The Paris Apartment(31)

A link to Ben, a lead—finally. But I’ve got no chance of working out where she’s going, where she might get off. Or, most likely, of ever seeing her again.





Jess




The apartment is as bright as I can make it. I’ve turned on every single lamp. I’ve even put a vinyl on Ben’s posh record player. I’m trying not to panic and it seemed a good idea to have as much noise and light as possible. It was so quiet when I entered the building just now. Too quiet, somehow. Like there was no one behind the doors I passed. Like the place itself was listening, waiting for something.

It’s totally different now, being here. Before, it was just a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on. But now I’ve heard the end of the voicenote. Now I know that the last time I heard from Ben he was afraid, and that there was someone in this apartment with him.

I think about the girl, too. The look on her face when I said I thought something had happened to Ben. She was scared but it also seemed like she’d somehow been expecting it.

Suddenly I’m very aware of how, if you looked across from the right spot in any of the other apartments, you’d be able to see me sitting here, lit up like I’m onstage. I go to the windows and slam all the big wooden shutters closed. Better. There were definitely curtains here once: I notice that the rings on the rail are all broken, as though at some point they’ve been pulled down.

I can’t just sit here and run through everything in my head over and over. There must be something else I’m missing. Something that will provide a clue as to what might have happened.

I tear through the apartment. I crouch down to look under the bed, rip through the shirts in Ben’s wardrobe, hunt through the kitchen cabinets. I yank his desk away from the wall. Bingo: something falls out. Something that had been trapped between the wall and the back of the desk. I pick it up. It’s a notebook. One of those posh leather ones. Just the kind Ben would use.

I flick it open. There are a few scribbled notes that look like they’re for restaurant reviews, that kind of thing. Then, on a page near the back, I read:

LA PETITE MORT

Sophie M knows.

Mimi: how does she fit in?

The Concierge?



La Petite Mort. Even I can translate that: the little death.

Sophie M—it has to be Sophie Meunier, the woman who lives in the penthouse apartment. Sophie M knows. What does she know? Mimi, that’s the girl on the fourth floor, the one who looked like she was going to hurl her breakfast when I asked about Ben. How does Mimi fit in? What is the concierge’s connection? Why was Ben writing in his notebook about these people, about “little deaths”?

I flip through the rest of the notebook, hoping to discover more, only to find it’s blank after this. But this does tell me something. There is something strange going on with the people in this building. Ben was keeping notes about them.

I drink more of Ben’s wine, waiting for it to take the edge off my nerves but it doesn’t seem to be helping. It only starts to make me feel groggy. I put the wine glass down because I have an urge to stay awake, to keep watch, to keep thinking. I don’t want to fall asleep here. Suddenly it doesn’t feel safe.

When my eyes start closing of their own accord I realize I don’t have a choice. I have to sleep. I need the energy to keep going. I drag myself into the bedroom and fall onto the bed. I know I can’t do any more today, not while I’m this knackered. But as I turn out the light I realize that a whole day has now passed without word from my brother and the feeling of dread grows.



My eyes snap open. It feels like no time has passed, but the neon numbers on Ben’s alarm clock read: 3:00. Something woke me. I know it, even if I’m not sure what. Could it have been the cat, knocking something over? But no, it’s here at the end of the bed, I can feel the weight of its body against my feet and, as my eyes adjust to the dark, I can make it out more clearly in the green glow of the alarm clock. It’s sitting up, alert, ears pricked and twitching like radars trying to catch a signal. It’s listening to something.

And then I hear it. A creak, the sound of a floorboard giving under someone’s foot. Someone’s here, in the apartment with me, just the other side of the French doors.

But . . . could it be Ben? I open my mouth to call out. Then I hesitate. Remember the voicenote. There’s no light beneath the French doors: my visitor is moving around in the dark. Ben would have switched on the lights by now.

Suddenly I’m wide awake. More than awake: wired. My breathing sounds too loud in the silence. I try to calm it, make it as quiet as possible. I close my eyes and fake sleep, lying as still as I can. Has someone broken in? Wouldn’t I have heard the glass shattering, the door splintering?

I wait, listening to every tiny creak of the footsteps making their way around the room. It doesn’t feel as though they’re in any particular rush. I pull the throw up so I’m almost completely covered by it. And then, through the thundering of my own blood in my ears, I hear the doors to the bedroom begin to open.

My chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe. My heart is jumping against my ribs. I’m still pretending to sleep. But at the same time I’m thinking about the lamp next to the bed, the metal base nice and heavy. I could snatch out an arm—

I wait, head pressed against the pillow, trying to decide whether to grab for the lamp now or—