Page 14 of Mr. North
I take my cue from him and I keep quiet. I open the game, already plotting how I will lose. Raphael doesn’t look up at me. He watches the board with such a single-minded focus that I doubt he really even knows I’m here. I can’t decide which version of Raphael is more unnerving: the impolite version of him that asks impolite questions, or the brooding, silent version of him that hardly acknowledges my presence. He plays furiously, barely waiting for me to put down my pieces before he’s picking up one of his and making his next move.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Then fifteen.
I claim his pieces, and he claims mine. Twenty minutes into the game, he slumps back in his chair, rubbing his index finger along the line of his chin, looking out of the window. “Congratulations,” he says.
“I’m sorry, what ?”
“Congratulations. You have me in four moves.”
“No, no, I—” I check the board, and I see it. Four simple moves and my rook will have him in checkmate. Damn it! How the hell did that even happen ? I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing. “Would you like to go again?” I ask. “That was a pretty fast game.”
“Honestly, I don’t want to play. I’ve had an…interesting day.”
“Oh. Okay, well…” What does that mean? Am I being dismissed? He doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for company. Not that he did last time, either, but there you go.
“Do you read?” Raphael says.
“Yes, of course. I read all the time.”
He finally tears his gaze away from the window, looking right at me. “Have you ever read any of Anatoly Vasiliev’s books?”
“No, I haven’t.”
He grunts, a sound of disappointment. “He wrote a novel called, Waking Dreams in the Garden of Men . It’s about this guy who wakes up one morning, goes to work…” Raphael pauses, looking out over the city again, frowning, as if something’s caught his attention. “He goes to work, and all of his friends, the people he’s worked with for many years, are all gone. Replaced with strangers, who all seem to know him, know personal details about his life, his family…they all seem to share personal experiences with him, and yet he doesn’t know a single one of them. When he goes home, there’s a guy waiting for him inside his house. He claims he’s his brother, but the man doesn’t have a brother. He has sisters. Three sisters. He checks his house for their photographs so he can show them to the imposter who’s broken into his home, but all he can find are pictures of the two of them together. He spends the rest of the book trying to figure out if he’s dreaming in this bizarre new world, or if his other life was the dream all along, and where he finds himself now is real.”
“That sounds confusing,” I offer. “I’m not sure it’s my kind of book.”
“It’s horrible,” he says slowly. “It’s not anyone’s kind of book.”
“Then why did you read it?”
He blinks at me, like this is the most bizarre question I could possibly have asked in this moment. “Because it’s a work of fiction,” he says. “I like reading fiction. It’s not real. You can close the book and end the story whenever you like. Would you like to go up to the roof with me now, Ms. Dreymon?”
“The roof? I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s…cold .” Cold is the first word that springs to mind. What I want to say is it’s too fucking high. I’m afraid I’ll fall over the railings and tumble to my death.
“Okay,” Raphael says. “In that case, would you like to see something no one else has ever seen before?”
Thalia would have a quip about his dick on the tip of her tongue right now. She’d definitely have some crass little comment to fire back at him. Plenty of women have seen Raphael’s dick if the media are to be believed, but she’d make it work somehow. Instead, I say, “Okay. So long as it doesn’t involve heights.”
Raphael smirks—the first sign of amusement from him since, well…since we met. “No heights, I promise.”
He gets up and holds out his hand to me. “Come with me.”
My hand feels dwarfed in his; it’s been a long time since I’ve been held by my hand, and it’s a strange feeling. A thrill of…something fires through me. His skin is hot, burning almost. His fingers intertwine with mine, and I can’t hide my surprise. It’s not the way someone would take another person’s hand if they’re showing them the way. It’s the handhold of lovers, people who care deeply about each other. Raphael doesn’t seem to notice the startled look on my face as he guides me toward the door he disappeared through at the end of our last meeting. Nor does he let go of my hand. He’s a man on a mission as he pulls me through the door and into a short hallway. This time there are no doors on either side, only a wide marble staircase leading upward at the other end of the hall. There are mountings, on the walls, though. Gold hooks drilled into the bare brickwork, where pictures obviously used to hang. They’ve all been removed now, though, it seems.
Raphael finally releases his hold on me at the foot of the stairs. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he asks, as he begins to head up.
“No.”
“Good. This test room has to be completely pitch black for the technology to work.”
At the top of the stairs, he hurries me along another hallway—this place is huge—and then opens a door to his right. Flicking a light on, he gestures me inside, then closes the door behind me. The room is small, maybe only four meters by six. The walls are lined with a thick, black felt, and the floor is protected with some sort of rubberized coating. My pulse races away from me as Raphael locks the door. Shit, shit, shit…
“Don’t lock yourself away with people you don’t know. Never be alone with people, especially men, Elizabeth. It’s not safe. It’s never safe.” My mother’s words echo inside my mind, like a death toll. I should be more careful. I should have asked to keep the door open or something. If he’s locked it…
