The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

‘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.