Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  She threw her dressing gown back over the covers and dived into the still warm bed. This time she was determined to get to sleep. She closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing each part of her body, limb by limb.

  Eventually she began to doze off, but then she thought of Richard and was immediately awake again. She often thought of him, but tonight the memories were particularly vivid. It was that lovely night sky. She could almost see the little attic room. She missed him terribly.

  She relaxed her body again and tried counting sheep.

  Bump!

  She was wide awake instantly.

  A sound. Something nearby.

  She stayed perfectly still, listening to the roar of the silence. But nothing.

  Perhaps the sound had come from further away after all, from the street …

  She stiffened.

  A sound. This time a faint scratching. Close.

  She sat upright, her heart hammering in her ears, and strained to locate the origin of the noise.

  At first she couldn’t hear anything, then it came again, a soft, barely audible scratching. An animal? It must be … She tried to see, but with the shutters closed it was very dark; the only light came from a small gap under the door, and then it was the faintest sliver.

  Very slowly, she pulled on her dressing gown and did up the cord. Then she swung her legs out of bed and, careful to make no noise, stood up. She listened again.

  The scratching had stopped.

  She felt her way slowly past the bed and across the room until she reached the door. She put her ear against it. Nothing. Automatically, she checked the key and the bolt to make sure the door was securely locked. She put her hand up to the light switch, then changed her mind and moved slowly back to the centre of the room. She stood absolutely still, straining her ears.

  This time the scratching, when it came, was louder.

  Now she’d placed the sound. It was coming from near the window. She crept forward and, stooping down, listened again. A mouse, probably …

  The sound was muffled now and very soft again. She crept right up to the window and waited, completely still.

  Nothing.

  There was silence again. It lasted a long time. She almost gave up.

  Click!

  Julie jumped and looked up. There was a sudden movement. A rectangle of light appeared in the window where the shutter had been.

  Julie screamed.

  The head and shoulders of a man were silhouetted against the light.

  She cried, ‘God!’ and staggered back against the bed.

  The silhouette suddenly vanished. Julie stared in horror at the place where the man had been, the image of the crouching figure engraved on her mind. It was him, it had to be! It was him.

  She couldn’t move, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window. Was he still there? She pressed the back of her knees against the bed and reached out for the bedpost.

  Silence again.

  She tried to gather her wits, but all she could think was: It’s him! It’s him!

  The silence stretched on.

  Suddenly, another movement.

  She stifled a scream.

  An arm. At the window. It had something in its hand. It was reaching for the latch.

  She cried, ‘No!’ and scrabbled around looking for something – anything. Desperately she lunged at the chest and pulled out a drawer. Raising it above her head, she ran to the window and rammed it against the frame.

  She shouted, ‘No-o-o!’ and pushed the drawer harder and harder against the window.

  For a while she stayed there, her head against the drawer, murmuring ‘God!’ over and over again.

  Then she moved her head away from the drawer and listened.

  Not a sound.

  She raised her head and looked. The arm had vanished.

  She waited, frozen with indecision. He must have gone – or had he? For a moment she could have sworn he was still there, waiting under the window sill, poised to pop his head up like some ghastly jack-in-a-box … The next minute, she was sure he wasn’t there at all.

  But if he wasn’t there, where had he gone?

  She knew one thing: she had to get away! With an enormous effort of will, she dodged to one side of the window and, shaking violently, put the drawer down on top of the chest. Then, with her eyes fastened on the window, she retreated to the bed and slipped off her dressing gown. She reached down for her coat and pulled it on over her nightdress. She fumbled with two buttons and gave up the rest.

  Shoes … God, where were her shoes? She felt around with her feet and touched one. She bent down and pulled it on. Crouching lower, she put a hand under the bed. Nothing. She almost cried out. She reached further. The second shoe was right under the bed. Panicking, she grabbed at it and pulled it hastily on.

  All the time she watched the window. Nothing.

  Slowly she stood upright and moved sideways towards the door. Quietly she did slid back the bolt and turned the key in the lock. She listened carefully. Silence.

  She gripped the handle, turned it and opened the door a little. A beam of light darted in from the landing. She paused, suddenly full of doubt. Slowly she put her eye to the crack.

  She could see the W.C. and the bathroom opposite, then the lift, and to the right, the beginnings of the stairs.

  The landing – what she could see of it – was empty.

  It was now or never.

  She flung open the door, ran out and stopped dead.

  A scream stuck in her throat.

  He was standing against the wall at the top of the stairs, crouching slightly, poised like a cat.

  She stared at him, horror-struck. The face was livid and ugly, the angry scars red against the pallor of his skin.

  But it was Vasson all right. She recognised the eyes. Hard. Dark. Glittering in the dim light. Watching her carefully.

  For a moment they were both still, staring at one another.

  Then he moved.

  She cried out and went rapidly backwards, past the door of her room, along the landing. She looked wildly over her shoulder. Where was the black soldier?

  She drew a deep breath and tried to shout. The Help! came out as a gurgle. Vasson was coming faster now, poising himself to spring. A wall came up against her back. She screamed at last.

  Vasson sprang forward. She dodged sideways but he caught her hair and pulled her head back with a snap. She cried out in pain. He clamped his hand over her mouth, digging his fingers into her cheek. She kicked out and pushed him away with her arms. But his other hand closed firmly round the back of her neck.

  She lashed out again with her feet and felt her shoes fly off. She tried to claw at his face but he was keeping her at arm’s length, gripping her head tightly between his hands.

  He started to drag her across the floor. Panic clutched her. She struggled, throwing herself desperately from side to side, trying to tear the hand away from her face.

  God, where was the black soldier? Surely he’d heard!

  Vasson was pulling her faster now. She tried to dig her heels into the thin carpet, but he yanked her off balance and her feet went from under her. Her legs cartwheeled as she tried to regain her grip.

  He gave a final heave, something hard bumped against her side and then it went dark. They were in her room.

  She heard the door close and struggled harder. She kicked viciously in all directions and heard him inhale sharply as her foot met his shin. Her next shot hit the bedpost and jarred her leg.

  She aimed for his shin again but suddenly her head was being jerked sideways, fast. There was a moment of dizziness, then a sickening thud as her skull hit something solid. She saw stars and stopped struggling.

  Still dazed, it took her a moment to realise what was happening. He had pushed her down on to the bed and had moved his hand away from her mouth. She opened her mouth uncertainly, gathering strength to scream, then froze. There was something tight on her throat. His hands … round her neck. G
etting tighter.

  Cold terror gripped her. Then she really started to fight.

  She tore at his hands, digging her nails deep into the skin. She kicked with her feet, great wheeling kicks that circled the air. She felt him shift his body over hers, to stop the kicking. She pulled up her knees in a quick movement. She got him in the groin, not very hard, but he pulled back slightly. She arched her back and wriggled sideways on to the floor. His hands loosened slightly as he followed her, then he gripped again, much tighter.

  She couldn’t breathe. She tore at his hands again. His hands were the only things that mattered. His hands. Then she remembered she must kick too. She thrashed her body from side to side, striking out with her feet. She felt something in her stomach – something heavy, squashing her – a knee.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Air. She must have air. She panicked completely. She kicked out again, wildly, twisting her body round, pushing against something solid, wrenching her hips out from under his knee, lashing out again. Kick! Kick!

  There was a loud crash!

  Then a splintering and breaking sound, followed by a muffled exclamation. The hands round her neck loosened. She opened her eyes. In the pale light she saw him pushing off a darker object – the wardrobe.

  She scrabbled away like a crab and made for the window. She heard him get to his feet and start after her. She threw herself at the window and wrestled with the latch. He was almost on her.

  She ducked and screamed, really loudly this time. She screamed until he got her firmly by the throat again. This time he squeezed very tight straight away.

  This was it. She couldn’t struggle any more.

  Breath, no breath. G-o-d. Agony.

  Her ears were roaring and singing, her body was screaming …

  She felt as if her head would burst …

  G-o-d. I’m going to die …

  A fog spread over her in a claustrophobic blanket.

  Blackness.

  Then a vague perception.

  Awareness again.

  I don’t understand.

  A voice, a movement, the weight lifting off her body. The hands leaving her throat. She drew in great gulps of air, enormous greedy gasps of air, and felt the coolness shoot down into her lungs.

  She opened her eyes, bewildered, dazed. There was light, a yellow light from the door. Someone else. A voice. A deep voice …

  Everything faded for a second. She made an enormous effort and opened her eyes again. A large shape was filling the doorway. Voices. The black soldier. ‘Hey … Hey,’ he was saying. ‘What’s happening, little lady?’

  Julie blinked and sat up. Giddiness hit her in a wave.

  Vasson was crouched, watching the soldier like a hawk.

  Julie’s head cleared. She looked from Vasson to the figure in the doorway. Realisation came. This was her only chance. She got uncertainly to her feet, her head splitting with pain, and staggered towards the door. Vasson sprang up and grabbed her arm.

  Julie shouted at the soldier, ‘Help me! Help me!’

  The soldier swayed forward a little. Vasson dropped Julie’s arm. The soldier said, ‘Hey! Hey! Let us all cool down now. Hey!’ Julie dimly realised he was still very drunk.

  She stumbled to the doorway and began to squeeze past the soldier. He swayed towards her and she caught the whiff of drink. He grasped her hand. ‘Now, why don’t we all relax, hey? What’s the problem, little lady?’

  She cried, ‘Please! He’s trying to kill me! Please let me go, let me get away. Please.’

  ‘Now, now … Why don’t we all relax, hey?’ He leered at her, his large face inches from hers.

  She darted under his arm and staggered across the landing and down the stairs. She tried to run two steps at a time, but tripped and fell against the banisters. She took them singly then, her limbs shaking, her lungs gasping, begging for breath.

  Faster, she had to go faster.

  Third floor—

  Above her she heard a voice raised in argument, then silence. Her leg gave way under her. She lurched to one side, grabbed the banister, and pushed herself forward.

  Second floor—

  She ran on, her legs wobbling terribly, half-listening for other sounds. All she could hear was the hammering of her heart and the rasping of her lungs.

  First floor. Just one more. As she raced across the landing and launched herself at the last flight of stairs something caught her eye and she glanced hastily upwards.

  Legs. Running legs, beyond the wire mesh of the lift-shaft. Above, but coming fast.

  She gave a little cry and hurtled on. She jumped the last step into the lobby. The front door beckoned ahead. She ran for it.

  She stopped dead.

  No! He’d get her in the street.

  She looked wildly about and darted sideways, past the desk and down a dark passage. On one side, she knew, was the dining room. Not in there! Nowhere to hide.

  On the other side was the kitchen. Kitchens had back doors. Still running, she took a quick look over her shoulder. No-one in sight. She pushed at the kitchen door. It was a swing door and opened easily. She fell in and, panting wildly, spun round to grip the door and close it slowly so it wouldn’t swing back the other way. The door had a circular window in it. She peered through. Nothing.

  It was dark in the kitchen but there was a large window along one side and by its pale light she could just make out the lines of the room. There was a large table in the centre. She shuffled round. There must be a door. She reached the far corner. A door. She opened it. Cupboard. She closed it again and looked over her shoulder.

  God. He’d be here any moment … God.

  She felt her way forward. A recess here … Behind it – a passageway! She stumbled down, the flagstones cold under her bare feet. Yes! A door! She gave a small sigh of relief.

  She tried the door. It was locked. She found a key in the lock, turned it and tried again. Still locked. She gulped. God, please let it open.

  Desperately, she felt the surface of the door with her hand. There must be a bolt. There was one at the bottom. She exhaled in triumph. It slid back quite easily. She tried the door again.

  It still wouldn’t move.

  She imagined Vasson creeping along the passage towards the kitchen door. She muttered, ‘Please, God, please!’

  She felt the door again and guessed there must be another bolt right at the top out of her reach. She felt around for something to stand on. There was an object by the door. A fire extinguisher. She put her bare foot on it and, balancing precariously, reached up.

  Her hand fell straight on to the top bolt and she tugged at it quickly. It wouldn’t budge. She made another effort and tugged harder. At last it shifted, but slowly, the noise rasping loudly in the stillness. At the same time her foot slipped and she landed heavily on the flagstones. The fire extinguisher clattered over, rolling noisily along the passage.

  She wanted to scream.

  She held her breath and shivered violently. The extinguisher stopped its roll and there was a terrible silence.

  She staggered to her feet, her hands shaking wildly.

  She tried the door. This time it opened.

  She closed it again and leant against it, trembling.

  At the front door Vasson froze, his fingers on the handle.

  It had sounded like something falling, a vague clattering. From the back of the hotel somewhere.

  He listened for a moment, but apart from the panting of his own breath there was silence.

  He decided to check the street anyway. If she’d gone that way he’d still be able to see her.

  He threw open the door and darted out. Nothing. No running figure, no moving shadows. Just to be sure, he sprinted to the other side of the street and looked wildly up and down. But she wasn’t there.

  The hotel, then.

  He ran softly back across the street and into the lobby, closing the door quietly behind him.

  There were several doors off the lobby an
d two passages. Starting on the left he began trying the doors methodically, one by one.

  *

  Silence.

  Where was he? When he came for her what would she do? Run? God, he’d catch her just like that!

  She thought for a moment, then made herself creep back towards the kitchen and peer in. The room was empty and quite still. She looked towards the far door. Its round window, faintly lit by the distant lobby light, stared back at her, blank and expressionless.

  She forced herself to go right into the kitchen. She crept towards the table and felt along its length. There must be a drawer! There wasn’t.

  The hackles on her neck began to rise. He was getting nearer, she felt it …

  I can’t stand this!

  Along one wall was a dresser. Lots of drawers here. Hurrying now she tried one. Papers, all papers … The next drawer, better … Spoons, large ones … Forks … But no knives. She fumbled with the last drawer.

  Open! Damn you, open!

  At last! … Knives, neither large nor sharp, but knives. She picked one up and, looking hastily over her shoulder, started for the back passageway. Something caught her eye. The cooking range. Something behind. She stopped.

  Knives, lots of them. Long kitchen knives …

  She threw the small knife aside and picked up a long one. She touched it: very sharp.

  She looked over her shoulder and darted down the passageway. Weak with relief, she fell against the door. She thought for a moment and deliberately turned the key in the lock – he might come at her from the outside.

  Then she waited, her fingers round the key. Ready.

  She leant her head against the door and breathed deeply. Her neck was hurting horribly and her head was stabbing with pain. Worse, her legs were like jelly. She wouldn’t be able to run …

  She bit her lip. Must hold on.

  The silence crept on endlessly.

  She couldn’t believe how long it was—

  She wanted to fling open the door and run. But no. He might be outside … Better to wait.

  Her shaking fingers slipped off the key. She gripped the key again, more firmly.