Yet when I pointed him out to Raine one afternoon she denied that she knew him or had even seen him before. Sitting up on one elbow, she watched the sand-yacht beached three hundred yards away along the shore. The young man was walking along the tideline, searching for something among the broken hypodermic vials.
‘I can tell him to go away, Raine.’ When she shook her head, I said: ‘He was here. What happened between you?’
She turned on me sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’
I let it pass. Her eyes followed him everywhere.
Two weeks later I saw him again at closer quarters. Shortly after midnight I woke on the terrace of Raine’s villa and heard the familiar music coming from the deserted nightclub. Below, in the dim light, Raine Channing walked towards the dunes. Along the beach the thermal rollers whipped the white sand into fine waves.
The villa was silent. Mlle Fournier had gone to Red Beach for a few days, and the young chauffeur was asleep in his apartment over the garages. I opened the gates at the end of the dark, rhododendron-filled drive and walked towards the nightclub. The music whined around me over the dead sand.
The nightclub was empty, the record playing to itself on the deserted stage. I wandered through the tables, searching for any sign of Raine. For a few minutes I waited by the bar. Then, as I leaned over the counter, the slim-faced figure of the chauffeur stood up and lunged at me, his right fist aimed at my forehead.
Sidestepping into his arm, I caught his hand and rammed it on to the counter. In the darkness his small face was twisted in a rictus of anger. He wrenched his arm from me, looking away across the dunes to the lake. The music whined on, the record starting again.
I found them by the beach, Raine with her hand on the young man’s hip as he bent down to cast off the yacht. Uncertain what to do, and confused by his off-hand manner as he moved around Raine, I stood among the dunes at the top of the beach.
Feet moved through the sand. I was staring down at Raine’s face, its white masks multiplying themselves in the moonlight, when someone stepped behind me and struck me above the ear.
I woke on Raine’s bed in the deserted villa, the white moonlight like a waiting shroud across the terrace. Around me the shadows of demented shapes seethed along the walls, the deformed inmates of some nightmare aviary. In the silence of the villa I listened to them tearing themselves to pieces like condemned creatures tormenting themselves on their gibbets.
I climbed from the bed and faced my reflection in the open window. I was wearing a suit of gold lam which shone in the moonlight like the armour of some archangelic spectre. Holding my bruised scalp, I walked on to the terrace. The gold suit adhered itself to my body, its lapels caressing my chest.
In the drive Raine Channing’s limousine waited among the rhododendrons. At the wheel the slim-faced chauffeur looked up at me with bored eyes.
‘Raine!’ In the rear seat of the car there was a movement of white-clad thigh, a man’s bare-backed figure crouching among the cushions. Angered by having to watch the spectacle below in this preposterous suit, I started to tear it from my shoulders. Before I could shout again something seized my calves and thighs. I tried to step forward, but my body was clamped in a golden vice. I looked down at the sleeves. The fabric glowed with a fierce luminescence as it contracted around me, its fibres knotting themselves like a thousand zips.
Already breathing in uncertain spasms, I tried to turn, unable to raise my hands to the lapels that gripped my neck. As I toppled forward on to the rail the headlamps of the car illuminated the drive.
I lay on my back in the gutter, arms clamped behind me. The golden suit glowed in the darkness, its burning light reflected in the thousand glass panes of the house. Somewhere below me the car turned through the gates and roared off into the night.
A few minutes later, as I came back to consciousness, I felt hands pulling at my chest. I was lifted against the balcony and sat there limply, my bruised ribs moving freely again. The bare-chested young man knelt in front of me, silver blade in hand, cutting away the last golden strips from my legs. The fading remnants of the suit burned like embers on the dark tiles.
He pushed back my forehead and peered into my face, then snapped the blade of his knife. ‘You looked like a dying angel, Samson.’
‘For God’s sake…’I leaned against the rail. A network of weals covered my naked body. ‘The damn thing was crushing me… Who are you?’
‘Jason — Jason Kaiser. You’ve seen me. My brother died in that suit, Samson.’
His strong face watched me, the broken nose and broad mouth making a half-formed likeness.
‘Kaiser? Do you mean your brother -’ I pointed to the lam rags on the floor. ‘- that he was strangled?’
