Death of a Hawker

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"Yes, Madam," the Constable said quietly. "Would you mind telling me who you are? And where you are?"

"He is dead," the soft veiled voice said, "dead. He is on the floor. His head is all bloody. When I came into the room he was still breathing but now he is dead."

She had said it three times already.

"Yes, madam," the constable said again. There was patience in the way he said it, understanding. Love, perhaps. But the constable was acting. He had been well trained. He was only concerned about rinding out who was speaking to him, and where she might be. The constable had been working in the central radio room of Amsterdam Police Headquarters for some years now. He took a lot of calls. Anybody who dials two six times gets through to the central radio room. Anybody means a lot of people. Some of them are serious citizens, some of them are mad. And some of them are temporarily mad. They have seen something, experienced a sensation. The experience may have knocked them tree of their usual routine, perhaps to the point where they are suffering from shock. Or they are drunk. Or they just want to talk to someone, to know that they are not alone, and there is someone amongst the million inhabitants of Holland's capital who cares enough to listen. Someone who is alive, not just a taped voice which tells them that God is Good and All is Well.

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