The Homeless Millionaire

The church bells started ringing on the stroke of midnight, a moment after we'd assembled by the tree that grew between the museum and the church. Those bells spooked me badly and Roch was spooked, too.

Michel calmed us down: he told us that all the churches in town were ringing their bells at midnight to commemorate the people who had died in the nightclub fire. We were standing next to the Church of St Andrew and St Paul and its bell was hellishly loud, but we could hear other, faraway bells ringing too, between the beats.

Roch said that he wasn't climbing that tree without smoking a cigarette first. I was very glad he'd said that and I think Michel was, too. We put the rope and the bags and backpacks we'd been carrying on the ground and lit cigarettes and smoked, holding them in cupped hands so that the glowing tips wouldn't show.

If anyone poked a head into the gap between the museum and the church, they'd have likely noticed us. But no one did, along the way I'd noticed that the streets were practically deserted, even though this was the summer's last long weekend. The nightclub fire and the resulting deaths had cast a sombre mood over the city.

Michel finished his cigarette first, and looked at us like a sergeant deciding which recruits were most likely to desert. Roch threw his butt down and ground it out with his boot and said:

"Okay. Just don't get drunk and rowdy while I'm away, eh?"

"You need a hand?" I asked. The nearest branch was more than six feet off the ground.

"A hand? I've got my Captain Fantastic boots. Just watch me fly up that tree." He turned away from us and stepped up to the tree and raised his right leg and kicked the trunk with the inside of his right foot, sticking the spikes into the bark. Then he jumped off his left foot and grabbed the branch with his right hand and he was up in a blink of an eye. When he was sitting on the branch, he leaned down and hissed:

"Watch the Human Fly perform. Ten dollars each, children under the age of twelve pay half."

Michel and I grinned nervously at each other.

"I don't have ten bucks on me, " I said.

"You wouldn't," Roch told me.

He began climbing the tree. He had a long way to go: we got a final glimpse of a dark shape oozing upwards, then he was hidden by the leaves. We listened to the noises—a creak, a rustle—and all the time I was dreading I'd hear Roch shout, followed by the thud of his body on the ground.

It didn't happen. After a small eternity I heard a soft thump, far above. Michel looked up and his face broke into a delighted grin.

"He's made it," he said.

I looked up too and tried to focus on the edge of the roof. I couldn't see a fucking thing.

"I can't see a fucking thing," I said.

"He's gone for the ladder. He'll be back. Now listen, you go up first. You'll haul up the rope." Michel slipped the coil of rope off his shoulder, and worked one of its ends free. He put the rope around my waist and began to tie a knot, saying:

"I'm going to tie the other end to the backpacks. Once you're up there, you'll haul them up. I'll come up after you."

"Fine," I said, although it wasn't fine at all. I pulled on the gloves Michel had given us earlier. They were made of cotton, and had patches of rubber on the inside for better grip. Somehow, putting them on made me feel more confident.

We stood in silence for a while, throwing anxious glances at the ends of the passageway between the museum and the church, and listening hard. From time to time cars passed, flashing briefly in the aperture between the walls; luckily there weren't any pedestrians. Then we heard new, faint noises coming from above: thumps and scrapes and soft curses.

We immediately fixed our eyes on the edge of the roof. A moment later Roch's head appeared, and we heard a soft whistle. Michel whistled back. All this whistling made me nervous; I wished they'd thought of a different way to communicate. Michel said:

"Watch out, here comes the ladder. Kick those dead leaves aside. Good. Here it comes."

It came down with a terrific clatter. It was an aluminium extension ladder with several telescoping sections, the last of which shot out straight at our upturned faces. One of ladder legs hit my shoulder before I could step aside. Michel grabbed the other leg, and we set them firmly on flat ground.

"Okay," said Michel. "Off you go."

I started climbing the ladder. I went as quickly as I could, but it felt like an eternity anyway. I didn't dare look up or down, I just kept my eyes on the next rung. Eventually I saw the roof trough—the gutter collecting rainwater from the roof—and heard Roch say:

"Mike, make sure you step on the roof and not the trough, it might break off. Give me your hand."

I did, and a moment later I was standing beside Roch on the roof. When I looked down, the ground seemed to be incredibly far away. Roch was busy untying the rope from my waist. He handed me the end when he'd worked it loose, and said:

"Hey. Grab this, and hold on. Okay?" He began to haul up the rope, while I stood behind him coiling it up. We had a slight problem getting the backpacks on the roof; they kept catching on the trough, making it squeak and rattle. Then we held the top of the ladder while Michel ascended with the sports bag containing Roch's shotgun slung across his back.

When he'd joined us, we hauled the ladder up and folded it and put it down on the roof. Then we all sat down and had a smoke, sizing up the situation.

There were several skylights scattered on the flat roof: triangular prisms with metal frames and glass panels. Right in the center of the roof a sheet of thick plastic covered the oblong hole left by the skylight that had been taken out for repairs. A sturdy metal bracket was fastened to the roof right next to that skylight, just as had been promised by Michel. He'd done his homework, and for the first time since it all started I had the feeling everything would turn out well.

We extinguished our cigarettes and tied the rope to the bracket and rolled up the plastic sheet, stopping several times to listen for sounds of any activity. But the dark abyss below remained silent.

Michel was the first to go down. He took out his gun and made a show of examining it; then he took out a bunched-up necklace of rosary beads, threaded it through the trigger guard, and hung the gun from his neck. He had one of those long flashlights that take five batteries; it had a leather strap, and he hung it from his neck too. Then he said:

"Okay, it's time for action, mes amis. I'm going down first. Keep hold of the rope: I'll tug on it when I've reached the floor. No talking, okay? Keep your traps shut even if you hear me fall and hit the floor. A single tug on the rope means everything's okay. Two tugs—freeze and wait until you get a single tug. Mike, you go next, and you'll take the backpacks. Roch, you go third, wait for the signal and don't forget the bag. Everything clear?

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound brave.

"Sure," Roch said.

Michel sat down in the skylight opening and grabbed the rope with his feet. Then he bent and caught it with one hand and let his feet slide down to the next knot. Roch and I had done a really good job on those knots, they were thick and evenly spaced.

It took Michel a long time a long while to get down; twice, we heard his metal flashlight knock against the gun. We each had a hand on the rope and felt it go slack when Michel reached the floor. After a couple of seconds there was a single strong tug.

I slung one backpack from each shoulder and sat down with my legs on either side of the rope and told myself this was going to be just like climbing down from that tree back at the lake, back in a different era. But in fact it was easier, because I wasn't carrying twenty pounds of stones on my back and there were no branches or twigs threatening to poke out an eye.

I went down really smoothly: I fancied I did it much faster than Michel. Roch had told me earlier that the skylight opening was located over a big picture viewing room, and it turned out to be much higher up than the branch we used for training. When I'd gone down twenty feet or so, I risked a look down and couldn't see a fucking thing.

I panicked a little when my feet failed to find the next knot and I was hanging on with my hands. But then I felt a light slap on my calf and looked down and saw Michel grinning at me. His head was about level with my knees.

I slid down onto the floor, congratulating myself and Roch on abandoning the original plan of tying a knot every two feet. Had we stuck to it, the rope would have been too short.

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness during the trip down, and when I looked round I could see the pale walls of a big room, at least fifty by fifty feet. A couple of big windows looked out on the street, letting in some light. Michel kept holding the rope: I heard rustling above as Roch began to climb down. He seemed to make a lot of noise, much more than I did.

The museum was as still as a tomb. The only noises were the rasp of the rope on Roch's clothes and the subdued hum of city traffic outside.

The moment Roch joined us, Michel whispered:

"Okay, time to split up. Roch, you come with me to look for the keys to the storeroom. Mike, you stay here. If a guard comes along and spots the rope he'll call the cops, and we don't want that. Here, take this."

I looked down at his outstretched hand and even though it was dark, I could see he was offering me a gun. It was a small, snub-nosed revolver. I put my hands behind my back.

"That wasn't the plan," I hissed. "I was to go with you, and Roch was to guard the rope. And I don't want a gun."

"Don't be silly. It's a starter gun, loaded with blanks. If a guard comes along and sees you or the rope, you'll need something to persuade him to shut up and stay still. Fire a shot, pointing it at the ceiling as if it was the real thing, then keep him covered. We'll hear the shot and come running and help you deal with him."

"The other guards will come running too," I hissed. "You're fucking mad. What do you mean, deal with him?"

"Tie and gag him. Don't worry, we won't hurt him. No one gets hurt, okay? When the other two come to see what's going on, we'll tie them up and gag them as well. That way we won't have to worry about walking into one of them any more. And one of them is sure to have the keys to the storeroom."

"Great," I whispered. "Just great."

"Don't you chicken out on us now, Mike. Take it."

He pushed the gun at me, and I took it. Roch was pulling out his shotgun from the sports bag; its twin barrels gleamed wickedly in the darkness. He didn't even glance at me, and I felt betrayed. I was about to lodge a new protest when Michel hissed:

"Fuck! The masks. We've forgotten the masks. It's time we put them on."

He got out three ski masks from one of the backpacks and passed them around. I pulled mine on, feeling like an idiot. Then Michel punched Roch lightly on the arm, and they were gone.

I was left alone, and instantly became frightened. I looked around: I could see the walls clearly now; I could even see the dark rectangular shapes of the pictures hung out on display. I tried to find a good spot to hide but the room was empty except for two viewing benches, each big enough to accommodate a bunch of people. Their backrests were tall enough to hide me from view if I squatted.

But the room had three entrances, and I quickly realized I'd always be in view of at least one entrance, no matter where I hid. In the end I crouched down behind the viewing bench that was closest to the dangling end of the rope. There was a tiny chance that if a guard did come along, he'd cross the room without seeing the rope. It all depended on where he would enter and exit. If he was busy watching his step, he could pass within ten feet of the rope without seeing it.

For quite a while, nothing happened. I couldn't even hear any traffic: I checked my watch. Its glowing hands showed me that it was nearing half past one in the morning. Almost a full hour had passed since Roch started climbing that tree! I would've sworn it hadn't been more than twenty minutes.

BANG! BANG!

I jerked and nearly dropped my gun. Gunshots! I heard faraway shouting, too faint to make out any words. I forced myself to get up and start moving in that direction, tiptoeing a few steps at a time, gripping that silly starter gun as if it was the real thing.

The shouting stopped, but I could hear voices that got stronger as I got closer. Then I heard Roch laugh and I felt my body sag with relief: everything seemed to be okay.

It was a while before I found Roch and Michel. I took a wrong turn once, and had to retrace my steps. Suddenly I heard steps and froze, gluing myself to the wall. A light shone in my face and Michel's voice said:

"There you are. Come on, we've been waiting for you. You took a hell of a long time."

"I got lost," I said shakily.

"Come on, there's nothing to worry about any more. Everything's taken care of."

"I heard shots."

"We ran into a guard and Roch got nervous and let fly from both barrels into the ceiling."

"He didn't shoot the guard?"

"No, just scared him to death. We've got all three tied up and blindfolded and gagged. The other two guys came to investigate, but there was no need to fire any more shots. They almost pissed themselves with fear. I'll need you to watch them, just in case."

"What about Roch?"

"He's coming with me. We know this place much better than you do. We'll collect what we came for and leave. We should be gone in an hour, at most. Come on."

I followed him down a couple of dark hallways and into the staff room. It was bleakly lit by humming fluorescent lighting that showed a door to the adjoining kitchen. There was bright red, crumpled candy wrapper on the table next to the door. I'd noticed something red the moment I entered the room, and instantly thought that it could be blood.

The guards were sitting on the kitchen floor. They'd been tied up and blindfolded and gagged. Roch was standing over them, wearing his mask and holding the shotgun across his breast. The kitchen light was on: it was a defective fluorescent tube that buzzed and crackled as if it was transmitting messages from outer space. I nodded to Roch; he nodded back.

Michel cleared his throat, and made a short speech in French to the guards. They listened to him meekly, nodding whenever he asked them to acknowledge something. They looked really stupid, blindfolded and gagged and sitting on the floor and nodding like that. They probably were really afraid they'd get shot.

It dawned on me that I was in the act of committing an armed robbery, even though the gun I held was fake. Armed robberies were punished with stiff jail sentences. Some armed robberies ended with the cops shooting the robbers dead.

Michel finished speaking, and took hold of my arm. He put his mouth next to my ear, and whispered:

"We'll be back soon. You'll be the owner of a genuine Rembrandt in just a few moments, friend. Keep cool." He released my arm and said out loud:

"If any of those guys starts acting funny, just shoot him." He winked at me, then nodded at Roch and they both left.

I was on my own with the guards. I tried not to think about what I'd do if one of them indeed started acting funny. I needn't have worried so much. After ten minutes or so, one of the guards started to fidget. He was the tallest, and looked like the biggest threat.

I surprised myself. I stepped closer to him and bent down and touched his temple with the muzzle of the starter gun and said:

"Stay still."

"I'm getting a cramp in my back," he said. He sounded English. I said:

"Watch that you don't get a permanent cramp." I tapped his head with the muzzle of the gun, very lightly, and stepped back. He was very still after that.

Acting like a badass made me more confident. That was good: I needed all the confidence I could get. Minutes dragged by, and I caught myself checking my watch twice in under a minute. My mouth got dry, and I started sweating under that fucking ski mask.

It was made of nylon or some other synthetic shit that was at least partly waterproof, and soon my face was slick with sweat. I was afraid to take the fucking thing off and wipe my face, even though the guards had all been blindfolded. I was sure they could see something through the tea towels that were tied over their eyes. The towels were white and pretty threadbare, almost like gauze.

I really needed a smoke. I wanted a cigarette so badly that I started convincing myself it would be okay to light one—after all, what could happen? I was just about to reach for my pack when I heard soft footsteps.

It was Michel. He came in and said:

"Any trouble?"

"Not really," I said. He jerked his head around to look at me. He looked really threatening in that mask.

"Not really?" he said sharply, performing a little pantomime: he pointed at the guards, placed his finger over his lips, pointed at me, pointed to the exit.

"Sorry. Everything's fine except I could use a cigarette," I said. Michel walked his fingers in the air, pointed at me, pointed at the exit, and said out loud:

"Any of those guys give you trouble, just shoot him. Don't fuck around. Come with me, I have to show you something."

We stepped out into the staff room, stopping a few paces away from the open doorway. Michel put his mouth next to my ear and whispered:

"We're good to go. But we'll put on a little show so that these guys stay put. I'll give them a little speech and pretend I'm leaving you behind to watch over them, okay? Go now, but step softly so they don't hear you walking away."

He turned away from me and coughed and walked back to the kitchen and began speaking in French. I slipped out of the staff room and waited for Michel in the hall.

He joined me a moment later, and we crept away. After a minute or so, Michel decided we could walk normally, and added:

"Roch's waiting for us in the first room. We've been trying to work out a way to haul all the stuff up on the roof. Some pictures are too big to fit into the backpacks."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I hissed. "You said we'll be taking small paintings only."

"There's a Courbet that I just must have. It's nearly a metre wide. And a Gainsborough and a Corot roughly the same size. But relax, Roch might have worked something out. If not, I have another idea that might work."

When we entered the room with the rope, my jaw nearly hit the floor. Roch and Michel had gone crazy. Several big paintings stood on the floor, leaning against the viewing bench which was piled high with loot. There was no way we could carry all that while climbing the rope, and Roch confirmed it the moment we stopped next to him. He said:

"It can't be done, Michel. We have to cut the big paintings out of the frames."

"We're not doing that. We're not barbarians."

"Well, those frames are pretty solid. Taking them apart will take hours."

"So, we don't take them apart. We take them as they are."

"That's impossible."

They started bickering in French. I walked over to the bench and had a look at the stuff they'd taken. They had gone completely nuts— there were at least thirty pictures, some of them really large, and a big mound of jewelry and other precious trinkets. There was just no way we could take all that stuff. I was looking at it, trying to find my Rembrandt in the dark when Michel said:

"Hey, Mike."

"Yes?" I said, without turning my head.

"You looking for your picture? I already put it in your backpack."

"You did? Wow." I checked my backpack and yes! There it was, the one thing I'd wanted more than anything else. I felt a wave of warmth spread through my body.

"Oh my God," I said. I was addressing Rembrandt; I didn't believe in God.

"Mike."

"What?"

"Put it away, and listen. We've got a new plan." I did as I was told, and Roch said:

"We're going to take the museum van."

"Take what?"

"The museum van. One of the guards had the keys. It's parked right outside."

"You're fucking crazy."

They were both grinning at me, grinning wide enough for me to see their teeth gleaming in the darkness. They were mad, all right.

"It makes perfect sense," Roch told me. "That van has special fixtures for transporting paintings and stuff." Michel giggled stupidly.

"You're fucking mad," I said.

"Listen for a moment," Michel said. "I've checked and it's parked right in front of the deliveries door. We back it up a little, load it, and drive away."

Roch said:

"But first, we have to move all this stuff. Let's get going."

I said:

"I'm not going with you. This is just insane."

"You're not going with us? Then how are you going to leave?"

"The way I came."

"Come on, Mike."

"No. No fucking way."

"You serious?"

"Of course I'm serious."

They looked at each other. Michel shrugged, and said:

"Will you at least help us carry that stuff to the entrance? That way, it will just take a couple of trips."

"Just listen to yourself," I said. "A couple of trips? Why don't you just take every single picture in here? You've got a van, right?"

"Mike."

"Fuck you."

"Mike!"

"Fuck you!"

"Jesus Christ, Mike."

"Oh fuck off," I said wearily. "One load. I'll make a single trip and then I'm up that fucking rope. That's it, end of discussion."

Michel sighed.

"Okay," he said. He bent down to the bench and picked up something and handed it to me. It was a metal medal of some sort, heavy enough to be gold.

"Here's your medal for bravery," he said. "You don't need to help us, we'll manage."

"I can take a few small things in my backpack," I said.

"It's fine. We can manage."

There was a short but very heavy silence.

"I'll see you back home," I said to them. I turned and lifted my backpack off the floor and put the Rembrandt inside. They were already loading up for the first trip to the shipping and deliveries room, grabbing the biggest pictures to begin with.

"See you," I said. They didn't answer me.

I walked up to the rope and started climbing. I heard them walk away with the first load. It was a while before they returned for more: I could already touch the skylight. I grabbed the edge of the opening with one hand, pulled myself up, and a moment later I was outside on the roof. It felt as if I'd just escaped from prison.

I was tempted to stick my head in and tell them I'd made it, but I didn't. I found the ladder, and it was so heavy and unwieldy that I left it where it was. I'd noticed that the branch Roch had used wasn't more than a yard up off the roof. So I went up to it and grabbed it with both hands and swung my legs up and after that everything went easily.

I was back on the ground no more than a couple of minutes later. I adjusted the backpack hanging from my shoulder, lit a cigarette, and started walking home. I knew it would take me at least an hour, but there was no way I would be taking a cab. There was absolutely no one around except for a cat that skittered away to some secret hiding place when I stopped at the first corner.

After a short hesitation, I turned east and began walking with long strides. I'd had plenty of practice thanks to those silly trips I'd made to Tracy's house, and I made good speed.

I hadn't walked more than a hundred steps when a horrible wail split the night air.

The museum's alarm had gone off.

I instantly turned into the biblical pillar of salt: I was afraid to breathe. When I'd gathered enough courage to look around, I found that the street was as empty as it had been. But the air was full of the clatter of electric bells, rhythmically urged on by the wails of a siren.

I forced myself to resume walking. I felt like breaking into a run, but I knew that wouldn't be a good idea. I turned right on the next corner so that I wouldn't be walking directly away from the museum, and realized I was still wearing that fucking ski mask.

I tore it off and dropped it into a public bin next to a bus stop that I passed, along with the gloves and the starter gun. There was a newspaper scrunched up in the bin, and I used it to cover what I had discarded. As I crossed the street I saw a couple of lights come on in the building in front of me, and once again had to resist the urge to break into a run.

I turned left on the next intersection, and kept walking as fast as I could. The sound of the museum's alarm grew fainter, and I was relieved not to hear or see any cop cars. I lit a fresh cigarette and walked on with increasing confidence. But all that confidence evaporated instantly when I realized that Roch and Michel might have been caught.

If Roch had been caught, I had no place to go, it was as simple as that. I kept moving on automatic, horrified by that new thought. I had no place to stay! I slowed down; by then I had walked around a mile from museum, and I still hadn't heard a single police siren. It was amazing, in all the movies I'd ever seen the streets were swarming with cops the moment a serious crime had been committed.

Maybe Roch and Michel hadn't been caught, after all. Maybe they were driving along in the museum van full of loot and having a laugh at my expense. The van! They had to go outside to get the van. Those two idiots forgot that opening any entrance to the museum would trigger the alarm if it hadn't been deactivated. That was why the alarm went off—those morons were getting the van!

Did they manage to drive away? There had been no police sirens, no indication of pursuit. But no matter what had happened, I felt it was too dangerous to go home. I had to find a place to stay, just in case.

That was when I remembered that I hadn't taken my wallet along with me. It had seemed to be a superfluous piece of equipment when robbing a museum.

I lit yet another cigarette and looked around and to my surprise, the street looked familiar. I walked another hundred steps and then I realized I'd walked down that street before, for my interview at the Montrose Hotel.

I had a place to stay! I'd been hired to work there. True, I hadn't started yet, but I was sure His Excellency Henry Houghton-Briggs would give me room for a day without demanding immediate payment.

Of course I'd have to invent a plausible story, but that wouldn't be a problem. I could say I'd locked myself out, and had to wait for my roommate to return from the long weekend. And that I'd left my wallet my home, which was why I wouldn't be able to pay until later.

I calculated there still were around thirty dollars left in that wallet of mine: more than enough for a couple of nights at a place like the Montrose Hotel. But the big thing was that I didn't need any ID to stay there. The owner knew me. I was a fucking employee!

I found the Montrose after a few more minutes. I should've found it even sooner, it was just a block away, but the night made everything look unfamiliar. I walked slowly looking from side to side, worried that I'd walk right past the Montrose. It only had a single sign advertising rooms next to the front door, and it wasn't a big sign. It looked like a perfectly ordinary house in all other respects.

As it turned out, recognizing the Montrose Hotel turned out to be easy: there was a cop car double-parked outside. I saw it a long way off and stopped to light a cigarette—cigarettes were so fucking useful in so many situations—while taking a long look.

One of the cops standing under a streetlamp and writing something in a pocketbook he was holding up to his face. I guessed he was writing out a parking ticket. I looked at the house behind the cop and lo and behold, it was the Montrose. I wondered whether the ticketed car belonged to one of its guests.

The Rembrandt in my backpack suddenly felt very heavy. I shifted my backpack to my other shoulder and resumed walking, keeping to the other side of the street. I was an honest working guy, on his way to distribute some early-morning advertising leaflets: I'd quickly learned how to walk with that special, hurried gait on that horrible, rainy day.

I threw a glance at the cop as I was passing—it was only natural—and yes, he'd been writing out a ticket: he was in the act of putting it under the windshield wiper. I continued steadily to the nearest corner, and turned right to disappear from the cop's line of sight. I turned left at the next intersection, walked a few more steps and stopped and finished smoking that cigarette with ears flapping. I didn't hear the cop car start up; presumably it was still standing there.

I smoked another cigarette awaiting auditory input. There was nothing. I retraced my steps, stopped at the corner of Montrose Avenue, and took a peek. The cop car was still parked there. What was more, the cop's partner had joined him and now they were both leaning on the car, smoking cigarettes and looking at the hotel while conducting a lazy conversation.

I had no idea what was the matter, and why they were still there. They weren't looking for me, for sure. But I didn't want to stroll up and enter the Montrose with those cops watching. They'd remember me. Once again, I had nowhere to go.

I had to keep moving though, so I started walking in the direction of Roch's house. There was just nowhere else for me to go: I really needed to retrieve my wallet before I could think of going anywhere else.

I decided I'd play it safe, and check out the scene for a while before walking up to the front door. I wished that I had at least a couple of quarters to leave the backpack at a luggage locker at a bus or train station. But all I had were three cigarettes and half a booklet of matches and the solid gold medallion Michel had given me.

I'd furtively examined it along the way. It was gold, I was sure of it. It featured a profile of a beaky-nosed guy with a pigtail on one side, and a coat of arms with a Latin inscription on the reverse. The guy's hairstyle suggested the eighteenth century, maybe a tiny bit earlier.

The sky was noticeably lighter by the time I reached Roch's street: it promised to be a fine, sunny day. I walked down Roch's street keeping to the side across from his house. There were no lights switched on inside, nor was there any other sign of anyone's presence. Most importantly, there weren't any cop cars around.

I didn't want to linger on Roch's street, so I walked back to a small leafy square a couple of blocks away, just past the depanneur. It had a couple of benches and I sat down on the bench facing the street and smoked my remaining cigarettes and watched the sun come up.

I was really tired, and I dozed off on that bench. I was woken up by the sound of morning traffic. I checked my watch and it was already after half past six: I'd slept for nearly an hour. The sun was up and shining brightly but I had heavy fog in my head. I sat still waiting for it to clear, and it didn't.

I got up and went to run a check on Roch's house. Nothing had changed. All the houses were still asleep.

I was too scared to attempt entering Roch's house. I returned to my bench on the square. I sat down and tried to stay awake and alert. I was out of cigarettes, and ended up dozing on and off. I was increasingly thirsty and hungry. There was a small water fountain in the square and I drank a few handfuls, but it didn't help much.

Around half past eleven I made up my mind to go back to the house. I just couldn't stand it any longer. I had to go home if only to get a fresh pack of smokes from my room. I would get my wallet too, then I'd leave.

A couple of kids were tossing a baseball around on a front lawn a couple of houses down from Roch's. Their presence convinced me that I was safe. I walked right up to the front door and found that it was locked: Roch hadn't come home. I grimaced and got my key and opened the door and went in. The silent house shouted it was empty.

I went upstairs and dumped my backpack on the bed and got a fresh pack of cigarettes from the carton in my bag. I lit one and went downstairs to the kitchen and made myself tea, and wolfed down half a pack of sliced bread straight from the bag.

I went upstairs with the firm intention of getting my things and leaving right away. I could afford to rent a room somewhere for a day, and rest. In the evening, I would find out what was what. That was the plan.

But when I entered my room, I felt my knees buckling. I was just fucking exhausted. I had to crash right away regardless of the consequences.

I put my backpack with the Rembrandt under my pillow, lay down, and checked my watch. It was nearing one in the afternoon. I thought about getting up again to get undressed, but I just couldn't do it.

I didn't fall asleep.. I blacked out, the way people do when struck on the head with something hard.