The Paris Apartment(32)

But . . . now I hear the soft pad of footsteps retreating. I hear the French doors closing. And then, a few moments later, further away, the groan of the main door to the apartment opening and shutting.

They’ve gone.



I lie still for a moment, my breathing coming in rough pants. Then I jump up, push through the French doors and run out into the main room. If I move quickly, I might catch them. But first—I rummage through the kitchen cupboards, come up with a heavy frying pan, just in case, then pull open the apartment’s main door. The corridor and stairwell are dark and silent. I close the door, go to the windows instead. Maybe I’ll catch someone out there in the courtyard. But it’s just a dark pit: the black shapes of trees and bushes, no flicker of movement. Where did they go?

I turn on a light. The place looks completely untouched. No broken glass and the front door looks undamaged. Like they just walked right in.

I could almost believe I dreamt it. But someone was here, I’m certain. I heard them. The cat heard them. Even if, right now, it couldn’t look more chilled, sprawled on the sofa, cleaning delicately between its outspread toes.

I glance at Ben’s desk, and that’s when I realize the notebook is gone. I search the drawers, behind the gap in the desk where I found it before. Shit. I’m an idiot. Why did I leave it out there in full view? Why didn’t I hide it somewhere?

It seems so obvious now. After hearing that voicenote I should have taken extra precautions. I should have put something in front of the door. Should have known that someone might come in here, poke around. Because they wouldn’t need to break in. If it’s the same person Ben was speaking to on that recording, they already have a key.





Thirty Hours Earlier

Ben




Everything goes black. Just for a moment. Then it all becomes terrifyingly clear. It is going to happen here, now, in this apartment. Right here, on this innocuous spot of flooring just beyond the door, he is going to die.

He understands what must have happened. Nick. Who else? But one of the others in this place might be involved . . . because of course they are all connected—

“Please,” he manages, “I can explain.” He has always been able to talk himself out of any situation. Benjamin Silver-Tongue she called him. If he can only find the words. But speech seems suddenly very difficult . . .

The next attack comes with astonishing suddenness, astonishing force. His voice is pleading, high as a child’s. “No, no—please, please . . . don’t—” The words tumbling out of him, he who is always so poised. No time for explanations now. He is begging. Begging for mercy. But there is none in the eyes gazing down upon him.

He sees the blood spatter onto his jeans but he doesn’t understand what it is immediately. Then he watches as spots of crimson begin to fall onto the parquet floor. Slowly at first, then faster, faster. It doesn’t look real: such a brilliant, intense red and there is so much of it, all at once. How can all of this have come from him? More and more every second. It must be spilling out of him.

Then it happens again, the next attack, and he is falling and on the way down his head bounces against something hard and sharp: the edge of the kitchen counter.

He should have known. Should have been less arrogant, less cavalier. Should at least have had a chain put on the door. And yet he thought he was invincible, thought that he was the one in control. He has been so stupid, so arrogant.

Now he’s down on the floor and he cannot imagine ever being able to stand again. He tries to put up his hands, to beg without words, to defend himself, but his hands won’t obey him either. His body is no longer within his control. With this comes a new terror: he is utterly helpless.

The shutters . . . the shutters are open. It’s dark outside: which means that this whole scene must be illuminated to the outside world. If someone saw—if someone could come to help—

With a vast effort he opens his eyes, turns and begins to crawl toward the windows. It’s so hard. Each time he places a hand it slips out from under him: it takes a moment for him to realize that this is because the floor is slick with his own blood. Eventually he reaches the window. He raises himself a little way above the sill, he reaches out a hand and marks a gory handprint against the pane. Is there someone out there? A face turned up toward him, caught by the light spilling from the windows, out there in the gloom? His vision is blurring again. He tries to beat his palm, to mouth the word: HELP.

And then the pain hits him. It is huge, more overwhelming than anything he has experienced in his life. He can’t bear this, surely: it must be too much. This is where the story ends.

And his last lucid thought is: Jess. Jess will be coming tonight, and no one will be here to meet her. From the moment she arrives, she too will be in danger.





Sunday

Nick





Second floor



Morning. I enter the building’s stairwell. I’ve been running for hours. I have no idea how long, actually, or how far I went. Miles, probably. Normally I’d have the exact stats, would be checking my Garmin obsessively, uploading it all to Strava the second I’d got back. This morning I can’t even be bothered to look. Just needed to clear my head. I only stopped because the agony in my calf began to cut through everything else—though for a while I almost enjoyed running through the pain. An old injury: I pushed a Silicon Valley quack to prescribe me oxycodone for it. Which also helped dull the sting when my investments started to go bad.