Night Sky

Clare Francis is the author of eight international bestsellers,
Night Sky, Red Crystal, Wolf Winter, Requiem, Deceit, Betrayal, A Dark Devotion
and
Keep Me Close.
She has also written three non-fiction books about her voyages across the oceans of the world.

H
E WAS IN
a tiny dark cupboard, the door locked, the air foul and hot. Outside he could hear voices, sometimes loud and coarse, sometimes low and secretive. He tried to call out but he could make no sound. His body would not move, though nothing held it down. At some point he must have wet the bed, for the sheet underneath him was damp. Then his stomach heaved and without warning a thick trail of vomit streamed out, covering the pillow, clogging his hair. He was desperate to clean up the mess, but there was no water, no cloth, so he tried to mop it up with a corner of the sheet, wretched with the knowledge that this too was a mistake.

He lay back on the bed, shivering despite the heat. Tears of misery rolled down his cheeks and he cried a single ‘
Maman!
’ Then he remembered that he was not allowed to call out, that he must stay silent. The loneliness enveloped him; he wanted to close his eyes and sleep for ever.

There were voices again now: his mother’s, steady and light, and a man’s, low and furtive. The voices droned on, then rose to a higher pitch. There was a scream, then silence. Suddenly he was in a room and he saw his mother lying motionless on a bed. She was held down by the man, her arms twisted behind her, unable to move. Then she looked up at the man, her lips open, her teeth bared. She did not cry out; instead she smiled. His mother and the man moved in a strange way he did not understand. Then the picture faded.

He was in the cupboard again, unable to breathe, suffocating with the heat. He could hear voices still, but they were more distant now. The despair pressed in on him, crushing and hopeless. But this time he did not cry: he was learning how not to cry. He felt as if he had been alone all his life.

Paul Vasson woke with a start. For an instant he couldn’t remember where he was. Then he recognised the familiar outlines of the shabby room and, exhaling slowly, sank back on to the pillow. The voices from the dream murmured on. He listened and realised that they were floating up from the street outside. One, with a thick Provençal accent, he recognised as that of the old concierge next door. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. But it was no use. He had been dozing fitfully for less than half an hour and now he was wide awake.

He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His mouth felt dry, his stomach unsteady. It was the fear. And worse than he’d imagined: stabbing, cold, dragging him down. The nightmare hadn’t helped either. The dream was always the same: the small room, the locked door, the suffocating heat. And such detail – so vivid. He remembered the shame of discovery and how, when his mother opened the door, he had wept even before she struck him. Later she had washed and dressed him in clean clothes and then – then she had given him a brief kiss on top of the head.

Or had that one startling kiss happened some other time?

He got up suddenly and, groping for the shutters, let in a small shaft of warm afternoon sunlight. He never let in too much light: it showed up the shabby furniture and the peeling paintwork.

He wondered what the time was – probably about four. Still too early to go out. He picked up
La Dépêche du Midi
from the floor and flopped back on to the bed. The headlines didn’t interest him: half a million unemployed; France protesting against something called the Anglo-German Naval Treaty; increasing numbers of Jewish refugees arriving in France from Germany.

He skipped to the sports pages but couldn’t concentrate and threw the newspaper back on to the floor.

God, he was nervous.

He stood up abruptly and walked naked across the room. Taking a clean towel from the dresser, he wrapped it round his waist and poured some water into a tin bowl that stood on the only table. He splashed his face and looked into the small mirror above. Usually he avoided mirrors, they made him uneasy, but today he wanted to be sure he looked normal,
ordinary.
The thin face stared back at him, the eyes small and dark. And frightened. Mustn’t show the fear. Dear Lord.

Picking up a razor, he scraped at the soft stubble that sprouted unevenly on his chin. After a while he dropped his hand and, staring into the mirror, swore quietly. His skin, always sallow, had developed a yellow-grey tinge. He shivered and felt his stomach twist with griping pain. He realised with disgust that he must get to the WC and quickly.

He hurried out of the room and made for a door at the far side of the landing. He went in and almost retched. A foul stench rose from the pan and he saw that it was blocked. There was another WC two floors down, but there wasn’t enough time. He crouched miserably on the seat, muttering, ‘Dear Mother of God!’