Night Sky (94 page)

There was a loud
Clunk!
and silence. The lift had stopped. There was a click as the gate was opened.

Julie thrust her hand into the outside compartment of her bag and at last her fingers closed over the large metal key tag. She raised the key to the lock but her hand was trembling slightly and she couldn’t get it in.

A soft footstep fell on the thin carpet behind her.

She whirled round.

It was the tallest, blackest man she’d ever seen. Julie put her hand to her chest and laughed nervously. ‘Oh, good evening! You startled me!’

The man was in French Army uniform. He was grinning from ear to ear, revealing an enormous row of white teeth which were in startling contrast to the blackness of his skin. Julie stared, fascinated. The soldier bowed low and straightened up again, swaying slightly. Julie realised he was rather drunk.

He said in a low booming voice, ‘Mademoiselle, my sincere apologies!’

Julie nodded politely and quickly let herself into her room. As she closed the door, she saw he was still standing there, beaming happily. Drunk but quite harmless, she decided. She turned on the light and locked and bolted the door.

The room was quite simple: a bed, a rug on the floor, a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe. But it was clean and, most important, no-one in the hotel took any notice of her.

She threw herself straight on to the bed and lay there for a moment because it was so lovely to get her feet up. Then, reluctantly, she got up again and, opening the double windows, reached out to close the shutters. The window was a dormer, set into the roof behind a parapet. You couldn’t see the street from there, but you could see an enormous amount of sky. It was very clear tonight and, above the faint glow of the city, Julie could see a thousand stars.

It had been a long time since she had seen a night sky.

For several moments she stood and watched and remembered Brittany a long time ago.

The night was cold. She fastened the shutters and closed the windows again.

Hastily slicing some cheese on to a slice of stale bread two days old, she ate ravenously. Then, gritting her teeth against the cold, she undressed as quickly as possible and pulled on her nightdress.

She didn’t bother to wash, but hopped straight into bed, shivering violently. She spread her dressing gown over the thin blankets then pulled her coat off the chair and spread that over as well.

She wriggled down into the bed and curled herself up, wondering whether she’d ever feel warm again.

It was a bit of luck, the black soldier coming along like that. Vasson even helped him to find his key.

Vasson waited for the lift to disappear, then slipped quickly behind the reception desk and looked for the registration book. It wasn’t there. He looked around. Immediately behind the desk was a door which probably led to an office. The registration book would be in there. He tried the door; it was locked. He cursed softly.

Then something caught his eye and he let out a small hiss of triumph. To the right of the door there was a notice board covered with yellowing fire regulations and taxi numbers – and a fresh white piece of paper with a list of room numbers and, where appropriate, names. He read it quickly. There weren’t many guests – just six or so – and it took him only a second to find the name he wanted.

Lescaux. Room 25.

He took a swift look round the lobby, then tiptoed quickly across to the stairs. He ran lightly up to the first floor, checked the room numbers, and then continued up the building.

As he approached the fourth floor he slowed down and listened.

Silence.

He climbed the last few steps and paused again. Softly, he padded across the landing until he could see the numbers on the doors.

Room 25 was in the left-hand corner, at the front of the building. Vasson crept up to the door and listened. He stiffened. Someone was moving about inside. There was a click as if a window was being closed.

He looked round the landing. There were several other bedrooms, then, on the opposite side, a door marked ‘
Salle de Bain
’ and another marked ‘W.C.’. Beyond was a plain painted metal door. He ran across and tried it, but it was locked. He looked up. Above was a sign:
Sortie de Secours
. Beside it was a key hanging on a nail.

He took the key and tried it in the lock. At first it wouldn’t move but then he pulled on the handle and the key turned quite easily. He opened the door and put his head out. He looked both ways then, satisfied, pulled his head back in and closed the door again without locking it.

He walked lightly across to the bathroom, which was open, and went in. He flicked on the light, locked the door carefully, and turned the light off again. Then he sat down on the floor to wait.

He fingered the gun in his pocket and decided against it. Far too noisy. No, it would have to be done quietly – the other way.

Damn the woman. She’d been trouble all along.

What really upset him was that she’d found out about the car. But how? He couldn’t imagine and it was driving him mad. He’d never told anyone about it, he was certain, at least not for years and years …

Damn her. Was she alone? Had she told anyone else? He’d have to risk it. If he didn’t deal with her he’d be a dead man anyway.

Damn her
.

He leant his head against the bath and, looking unseeing at the night sky, waited impatiently for the minutes to pass.

She couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the day’s events and what they meant. Every time she started to drift off she woke up with a start and began to go through it all over again.

There was another thing keeping her awake: she needed to go to the lavatory. She should have gone before, of course, but the bed had been too inviting. Now it couldn’t be put off any longer. With an exclamation of irritation, she got out of bed into the cold air and pulled on her dressing gown.

She unlocked the door, walked quickly across the landing and went into the W.C.

When she came out, she went towards the bathroom to wash. She tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. She glanced up at the fanlight; there was no light showing through. She tried again, pushing hard against the door, but it was firmly locked. She stood still for a moment, then gave up and went back to her room.

She threw her dressing gown back over the covers and dived into the still warm bed. This time she was determined to get to sleep. She closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing each part of her body, limb by limb.

Eventually she began to doze off, but then she thought of Richard and was immediately awake again. She often thought of him, but tonight the memories were particularly vivid. It was that lovely night sky. She could almost see the little attic room. She missed him terribly.

She relaxed her body again and tried counting sheep.

Bump!

She was wide awake instantly.

A sound.
Something nearby
.

She stayed perfectly still, listening to the roar of the silence. But nothing.

Perhaps the sound had come from further away after all, from the street …

She stiffened.

A sound. This time a faint scratching.
Close
.

She sat upright, her heart hammering in her ears, and strained to locate the origin of the noise.

At first she couldn’t hear anything, then it came again, a soft, barely audible scratching. An animal? It must be … She tried to see, but with the shutters closed it was very dark; the only light came from a small gap under the door, and then it was the faintest sliver.

Very slowly, she pulled on her dressing gown and did up the cord. Then she swung her legs out of bed and, careful to make no noise, stood up. She listened again.

The scratching had stopped.

She felt her way slowly past the bed and across the room until she reached the door. She put her ear against it. Nothing. Automatically, she checked the key and the bolt to make sure the door was securely locked. She put her hand up to the light switch, then changed her mind and moved slowly back to the centre of the room. She stood absolutely still, straining her ears.

This time the scratching, when it came, was louder.

Now she’d placed the sound. It was coming from near the window. She crept forward and, stooping down, listened again. A mouse, probably …

The sound was muffled now and very soft again. She crept right up to the window and waited, completely still.

Nothing.

There was silence again. It lasted a long time. She almost gave up.

Click!

Julie jumped and looked up. There was a sudden movement. A rectangle of light appeared in the window where the shutter had been.

Julie screamed.

The head and shoulders of a man were silhouetted against the light.

She cried, ‘
God!
’ and staggered back against the bed.

The silhouette suddenly vanished. Julie stared in horror at the place where the man had been, the image of the crouching figure engraved on her mind. It was
him
, it had to be!
It was him
.

She couldn’t move, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window.
Was he still there?
She pressed the back of her knees against the bed and reached out for the bedpost.

Silence again.

She tried to gather her wits, but all she could think was: It’s
him!
It’s
him!

The silence stretched on.

Suddenly, another movement.

She stifled a scream.

An arm
. At the window. It had something in its hand. It was reaching for the latch.

She cried, ‘
No!
’ and scrabbled around looking for something –
anything
. Desperately she lunged at the chest and pulled out a drawer. Raising it above her head, she ran to the window and rammed it against the frame.

She shouted, ‘
No-o-o!
’ and pushed the drawer harder and harder against the window.

For a while she stayed there, her head against the drawer, murmuring ‘God!’ over and over again.

Then she moved her head away from the drawer and listened.

Not a sound.

She raised her head and looked. The arm had vanished.

She waited, frozen with indecision. He must have gone –
or had he?
For a moment she could have sworn he was still there, waiting under the window sill, poised to pop his head up like some ghastly jack-in-a-box … The next minute, she was sure he wasn’t there at all.

But if he wasn’t there,
where had he gone?

She knew one thing:
she had to get away!
With an enormous effort of will, she dodged to one side of the window and, shaking violently, put the drawer down on top of the chest. Then, with her eyes fastened on the window, she retreated to the bed and slipped off her dressing gown. She reached down for her coat and pulled it on over her nightdress. She fumbled with two buttons and gave up the rest.

Shoes … God, where were her
shoes?
She felt around with her feet and touched one. She bent down and pulled it on. Crouching lower, she put a hand under the bed. Nothing. She almost cried out. She reached further. The second shoe was right under the bed. Panicking, she grabbed at it and pulled it hastily on.

All the time she watched the window. Nothing.

Slowly she stood upright and moved sideways towards the door. Quietly she did slid back the bolt and turned the key in the lock. She listened carefully. Silence.

She gripped the handle, turned it and opened the door a little. A beam of light darted in from the landing. She paused, suddenly full of doubt. Slowly she put her eye to the crack.

She could see the W.C. and the bathroom opposite, then the lift, and to the right, the beginnings of the stairs.

The landing – what she could see of it – was empty.

It was now or never.

She flung open the door, ran out and stopped dead.

A scream stuck in her throat.

He was standing against the wall at the top of the stairs, crouching slightly, poised like a cat.

She stared at him, horror-struck. The face was livid and ugly, the angry scars red against the pallor of his skin.

But it was Vasson all right. She recognised the eyes. Hard. Dark. Glittering in the dim light. Watching her carefully.

For a moment they were both still, staring at one another.

Then he moved.

She cried out and went rapidly backwards, past the door of her room, along the landing. She looked wildly over her shoulder.
Where was the black soldier?

She drew a deep breath and tried to shout. The
Help!
came out as a gurgle. Vasson was coming faster now, poising himself to spring. A wall came up against her back. She screamed at last.

Vasson sprang forward. She dodged sideways but he caught her hair and pulled her head back with a snap. She cried out in pain. He clamped his hand over her mouth, digging his fingers into her cheek. She kicked out and pushed him away with her arms. But his other hand closed firmly round the back of her neck.

She lashed out again with her feet and felt her shoes fly off. She tried to claw at his face but he was keeping her at arm’s length, gripping her head tightly between his hands.

He started to drag her across the floor. Panic clutched her. She struggled, throwing herself desperately from side to side, trying to tear the hand away from her face.

God, where was the black soldier? Surely he’d heard!

Vasson was pulling her faster now. She tried to dig her heels into the thin carpet, but he yanked her off balance and her feet went from under her. Her legs cartwheeled as she tried to regain her grip.

He gave a final heave, something hard bumped against her side and then it went dark.
They were in her room
.

She heard the door close and struggled harder. She kicked viciously in all directions and heard him inhale sharply as her foot met his shin. Her next shot hit the bedpost and jarred her leg.

She aimed for his shin again but suddenly her head was being jerked sideways, fast. There was a moment of dizziness, then a sickening thud as her skull hit something solid. She saw stars and stopped struggling.