Jess

Jess

I grab hold of the sofa, drag it away from the wall. The cat jumps down from the desk and trots over, maybe hoping I’m going to reveal a mouse or some creepy crawlies. And yes, here it is: a door. No handle but I get a hold of the edge, wedge my fingers into the gap and pull. It swings open.

I let out a gasp. I don’t know what I’d expected: a hidden cupboard, maybe. Not this. Darkness greets me on the other side. The air as cold as if I’d just opened a fridge. There’s a smell of musty old air, like in a church. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I make out a stone staircase, spiraling up and down, dark and cramped. It couldn’t be more different from the grand sweeping affair beyond the apartment’s main door. I suppose from the looks of it this was probably some kind of servants’ staircase, like the maids’ rooms Sophie Meunier told me about upstairs.

I step inside and let the door swing closed behind me. It’s suddenly very dark. But I notice a chink of light showing through the door, slightly lower than head-height. I crouch and put my eye to it. I can see into the apartment: the living area, the kitchen. It looks like some kind of homemade spy hole. I suppose it could always have been here, as old as the building itself. Or it could have been made more recently. Someone could have been watching Ben through here. Someone could have been watching me.

I can still hear the footsteps heading downward. I turn on my phone’s flashlight and follow, trying not to trip over my own feet as the steps twist tightly round on themselves. This staircase must have been made for a time when people were smaller: I’m not exactly large, but it still feels like a tight squeeze.

A second of hesitation. I have no idea where this might lead. I’m not sure this is the best idea. Could I even be heading toward some sort of danger?

Well. It’s not like that’s ever stopped me before. I carry on downward.

I come to another door. Here, too, I spot another little spy hole. I press my eye to it quickly, look in. No sign of anyone about. I’m feeling a little disorientated but I suppose this must be the second-floor apartment: Ben’s friend Nick’s place. It looks like it might be pretty much the same layout as Ben’s, but it’s all whitewashed walls with nothing on them. Beyond the giant computer in the corner, some books, and what looks like a piece of exercise equipment it’s practically empty, with about as much character as a dentist’s surgery. It seems Nick has barely moved in.

The footsteps below me continue, urging me to follow. I carry on down, the light from my phone bouncing in front of me. I must be on the first floor now. Another apartment and there it is: another spy hole. I look through. This place is a mess: stuff everywhere, empty sharing-size crisp packets and overflowing ashtrays, side tables crowded with bottles, a standing lamp lying on its side. I take an involuntary step back as a figure looms into view. He’s not wearing his parka but I recognize him instantly: the guy from the gate, from that fight in the courtyard. Antoine. He appears to be swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He drains the last dregs then lifts up the bottle. Jesus: I jump as he smashes it against the side table.

He sways on the spot, looking at the jagged stump like he’s wondering what to do with it. Then he turns in my direction. For a horrible moment it feels like he’s staring directly at me. But I’m peering through a chink only a few millimeters wide . . . there’s no way he could possibly see me here. Right?

I’m not going to hang around to find out. I hurry on down. I must be passing the ground floor level, the entrance hall. A further flight of steps: I think I’m underground now. The air feels heavier, colder; I can imagine the earth surrounding me. Finally the staircase leads me to a door, swinging on its hinges—whoever I’m following has just stepped through it. My pulse quickens, I must be getting closer. I push through the door and even though it’s still just as dark on the other side I have the impression of having stepped into a wide, echoing space. Silence. No sound of footsteps. Where can they have gone? I must only be moments behind.

It’s colder down here. It smells of damp, of mold. My phone throws only a very weak beam into the darkness but I can see the orange glow of a light switch across from me. I press it and the lights come on, the little mechanical timer clicking down: tick tick tick tick tick. I’ve probably only got a couple of minutes before it goes dark again. I’m definitely in the basement: a wide, low-ceilinged space easily double the size of Ben’s apartment; several doors leading off it. A rack in the corner that holds a couple of bikes. And leaning against one wall there’s a red moped. I walk over to it, take out the set of keys I found in Ben’s jacket, fit the Vespa one into the ignition and turn. The lights hum on. It hits me: so Ben can’t be away on his bike somewhere. I must have been leaning against it because it tilts under me. It’s now that I see that the front wheel is flat, the rubber completely shredded. An accident? But there’s something about the total decimation that feels intentional.

I turn back to the basement. Perhaps whoever it was has disappeared behind one of those doors. Are they hiding from me? A shiver of unease as I realize I may now be the one being watched.

I open the first door. A couple of washing machines—one of which is on, all the clothes whizzing around in a colorful jumble.

In the next room I smell the bins before I see them, that sweetish, rotten scent. Something makes a scuffling sound. I shut the door.

The next is some sort of cleaning cupboard: mops and brooms and buckets and a pile of dirty-looking rags in the corner.

The next one has a padlock on the door but the door itself is open. I push inside. It’s stuffed full of wine: racks and racks of it, floor to ceiling. There might be well over a thousand bottles in here. Some of them look seriously old: labels stained and peeling, the glass covered in a layer of dust. I pull one out. I don’t know much about wine. I mean, I’ve worked in plenty of bars but they’ve been the sort of place where people ask for “a large glass of red, love” and you get the bottle thrown in for an extra couple of quid. But this, it just looks expensive. Whoever’s keeping this stuff down here clearly trusts their neighbors. And probably won’t notice if just one little bottle goes missing. Maybe it’ll help me think. I’ll pick something that looks like it’s been down here for ages, something that they’ll have forgotten about. I find the dustiest, most cobweb-covered bottles on the bottom racks, search along the rows, pull one out a little way. 1996. An image of a stately home picked out in gold. Château Blondin-Lavigne, the label reads. That’ll do.

The lights go out. The timer must have run down. I look for a light switch. It’s so dark in here; I’m immediately disorientated. I step to the left and brush up against something. Shit, I need to be careful: I’m basically surrounded by teetering walls of glass.

There. Finally I spot the little orange glow of another light switch. I press it, the lights hum back on.

I turn to find the door. That’s odd, I thought I left it open. It must have swung shut behind me. I turn the handle. But nothing happens when I pull. The door won’t budge. What the hell? That can’t be right. I try it again: nothing. And then again, putting everything into it, throwing all my weight against it.

Someone’s locked me in. It’s the only explanation.