Doppelganger by Geoffrey West Page B

get through the operation. He wants to see you one last time.”
    My heart sank. Douglas dying? It
couldn’t be the case. My memories of Douglas were of a tall strong man, his
silver hair and beard giving him a king-like aura of power and patriarchal
strength. I’d pictured him enjoying himself in Paris for years to come.
    “Will you come?” Cecile asked.
    “I’ll be with you tomorrow.”
    “Thank you, Jack. Thank you!”

Chapter 4
DOUGLAS IN PARIS
     
    I dozed on the Eurostar, having
taken the train to London’s St Pancras station. Flying would have been quicker,
but there’d been industrial action at the major airports, and I didn’t want to
risk unforeseen delays. There was something soporific about the blackness as we
entered the Channel Tunnel. And I had the dream again, the frightful terrifying
dream of the shadowy, faceless figure above me, the pressure on my neck,
everything going dark. I woke up abruptly, sweating with fear. But everything
was okay, the rumble-bump of the train as we shot through green fields with odd
looking electricity pylons spanning the grassland, the occasional picture-book
farmhouse punctuating the vast green fields. Why do you never see such weird
triangular shaped electricity pylons in England, I wondered?
    I ordered something to eat, and
the sandwich and coffee tasted of nothing at all as I worried about Douglas.
After I’d eaten I closed my eyes again, trying to remember my most vivid
memories of my friend. I hadn’t known him that long, but he’d helped me so much
when I tackled my first True Crime book, that I thought of him as a good
friend. 
    It had been at my first book
launch, at a smart hotel in London’s West End. Douglas giving a speech about
his protégé, Jack, who, he was convinced, was going to be a bestselling author,
given time. As he spoke I remembered the hours he’d spent with me, advising me
on the Fred West book, telling me what angles to delve into, the best way to make
it an entertaining read. And in time, Douglas’s prediction had almost been
correct. Though I’d never penned a bestseller, Douglas had helped me to carve
out a decent living, doing work I enjoyed. Without him I might easily have
tackled my first book wrongly, so that it flopped, instead of being a success.
    The environs of Paris crept up on
me like clawing fingers tearing my heart. Douglas might be close to death. I
couldn't take it in. I couldn’t accept it.
    Cecile welcomed me into their
town house in the 11th Arrondissement, along Boulevard Richard Lenoir, only a
short walk from the Place de la Bastille. As I emerged from the Bréguet Sabin
metro station I remembered the 18th-Century, German-designed graceful buildings
in that area, the surprisingly traffic-free roads with their lovely
multi-storey houses and hotels and apartment blocks interspersed with rows of
neat shops. Douglas  met me at the door and he appeared in better shape than
I’d been expecting. He wanted to take a break outside, he told Cecile. He
wanted a walk.
    So, with Douglas hobbling along
at a snail’s pace, dressed up in a warm coat with a red silk scarf, and using a
wooden walking stick with a large bulbous handle, we walked out and down the
steps of the Breuget Sabin metro and emerged at St-Michel Notre Dame station,
and walked up beside the river, then crossed the Petit Pont bridge to the Ile
de la Cité and the square in front of Notre Dame cathedral, where we found a
vacant bench near the entrance to the Crypte Archéologique, the large excavated
area under the parvis where there were the remains of the original cathedral St
Etienne and other ancient streets and houses dating back to Gallo-Roman days.
It was approaching twilight and the grand cathedral with its three grand arched
entrances and soaring nave was like a benign friend in the background. We were
surrounded by tourists, and it struck me that this was what Douglas wanted, to
be with people, not cooped up in his house. Beside us were some