Lazarus seemed like a nervous schoolboy. Simone was watching him serenely.
‘I was just wondering whether you’d like to go with me,’ Lazarus concluded at last.
Simone remained silent. Lazarus’s smile melted away.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked . . . Please accept my apologies . . .’
‘Do you take sugar?’ Simone asked politely.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your tea. With or without sugar?’
‘Two spoonfuls.’
Simone stirred the sugar in, then passed the cup to Lazarus.
‘I think I’ve offended you,’ he said.
‘No, it’s just that I’m not used to being invited out. I’d love to come to the dance with you,’ she replied, surprised at her own decision. She had forgotten how comforting it could be to have someone take an interest in her. It felt good, although it also felt as if she was betraying poor Armand.
The conversation continued on the porch of Seaview, beneath the oil lamps which were swaying in the breeze. Seated on the wooden rail, Lazarus gazed at the sea of treetops murmuring in the forest.
Simone studied the toymaker’s face.
‘I’m glad you feel at home here,’ Lazarus remarked. ‘How are your children adapting to life in Blue Bay?’
‘I can’t complain. Quite the opposite. In fact, it appears that Irene is already hanging around with a boy from the village. Someone called Ismael. Do you know him?’
‘Ismael . . . of course. He’s a good boy, or so I’ve been told,’ said Lazarus rather distantly.
‘I hope so. I’m still waiting to be introduced.’
‘Young people are like that. Put yourself in their position,’ Lazarus ventured.
‘I suppose I’m doing what every mother does: making a fool of myself, being overprotective of a daughter who is almost fifteen.’
‘It’s only natural.’
‘I’m not sure she’d agree.’
Lazarus smiled, but didn’t comment.
‘What else do you know about him?’ asked Simone.
‘About Ismael? Well . . . not much,’ he began. ‘I hear he’s a good sailor. He’s supposed to be quite shy, doesn’t have many friends. The truth is, I don’t know much about what goes on locally either. But I don’t think you need to worry.’
The sound of voices meandered up to his window like the trail of smoke from a smouldering cigarette; it was impossible to ignore. Above the rumble of the sea he could still hear the words spoken by Lazarus and his mother down below; although, for a moment, Dorian wished their conversation had never reached his ears. There was something that worried him in every word, every sentence. Perhaps it was just the thought of listening to his mother chatting to a man who was not his father . . . even if that man was Lazarus, a person Dorian considered to be his friend. Perhaps it was the intimacy that seemed to colour everything they said. Or perhaps, Dorian concluded, it was his own jealousy and his obstinate belief that his mother would never again enjoy an adult conversation with another man. And that was selfish. Selfish and unfair. After all, apart from being his mother, Simone Sauvelle was also a woman in need of friendship and the company of someone other than her children. Any book could have told him that. Dorian considered the theoretical aspect of this way of thinking. On that level, everything seemed fine. The reality, however, was another matter.
Without switching on his bedroom light, Dorian crept closer to the window and peered down at the porch. ‘Selfish and, on top of that, a spy,’ whispered a voice inside him. Cloaked in the comfortable anonymity of darkness, Dorian could see his mother’s shadow projected across the floor of the porch. Lazarus was standing, staring out at the deep black ocean. The curtains that concealed Dorian fluttered in the breeze and, instinctively, he took a step back. His mother said something he couldn’t make out. It was none of his business, he decided, ashamed that he’d been prying.
Dorian was about to move away from the window, when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a movement in the dark. Quickly he swung round, all the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The room was buried in shadows, lit only by patches of bluish light that filtered through the curtains. He fumbled around the bedside table, searching for the switch on the lamp. It took his fingers a couple of seconds to locate it. As he pressed the switch, the metal coil inside the light bulb flared briefly, then went out, the sudden glare blinding him for a second. The darkness returned, thicker, like a deep well of black water.
‘The bulb’s blown,’ Dorian said to himself. ‘Happens all the time. The metal used to make the filament, tungsten, never lasts long.’ He’d learned that at school.
These reassuring thoughts vanished, however, when Dorian noticed the movement in the shadows once more. Or rather, of the shadows. A shape seemed to be moving in the dark in front of him. A black, opaque silhouette stopped in the middle of the room. ‘It’s watching me,’ he thought to himself. The shadow now seemed to be advancing towards him. Dorian realised that his knees were shaking from sheer terror.
He took a few steps back until the faint glow from the window enveloped him in a pale halo of light. The shadow paused on the edge of the darkness. Dorian clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and fought against the desire to close his eyes. Suddenly, he thought he heard someone uttering a few words. It took him a moment to re