The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

‘Damn you . . .’

Mopping the cold sweat from his forehead, he walked over to the bed and, with infinite care, pulled aside the curtains.

‘I’m sorry, dearest . . .’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

A strange sound caught his attention. The bedroom door was swinging from side to side. Lazarus stood up and cautiously walked towards it.

‘Who’s there?’ he said.

There was no reply, but the door stopped moving. Lazarus took a few steps into the corridor and scanned the darkness. By the time he heard the hissing above him, it was too late. A sharp blow to the back of his neck knocked him down, rendering him half unconscious. He could feel a pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him down the passage. He managed to get a glimpse of what was happening: Christian, the automaton he kept by the main door. The face turned towards him. A cruel glow lit up its eyes.

Moments later, Lazarus lost consciousness altogether.

Ismael sensed the arrival of dawn when the currents that had been pushing them towards the deepest part of the cave began to recede. The ocean’s invisible hands decided to let go of their prey, allowing him to drag Irene towards the highest point of the ceiling, where the water level afforded them a larger pocket of air. When the first shaft of daylight glinted on the sandy seabed, tracing a path towards the exit of the cave, Ismael let out a scream of joy that nobody, not even his friend, could hear. The boy knew that once the sea level began to fall, the cave would reveal the way out to the lagoon and the open air.

For the last couple of hours Irene had only kept afloat with Ismael’s help. She could barely stay awake and her body swayed in the current like a lifeless object. While he waited for the tide to allow them a passageway out of there, Ismael realised that, had he not been there, Irene would have died hours ago.

As he whispered words of encouragement she could not understand, Ismael recalled tales he’d heard from old sailors about their encounters with death. They said that when a person saved another at sea, their souls were for ever tied by an invisible thread.

Bit by bit, the current ebbed and Ismael managed to drag Irene towards the lagoon, leaving the mouth of the cave behind them. As the first light of day spilled over the horizon, the boy guided Irene to the shore. When she opened her eyes, she saw Ismael’s smiling face gazing down at her.

‘We’re alive,’ he said.

Irene let her eyelids drop in exhaustion.

Ismael took one last look at the colours of dawn illuminating the forest and the cliffs. It was the most marvellous sight he had ever witnessed. Then he lay down on the white sand and yielded to sleep. Nothing could have roused them from that slumber. Nothing.

11

THE FACE BENEATH THE MASK

The first thing Irene saw when she awoke was a pair of black eyes calmly observing her. She jerked backwards and the frightened seagull flew off. Her lips felt dry and sore, her skin so tight it ached. Her muscles were as limp as rags and her brain pure jelly. She felt a wave of nausea rising from the pit of her stomach. When she tried to sit up, she realised that the strange fire gnawing at her skin was in fact the sun. There was a bitter taste on her lips. What seemed to be a small beach surrounded by rocks floated about her like a merry-go-round. She had never felt so ill in her life.

She lay down again and became aware of Ismael’s presence next to her. If it hadn’t been for his fitful breathing, Irene would have sworn he was dead. She rubbed her eyes and placed one of her hands on his neck. A pulse. Irene stroked Ismael’s face and, after a while, he opened his eyes. The sun blinded him for a moment.

‘You look dreadful . . .’ he mumbled, trying to smile.

‘You haven’t seen yourself,’ replied Irene.

Like two castaways swept ashore by a storm, they stumbled to their feet and sear

ched for shade to protect them. They found it beneath the remains of a tree trunk that had fallen among the rocks. The seagull that had been watching them sleep alighted on the sand again, still curious.

‘What time could it be?’ asked Irene, fighting the hammering in her temples that accompanied every word.

Ismael showed her his watch. The face was full of water, and the second hand, which had come loose, looked like a petrified eel. He shaded his eyes with both hands and looked up at the sun.

‘It’s after midday.’

‘How long have we been asleep?’

‘Not long enough,’ replied Ismael. ‘I could sleep for a week.’

‘We can’t sleep now,’ Irene urged him.

He nodded and scanned the cliffs for a possible way out.

‘It won’t be easy. I only know how to get to the lagoon by sea . . .’