“Don’t tell anyone,” I told him. I was light-headed with fear, suddenly. “Look, you don’t understand. This—it has to stay just between us. If it somehow got back . . . look, my dad, he wouldn’t get it.” The thought of him finding out was like a punch to the gut, it winded me just thinking about it. I could see his face, hear his voice. Could still remember what he’d said when I told him I didn’t want that birthday gift, what was in that room: What’s wrong with you, son? Are you a faggot? The disgust in his voice.
He actually might kill me, I thought. If he suspected. He’d probably prefer that to having a son like me. At the very least, he’d disinherit me. And while I didn’t know how I felt about taking his money, I wasn’t ready to give it up just yet.
After Amsterdam I decided I never wanted to see Benjamin Daniels again. We drifted apart. I had a string of girlfriends. I left for the States for nearly a decade, didn’t look back. Yeah, there were a couple of guys there: the freedom of thousands of miles of land and water—even if I still always seemed to hear my father’s voice in my head. But nothing serious.
It doesn’t mean I didn’t think about that night later. In a way, I know I’ve been thinking about it ever since; trying not to. And then, all those years later: Ben’s email. It had to mean something, him getting in touch like that, out of the blue. It couldn’t just be a casual catch-up.
Except after that dinner on the terrace, when he’d so impressed Papa, I barely saw or spoke to him other than in passing. He even had time for the concierge, for God’s sake, but not me—his old friend. He was ensconced here practically rent-free. He’d taken what he needed and then cut loose. I began to feel used. And when I thought about how shifty he was each time I approached him I felt a little frightened, too, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. I thought of Antoine’s words about Papa disinheriting us on a whim. It had seemed like madness at the time. But now . . . I began to feel that I didn’t want Ben here after all. I began to feel that I wanted to take back the invitation. But I didn’t know how to do it. He knew too much. Had so much he could use against me. I had to find another way to make him leave.
The computer’s timer must have run out; the screen of my iMac goes black. It doesn’t matter. I can still see the image. I have been haunted by it for over a decade.
I think about how I nearly kissed his sister last night. The sudden, shocking, wonderful resemblance to him when she turned her head just so, or frowned, or laughed. And also the resemblance of the moment: the darkness, the stillness. The two of us held apart from the rest of the world for just a beat.
That night in Amsterdam. It was the worst, most shameful thing I had ever done.
It was the best thing that had ever happened to me. That was how I used to see it, anyway. Until he came to stay.
Jess
I wake in darkness. There’s a heavy weight on my chest, a horrible taste in my mouth, my tongue dry and heavy like it doesn’t belong to me. For a few long moments, everything that happened to me before now is a total blank. It feels like peering forward and staring into a black hole.
I grope around, trying to make out my surroundings. I seem to be lying on a bed. But which bed? Whose?
Fuck. What happened to me?
Gradually I remember: the party. That disgusting drink. Victor the vampire.
And then I see something I recognize. Some little green digits, glowing in the blackness. It’s Ben’s alarm clock. Somehow I’m back here, in the apartment. I blink at the numbers. 17:38. But that can’t be right. That’s the afternoon. That would mean I’ve been asleep for—Jesus Christ—the whole day.
I try to sit up. I make out two huge, glowing, slit-pupiled eyes a few inches from my nose. The cat is sitting on me—so that’s the weight on my chest. It starts kneading its claws into my throat in painful little darts. I push it away: it hops off the bed. I look down at myself. I’m fully clothed, thank God. And I remember now, in flashes of memory: Victor was the one who got me down here after I blacked out in Mimi’s apartment. Not the date-raping predator I suddenly thought he might be. In fact he’d seemed scared by the state I was in—left as quick as he could. I suppose at least he tried to help.
A flicker of memory. I found something last night. Something that felt important. But at first everything that happened only comes back to me in hazy, disjointed fragments. There are big missing patches like holes in a jigsaw. I know my dreams were really trippy. I recall an image of Ben shouting at me through a pane of glass; but I couldn’t see his face clearly, the glass seemed warped. He was trying to warn me of something—but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. And then suddenly I could see his face clearly but that was much, much worse. Because he didn’t have any eyes. Someone had scratched them out.
Now I remember the paintings under Mimi’s bed. Jesus Christ. That’s what I found last night. Those tears in the canvas, like she’d ripped them all apart in some kind of frenzy. The slashes, the holes where the eyes should have been. And Ben’s T-shirt, wrapped around them.
I haul myself out of bed, stumble into the main room. My head throbs. I might be small, but I’m not a cheap date—one drink is not enough to get me in that much of a state. It might not have been Victor, but I’m pretty sure of one thing: someone did this to me.
A loud trilling, so loud in the silence it makes me jump. My phone. Theo’s name flashes up on the screen.
I pick up. “Hello?”
“I know what that card is.” No niceties, no preamble.
“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
“The card you gave me. The metal one, with the firework on it. I know what it is. Look, can you meet me at quarter to seven? So—in about an hour? The Palais Royal Metro station; we can walk from there. Oh, and try and look as smart as possible.”
“I don’t—”
But he’s already hung up.
Mimi
Fourth floor
I put the stuff in her drink last night. It was so easy. There was ketamine going around and I got hold of some, shook the powder into her glass until it dissolved and asked one of Camille’s friends to give it to the British girl with the red hair. He seemed only too pleased to do it: she’s quite pretty, I suppose.
I had to do it. I couldn’t have her there. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it . . . I’ve been so careful my whole life about drugs—apart from that night in the park. And then to inflict them on someone else without them even knowing. That wasn’t cool. It’s not her fault she made the mistake of coming to this place. That’s the worst part. She’s probably not even a bad person.
But I know I am.
Camille comes out of her room wearing a silk slip, black rings of smudged makeup around her eyes. This is the first time she’s surfaced all day.
“Hey. Last night was craaaazy. People really enjoyed it, don’t you think?” She looks at me closely. “Putain, Mimi, you look like shit. What happened to your knees?” They still hurt from where I hit the tarmac in front of that van; the concierge insisted on dabbing some antiseptic onto the grazes. She grins. “Someone had a good night, non?”
I shrug. “Oui. I suppose so.” Actually it was probably one of the worst nights of my life. “But I didn’t . . . sleep well.” I didn’t sleep at all.