"And you are quite sure that is how it happened, monsieur…."

"Stobart, sir," I said to him in the best Californian accent I could manage. "George Stobart."

The detective from the French Interpol had a heavy French accent. His black biro pen was nibbled at the top and wobbled side to side as he scribbled whatever he was scribbling in his little black notebook.

The scene was an absolute mess. There was debris everywhere from the blast. Tables were turned over, most of the cafe was destroyed with huge holes in the walls, and there were bricks as far over as the start of Rue des Barres.

"So you are absolutely certain," said the detective peering up at him from his notebook. "That you saw a man dressed as a clown enter the Café de Flore only moments before the bomb detonated?"

"I'm sure of it," I said with a nod.

The detective raised an eyebrow. "Your growing pale, monsieur…Stobart. Maybe you would like a drink of water?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I assured him.

"I just assumed you might be dehydrated or in shock from the incident, monsieur."

"I'm pretty sure I'm okay, detective," I shrugged.

The detective tapped the nibbled pen on his notepad. The noise irritated me instantly, yet for no apparent reason. "Twenty minutes prior, you told my partner that you were unsure if it was a man or a woman dressed as a clown."

"I did?" I asked, and I felt my heart miss a beat.

"Where are you going, monsieur?" Asked the detective, and I noticed he shuffled forward a little towards me.

"Actually, maybe I could use a little water," I said quickly.

The detective glared at me for a second. With the sun shining on his bald head and the thin upper-lip moustache, it was like looking at a detective from a mid-afternoon TV show. After a few seconds, he disappeared faster than I expected. Before I could breathe, he was back out of nowhere with a plastic cup of water.

I sipped the water slowly to give myself some breathing space. Suddenly I found myself wishing that I was back home in Poland. At least at home, there were no snotty detectives like this sniffing around him.

The detective pulled the notepad and pen back out from the pocket of the mustard-coloured trench coat he wore. "Monsieur Stobart, would you mind spelling me your family name."

I noticed that it wasn't a question. "It's S t o b a r t." My heart was beating louder again, and the cup in my hand shook a little.

The detective scribbled again. "May I see your identification." Again it was not a question.

I felt nervous, but I shuffled around in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I took the ID and handed it to him.

The detective eyed it, rotating it in his hands. I noticed he had browned fingernails. A smoker.

“How old are you, monsieur Stobart?” Asked the detective.

I gasped silently. "It's on my ID, sir."

The detective did not look up from the ID. "I asked you, monsieur."

I paused a moment, then said, "I'm 39 right now."

The detective frowned. He had eyebrows almost as thin as his moustache. "Earlier, you told my partner you were 37."

I shook my head. This wasn't good. My eyes searched, but I don't think he saw. "I must have hit my head during the blast."

The detective said nothing.

A long silence began. This was too intense. This man was too much, and I wasn't sure I could handle this kind of interrogation. What if he found out. Then what would I do?

"Well," he said, "your identification does say your 37. Maybe we need the paramedic to take another look at you."

I breathed a breath I did not know I'd been holding. "If you say so."

To Be Continued