The dark figure was quite visible against all that light green foliage, but no
one saw him. The others were asleep. After his suicide, Tormod was reduced to a
practical phenomenon for which they had need: an empty bed. An astonishing
transformation. Tormod was no longer Tormod, he was an empty bed. And he, too,
would become an empty bed, with the sheets tucked in tight. He listened to the
voice and gave a brisk nod. Then he walked on, sauntering through the dense
woods. By the time the night nurse arrived to peek into his room, he had been
walking for more than two hours. She didn't dare repeat their conversation.
"No, I didn't notice anything unusual, he was as he always is." The
sun had come up and shone in her face through the window of the staff room where
they held their morning meetings. The words burned her throat like acid.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...