic, shaking his head. “It’s not true,” he whispered.
The man nodded. “I think we need to get him checked properly at the hospital. He needs to be X-rayed, just to be sure.”
“Thank you,” Marco whispered again. “It was his fault it happened. His name’s Romeo. You have to phone the police right away, he wants to kill me.”
“The police will be here in no time, Marco. Just relax. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Witnesses are saying it was an accident. You weren’t looking where you were going,” the paramedic said as the circle of onlookers nodded their agreement.
And then Romeo was gone.
“I think I’m OK,” Marco said after a minute or two, drawing himself up onto his elbows. He need to see if Pico was still there lurking in the crowd, but he seemed to have disappeared, too, no doubt disinclined to be at the scene when the police got there. Marco felt the same way. He was an illegal immigrant, and the last thing he needed was to be nailed for stealing a bike, or anything else for that matter.
He saw now that they had laid his stretcher by the entrance to the Palads cinema.
“Did the bus hit me?” he asked the paramedic.
The peering faces smiled. Clearly it hadn’t.
“You can thank the bus driver for his quick reactions. Otherwise it would have been a different story,” said one of the onlookers.
Marco nodded. “I’m all right now. I’d like to sit up if I may.”
The paramedic hesitated, then nodded, extending him a hand as someone in the crowd applauded.
“I want to go to the toilet, is that OK? I can use the ones in the cinema here.”
Again his request was met with hesitation, but when Marco managed a broad smile and the paramedic checked to make sure the size of his pupils were normal, he received a nod and was allowed to get up.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said a second paramedic. “There’s a chance you might have concussion, or something even worse.”
Marco smiled again, as broadly as he possibly could.
“No, I’m completely OK. I’ll be only a minute, it’s just in there,” he said, pointing.
“All right, but listen,” said the paramedic in a serious voice. “We’ll be waiting for you here, so you come back out as soon as you’re done, OK, Marco?”
Marco nodded and gingerly got to his feet. Apart from his right knee, shoulder, and lower leg aching, there seemed to be nothing else the matter.
“Two minutes,” he said, proceeding slowly up the steps into the foyer with all eyes following him.
He scanned the area. To his left was a café and what looked like the entrance to the smaller cinemas. Diagonally to the left was the kiosk and the toilets, in the middle stood the ticket booth, and to the right lay the way to the larger cinemas. The question was, which way to go in order to get through to the far side of the building? Going through one of the cinemas would involve having to sneak past a ticket collector, then through the darkened theatre to an emergency exit. But could he be sure of coming out on the opposite side of the building?
He had no idea. He looked around the foyer again, sensing all too clearly that time was running out.
And then he noticed a faint shaft of light at the rear of the section beyond the toilets. He hobbled toward it. It was a glass door.
No doubt a fire door, he thought, in which case it would be permanently secured, its electronic lock releasing only if the fire alarm activated.
Still he drew the handle down and pulled hard. And suddenly there he was, outside the far end of the building, with Vesterport station straight in front of him. How lucky could he be? Without hesitation he limped on, across the street and down to the S-train platforms, waiting only a moment before the next train arrived, then riding the minute or two it took to the city’s central station, Hovedbanegården. He left by the exit to Tietgensgade, continuing on in the direction of Copenhagen police headquarters, trying to get a handle on what had happened and why.
Something must have gone wrong when the police had been to Kregme, for he knew now that they had been there. Zola must have turned the accusations away from himself and against Marco. Of course he had. So now, on top of everything else, Marco was also wanted for murder.
He felt himself tremble at the thought. Moreover, his knee, side, arm, and lower leg were aching badly. He was in a dilemma: he had to speak to the police, yet he didn’t dare.
Standing before police HQ, he was overwhelmed. The building was at once monumental and compact, with Roman colonnades that reminded him of some ancient fortress. No way was he going inside. The building would swallow him up.
He would have to wait until someone he dared approach came out.
–
After an hour of seeing no one but men in light blue uniform shirts with guns and a gait like militiamen, he was on the verge of giving up.
What now? he wondered, turning to leave the parking lot where he had been standing, when a woman emerged from the middle arch together with a tall, thin man who looked anything but dangerous.
Marco thought he looked like an office worker, watching them as they walked toward the place where he stood.
“You have to go the other way, Gordon,” the woman said to the skinny guy, pointing in the opposite direction. “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is down by Asiatisk Plads, remember?”
Now Marco recognized her. It was the woman Carl Mørck and the Arab worked with.
Marco withdrew behind a parked car.
“Listen, Rose, I just wanted to-”
“I haven’t got time, Gordon. A boy named Marco’s been located at the Palads cinema. The police arrived just after he’d gone inside, so they’re searching the place now. I’m heading over there and you’ve got an appointment, so you’d better hurry up.”