I hurl myself off the short flight of stairs that connects the old part of the hotel with the new wing. I land heavily, almost fall, stagger, struggle to maintain balance, keep running. I can feel him coming, I can hear his feet pounding down the stairs after me. I can’t outrun him.
I swing round another corner and throw myself at another door.
Why would a hotel door be unlocked? I’m a fly batting itself against a windowpane.
The chances are a million to one, but…
Somehow, I know the next door will open.
And it does.
My fingers shake as I drag the security chain into place and twist the deadbolt. I back away from the door, listening to my own panicky, gasping breath, swallowing and swallowing like I’m drowning.
He’ll sniff you out.
I can’t stay here. Whoever he is – whatever he is – he’s either going to find me or he’s going to head downstairs and find Farah and Chiu.
I go to the window and press my forehead against the glass. Third, fourth floor? I don’t remember exactly. The sheer face of the stone wall drops beneath me, offering nothing. There’s ivy reaching up to the next window along but it’s too far. I’d have to climb out somehow, balance on the window ledge and jump for it. I look down: gravel path, a few bushes. I wonder what happens if you die in this world.
The window is not an option.
I rush over to the door and peer through the peephole. No sign, just the empty hallway, twisted by the lens into something that looks more like a fairground ride.
The room is like nothing I’ve seen before: wood-panelled walls; a sofa; minibar; vast four-poster bed. I imagine what Farah would make of this place. I imagine her parading around and pretending to be a rich guest planning her day.
I turn from the door to the window and from the window to the door. If he’s gone, then I need to get back down and warn Farah and Chiu. If he’s not, then all I’ve done is corner myself.
I look at the door. And I know he’s there. I catch a glimpse of him turning. I don’t see, not exactly, but I know he smiles, takes a step back.
A moment later the door shudders and bucks against its deadbolt.
He’s kicking the door down.
Any last shred of hope that I might be imagining the danger is swept away. Regular people don’t kick down doors.
Another loud crash and the door shifts a little in its frame. It won’t hold.
The window is starting to seem more appealing.
I rush over and pull up the sash. It bangs uselessly against a safety bolt, refusing to open more than a few inches. There’s a catch and an intricate, childproof mechanism to unhook it. My fingers tremble and fumble, but I eventually figure it out.
SLAM!
It’s too late.
“Don’t worry, mate,” a voice says. “I got you.”
I spin round and the man is moving towards me. The sweat on his face shines with reflected light from the ordinary world. He moves quickly, unnaturally so. A series of jump cuts instead of steps.
Just do it. Jump!
But I’m too scared. I hesitate.
The man slams into me and keeps going, smashing me against the wall next to the window. My head snaps backwards and crunches painfully against the plaster. A bolt of lightning cracks through my skull. The wind whooshes out of my lungs and I feel as if my chest has crumpled into itself.
The man stares at me. He’ll sniff you out. His eyes are light blue. He smells of woodsmoke and sweat. He reaches behind his back and produces a knife.
No, not just a knife. A hunting knife.
Its thick blade is as long as my forearm, sharp and curved on one side, serrated on the other. Its vicious, elongated point presses against my chest.
“Just a boy,” the man whispers regretfully. His face is close to mine, inhaling me, studying me. “No use to anyone.”
He has me pinned. One arm is pressed across my chest, holding me, the other angled back so he can hold the knife at a perfect right angle against my chest, ready for a single shove to drive it right through me. I try to push him off, but he doesn’t move. He’s so strong he hardly seems to notice.
I have about five seconds to live unless I do something, but my mind is frozen.
I don’t even have enough thoughts to be scared of dying anymore. Just a faint, distant regret that I wish I’d had a chance to tell Farah how I felt about her.
“Shh, shh, shh.” The man hushes me, his voice almost kind as he leans forward, his face very close to mine. His breath smells damp, like an old cellar. “Time to meet your Maker, son. You ready?” he whispers.
Then…
He stops. His nose curls and he sniffs, once, quickly.
His expression changes and I feel the pressure against my chest loosen. He smiles and suddenly everything is different. The knife vanishes and he takes a step backwards, almost apologetic. I stumble now that I am no longer pinned and he reaches forward to steady me. He smiles again, gives me a concerned look.
“You’re OK, son,” he says. His voice is warm. His eyes study mine. “You’re safe now. You’re lucky I found you.”
