‘The day my mother discovered my collection of toys was a death sentence for Gabriel. She dragged me down to the cellar of our building. She started muttering, looking around her as if there might be something lurking in the shadows, and told me that someone had been whispering to her in her dreams. My dear mother was one of those people who would never listen to anybody around her, but heard plenty of voices inside her head. One of those voices had informed her that toys – all toys – were the invention of Lucifer himself. She was always one to see the devil in the details – especially in other people. In her new-found wisdom she had decided that, through toys, the devil planned to steal the soul of every child in the world. That very night, Gabriel and all my other toys ended up in the building’s furnace.
‘My mother insisted that we should destroy them together, make sure they turned to ashes and thus I could return to the path of righteousness. Otherwise, the shadow of my accursed soul would come and get me. Every lapse in my behaviour, every error, every disobedient act, would leave a mark on my shadow. She told me that my shadow was a reflection of how wicked and inconsiderate I was, and that it followed me wherever I went. I was only seven at the time. Sometimes I wished that her threat would come true and I could embrace that shadow. At least that way I’d be free of her.’
‘You’re insane . . .’ whispered Simone.
The man in the mask laughed.
‘Wait. It gets better. Soon after this baptism of fire, my dear mother’s illness took a turn for the worse. She would shut me up in the basement because she said the shadow wouldn’t be able to find me there. At first, during these long spells I hardly dared breathe, fearing the sound of my breath might draw the shadow’s attention and that this evil reflection of my corrupt soul would then carry me straight to hell. I realise all this must sound quite comical to you, or perhaps just sad, Madame Sauvelle, but for that young child it was a serious business indeed.
‘I don’t want to bore you with the sordid details. I’ll just add that, during one of these purifying episodes, my mother finally lost what few, if any, marbles she had left and I ended up being trapped for a whole week in the darkness. You’ve already read the story in the cutting, I imagine: it was the kind of thing the press love to splash across their front pages. Bad news, especially if it’s full of lurid details, is wonderful at persuading people to part with their money and remind them of how good they are, for evil is always on the other side of the fence, isn’t it? You’ll be wondering what a child does when he’s locked up for seven days and seven nights in a dark basement waiting for the devil to come and claim his soul.
‘First of all, you must understand that when humans are deprived of light, we lose all sense of time after a while. Hours turn into minutes or seconds, even weeks. Our perception of time is closely related to light. During that week something truly astonishing happened to me. A miracle. My second miracle, if you like, after those blank minutes that occurred after my birth.
‘My prayers were answered. All those nights praying in silence had not been in vain. Call it luck, or fate, but Daniel Hoffmann finally came to me. To me. Of all the children in Paris, I was the chosen one. I still remember the timid rapping on the trapdoor that led to the street. I couldn’t reach it, but I was able to reply to the voice that spoke to me from outside; the most marvellous, kindest voice I had ever heard. A voice that dispelled the darkness and melted away the fear of a frightened little boy, like sun melting ice. And do you know something? Daniel Hoffmann called me by my name.
‘I opened the door of my heart to him. Suddenly, a wonderful light flooded the basement and Hoffmann appeared out of nowhere, dressed in a dazzling white suit. If only you’d seen him, Simone. He was an angel, a real angel of light. I’ve never seen anyone radiate such an aura of beauty and peace.
‘That night, Daniel Hoffmann and I spoke in private, just as you and I are doing now. I didn’t need to tell him about Gabriel and the rest of my toys; he already knew. He was also aware of the stories my mother had told me about the shadow. It was a relief to confess to him how terrified I was of it. He listened patiently as I recounted all the things that had happened to me, and I could feel he shared my pain and anxiety. His compassion and understanding were overwhelming. Above all, he understood that this shadow was my greatest fear, my worst nightmare. My own shadow, that evil spirit that followed me everywhere, the vessel for all the wickedness that was inside me . . .
‘It was Daniel Hoffmann who told me what I had to do. Needless to say, I was completely ignorant at the time. What did I know about shadows? What did I know about mysterious spirits that visited people in their dreams and spoke to them about the future and the past? Nothing.
‘But he did know. He knew everything. And he was willing to help me.
‘That night, Daniel Hoffmann revealed my future to me. He told me that I was destined to succeed him as the head of his empire. He explained that all of his knowledge and his skill would one day be mine, and that the poverty that surrounded me would be gone for ever. He offered me prospects, things I could never have dreamed of. In short, he offered me a future. I had to do only one thing in exchange. A small, insignificant promise: I had to give him my heart. Give my heart to him and nobody else.
‘The toymaker asked me whether I understood what that meant. I replied that I did, without a moment’s hesitation. Of course he could have my heart. He was the only person who had ever been good to me. The only one to whom I mattered. He told me that, if I wished, he could get me out of there and I’d never have to see that house or that street, and especially my mother, again. Most importantly, he told me to stop worrying about the shadow. If I did what he asked of me, the future would open up to me; it would be bright, luminous.
‘He wanted to know whether I trusted him. I said of course I did. He then took out a small glass bottle, the type of flask you’d use for perfume. He opened it with a smile and what happened next was truly amazing. The best trick I’ve ever seen. My shadow, my reflection on the wall, was transformed into a cloud of darkness that was consumed by the bottle, captured for ever inside it. Daniel Hoffmann closed the bottle and gave it to me. The glass felt icy cold against my skin.
‘Hoffmann then explained that, from that moment on, my heart belonged to him and soon, very soon, all my problems would disappear – as long as I didn’t go back on my word. I told him I’d never do such a thing. He asked me to close my eyes and think about what I most wished for in the entire universe. While I was doing that, he knelt down in front of me and kissed my forehead. When I opened my eyes he was gone.
‘One week after my mother had locked me up, the police, alerted by someone who told them what was going on in my home, rescued me from that hole. My mother was found dead upstairs.
‘On the way to the police station, the streets were filled with fire engines. You could smell the acrid smoke in the air. Ashes were raining from grey, steely skies. The policemen who were escorting me took a detour and that was when I saw it: towering in the distance, Daniel Hoffmann’s factory was ablaze. It was the most terrible fire ever witnessed in Paris. Crowds who had been oblivious to it before now watched as the immense building burned to the ground. Suddenly everyone remembered the name of the character who had filled their childhood with dreams: Daniel Hoffmann. The watcher in the shadows had set his palace aflame. It was beautiful. Beautiful . . .
‘Flames and plumes of black smoke rose heavenward for three days and three nights, as if hell itself had opened its doors to the city. I was there and I saw it with my own eyes. A few days later, when all that was left of the building was a pile of smoking rubble, the newspapers published the story. You know the press, they always get it late and wrong – that is, when they don’t just go ahead and lie.
‘In time, the authorities located one of my mother’s relatives, who became my guardian. I moved to the south, to Antibes, to live with his family. I was raised and educated there, a normal life. Happy. Just as Daniel Hoffmann had promised. I even inven
ted a different past for myself: the story I told you.
‘The day I turned eighteen I received a letter. The Paris postmark was dated eight years earlier. In the letter, my old friend informed me that the law firm of a certain Monsieur Gilbert Travant, in the rue de Rivoli, held the title deeds to a residence on the coast of Normandy which would legally become mine when I came of age. The note, written on parchment, was signed with a D.
‘A few years passed before I took possession of Cravenmoore. By then I was a promising engineer and my designs for toys surpassed anything known to man or child. I soon realised that it was time for me to set up my own factory. At Cravenmoore. Everything was unfolding just as I had been told. Everything, until the “accident” occurred. It happened on 13 February in the rue Soufflot, as I was walking out of the Pantheon. Her name was Alexandra Alma Maltisse and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
‘All those years I’d kept the flask Daniel Hoffmann had given me that night, sequestered in a solid-steel box with a lock the combination of which only I knew. It remained as cold to the touch as it had always been. Colder than ice. So cold it cut your skin like the sharpest razor if you held it in your hand. But six months later, I forgot the promise I had made to him and gave my heart to that young woman. I was young and foolish and thought my life belonged to me, as all young and foolish people do. I married her and it was the happiest day of my life. The night before the wedding, which was to take place in Cravenmoore, I took the bottle containing my shadow, walked to the cliffs, and threw the bottle into the dark waters, sending it to oblivion.
‘A word of advice, Madame Sauvelle: never make promises you’re bound to break.’
The sun had begun its descent into the bay when Ismael and Irene glimpsed the rear wall of Seaview through the trees. Their exhaustion seemed to have retreated, as if waiting for a better moment to come back with a vengeance.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Irene, noticing Ismael’s pensive expression.
‘I’m thinking about how hungry I am.’
‘Me too.’
‘There’s nothing like a good fright to give you an appetite,’ Ismael joked.
Seaview was quiet. There didn’t appear to be anyone around. Two garlands of washing flapped on the clothes line. Ismael caught a fleeting glimpse of what looked like underwear. He stopped to consider what Irene might look like wearing it.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
The boy coughed.
‘Tired and hungry, that’s all.’
Irene tried to open the back door, but it appeared to be locked from the inside. She looked puzzled.
‘Mum? Dorian?’ she called. She took a few steps back and looked up at the windows on the first floor.
‘Let’s try the front,’ said Ismael.
She followed him round the house to the porch, where they found a carpet of broken glass. They both stood in shocked silence at the sight that met their eyes: the door destroyed and the windows smashed to smithereens. At first glance it looked as if there might have been a gas explosion, tearing the door off its hinges. Irene tried to stop the wave of nausea rising from the pit of her stomach. Terrified, she gave Ismael a look, then started walking towards the front door. He stopped her.
‘Madame Sauvelle?’ he called out from the porch.
The sound of his voice was lost inside the house. Cautiously, Ismael entered the building and examined the scene, Irene peering anxiously over his shoulder.
What greeted them was nothing short of devastation. Ismael had never seen the effects of a tornado, but he imagined they must be something like this.
‘My God . . .’
‘Mind the glass,’ Ismael warned Irene.
‘Mum!’
Her shout echoed through the house, like a spirit wandering from room to room. Without letting go of Irene’s hand, Ismael moved to the foot of the stairs.
‘We have to go up,’ she said.
They climbed the stairs, examining the trail that some invisible force had left behind. The first to notice that Simone’s room no longer had a door was Irene.
‘No!’
Ismael hurried over to the threshold and looked in. Nothing. One by one, they searched all the rooms on the first floor. All empty.
‘Where are they?’ asked Irene, her voice shaking.
‘There’s nobody here. Let’s go downstairs.’
From what they could see, the fight or whatever it was that had taken place there, had been brutal. Ismael made no comment, but a dark suspicion concerning the fate of Irene’s family crossed his mind. Irene wept quietly at the foot of the stairs, still in shock. Ismael’s mind was racing through their options, each more useless than the last, when they both heard someone knocking.
Irene looked up, tearful. Ismael nodded, lifting a finger to his lips. The knocks were repeated; dry with a metallic ring, they seemed to travel through the structure of the house. It took Ismael a few seconds to realise what the dull, muffled sounds were. Metal. Something or someone was banging against a piece of metal somewhere in the house. Ismael could feel the vibration beneath his feet and his eyes paused on a closed door in the passage that led to the kitchen.
‘Where does that door go?’
‘To the cellar,’ Irene replied.
Ismael put his ear on the wooden panel and listened carefully. The knocks were repeated again and again. He tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
‘Is someone in there?’ he shouted.
They could hear the sound of footsteps, coming up the stairs.
‘Be careful,’ whispered Irene.
Ismael moved away from the door. A faint voice could be heard on the other side. Irene hurled herself at the wooden panel.
‘Dorian?’
The voice muttered something.
Irene looked at Ismael.
‘It’s my brother . . .’
Ismael quickly realised that to break down a door was much more difficult than Hollywood films led you to believe. It was a good five minutes before the door finally yielded with the help of a metal bar they found in the larder. Covered in sweat, Ismael moved back and Irene gave the door a final pull. The lock – by now just a tangle of wooden splinters and rusty metal – fell to the floor.
A second later, a pale boy emerged from the darkness, his face rigid with fear. Dorian sheltered in his sister’s arms like a frightened animal. Irene glanced at Ismael. Whatever it was that Dorian had seen, it had left its mark on him. Irene knelt down and cleaned the dirt and tears off his face.
‘Are you all right, Dorian?’ she asked calmly, feeling his body for wounds or broken bones.
Dorian nodded.
‘Where is Mum?’
His eyes filled with anguish.
‘Dorian, this is important. Where is she?’
‘She . . . she was taken away,’ he babbled.
Ismael wondered how long Dorian had been trapped there, in the dark.
‘She was taken away . . .’ Dorian repeated, as if in a trance.
‘Who has taken her, Dorian?’ Irene asked. ‘Who has taken our mother?’
Dorian smiled in a strange way, as if the question was absurd.
‘The shadow,’ he replied. ‘The shadow took her.’
Irene took a deep breath and put her hands on her brother’s shoulders.
‘Dorian, I’m going to ask you to do something very important. Do you understand?’
Her brother nodded.
‘I want you to get to the village as fast as you can. Go to the police station, and tell the superintendent there’s been a terrible accident in Cravenmoore. Tell him Mum is there and she’s been hurt. Tell the police to come immediately. Do you understand?’
Dorian looked bewildered.
‘Don’t mention the shadow. Just tell the superintendent what I said. It’s very important . . . If you talk about the shadow, nobody will believe you. You must just say there’s been an accident.’
Ismael nodded in a
greement.
‘I need you to do this for me, and for Mum. Will you do it?’
Dorian looked at Ismael, then at his sister.
‘Our mother’s had an accident at Cravenmoore. She needs help urgently,’ the boy repeated mechanically. ‘But she’s all right . . . isn’t she?’
Irene smiled and hugged him.
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
Dorian kissed his sister on the cheek and went off in search of his bicycle. He found it leaning against the wooden rail on the porch. Lazarus’s gift was now just a mangled heap of cables and twisted metal. Dorian was still staring at the wreckage of his bicycle when Ismael and Irene appeared from the house.
‘Who would do something like this?’ asked Dorian.
‘You’d better hurry,’ Irene reminded him.
He set off at a run. As soon as he’d disappeared, Irene and Ismael walked back onto the porch. The sun was setting over the bay, a dark orb bleeding through the clouds. Their eyes met. They knew what awaited them in the heart of darkness beyond the forest.
12
DOPPELGÄNGER
‘There has never been a more beautiful bride standing at the altar,’ said the mask. ‘Never. I know most men will say that, but few truly believe it. I did and I do.
‘The happiness Alexandra brought into my life blotted out all the memories and misery that had filled my childhood. Such is the blessing of true love to those very few who experience it. It makes everything else irrelevant. God is cruel, for most of his creatures go through their empty lives without even being able to imagine what that is. True love also changes who we are. I stopped being that wretched boy from the poorest district of Paris. I forgot the long imprisonments in the dark and consigned the memory of my mother to the past. All of it I left behind me. And do you know why? Because Alexandra Alma Maltisse, my saviour, taught me that, contrary to what my mother had told me over and over again, I was not a bad person. That I deserved to be loved. Do you understand, Simone? I wasn’t evil. I was just like everyone else. I was innocent.’