Splinter

47

‘Christ! Who the hell are you?’ he demanded when he had recovered himself sufficiently not to turn and run. The psychological shocks he’d sustained in the last few hours had sensitized him to such an extent that he was becoming more and more fearful – and taking longer and longer to calm down.

The man, who looked even more frightened than Marc felt, was lying in the middle of the room on a bare iron bedstead.

‘Thank God,’ he groaned faintly.

He raised his head. That was all he could move, because his wrists and ankles were shackled to the bedframe. The flame of the lighter was reflected by the metal boiler on his left. As far as Marc could see by its feeble light, the man was wearing a suit and a tie, the knot of which had slipped sideways. It was hard to tell his age. Tall men tended to look older than they were.

‘What on earth’s going on here?’ Marc demanded. He came a step closer.

‘Water.’

The stranger tugged at his handcuffs. His fair hair was standing up all over his head. He looked like a comicbook character who has just received an electric shock.

‘Please bring me some water.’ His voice gave out on the last word.

‘Not until I know what you’re doing here.’

Marc caught a whiff of urine, presumably because the man had wet himself. Either from fear or because he’d been held captive for a considerable time.

But by whom?

For a moment Marc wondered whether it might be better to go outside and tell Emma. But he still didn’t know if he could trust her, and anyway, he doubted if she would be much help in her present state.

‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

‘I…’ The man paused to moisten a split lip with his tongue. ‘I’m here to warn you.’

‘About what?’

The man turned his head and looked towards the other end of the cellar, which was now in darkness. An old-fashioned mangle used to stand there, Marc recalled.

‘About the script,’ the man said softly.

‘What script?’

The man looked back at Marc, who involuntarily retreated a step.

‘My name is Robert von Anselm,’ he said. His voice sounded suddenly monotone, as if he were reciting something he’d learned by heart. ‘I’m your wife’s attorney.’

Nonsense.

‘You’re lying!’ The lighter flame flickered, Marc spat out the words so vehemently. ‘I always dealt with her legal affairs myself.’

‘No, no, no, you aren’t listening. I wasn’t your attorney or the family’s, just your wife’s.’

The bedstead creaked as the man’s head sank back on the springs.

Sandra’s attorney? Why should she have employed a stranger to handle her affairs?

‘She came to see me shortly before the accident,’ Marc heard the man whisper.

‘What for?’

‘To alter her will.’

To alter it? He hadn’t even known there was a will. Sandra had always refused to make one.

‘I assume she did so at her father’s insistence,’ the man added.

‘I don’t understand. What did she alter, and what does Constantin have to do with it?’

The man looked back at the dark corner on his right.

‘You remember the film script your wife was commissioned to write?’

‘Of course.’

We’d been celebrating it on the day of the accident.

‘Do you know how much her agent sold it to the American production company for?’

‘No.’

‘One point two million dollars.’

Marc laughed incredulously. ‘You’re lying.’

The attorney coughed. ‘What makes you so sure?’

‘You don’t get that kind of money for a film debut. Besides, Sandra would have told me. We didn’t have any secrets from each other.’

‘Really? Have you read the script?’

‘How could I? She died before she could write a word of it.’

‘Are you sure?’

No, I’m not. After today, I’m not sure of anything any more.

The man was still staring into the gloom on his right. Marc held up the lighter and peered in the same direction, then made his way around the bedstead. As he did so, the outlines of a desk came into view. It was standing right beside the gas boiler.

‘But I’ve read it,’ he heard the man behind him say hoarsely. ‘That’s why I’m here. I was going to drop it in to you. I wanted to warn you.’

Marc went over to the desk, which he’d never seen before. Looking quite as incongruous down here as the attorney shackled to the bedstead, it was far too small for an adult, with tiny little side drawers big enough to accommodate a textbook or exercise book at most. Stuck in the recess designed to hold the base of a reading lamp was the stub of an Advent candle.

Marc lit it. Lying on the desktop was a sheaf of paper held together on the left with a cheap plastic binding.

‘Hey, what about my water?’ the attorney croaked from behind him, in the dark once more.

The pages felt damp, as if they’d been lying in a box in the cellar for a while.

Marc brushed some dust off the top sheet and read the title:

SPLINTER

A screenplay by Sandra Senner

The stranger was whimpering now. ‘Please untie me!’

But Marc was past replying. He had already turned over the page and begun to read. The very first lines were a shock.