The Red Room by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

business-like as well. I was the
doctor, friendly but not a friend.
I pressed the doorbell, but couldn't hear if
it was ringing upstairs. There was no reply. I
rang again and waited. Still no one came. I
pushed against the door and it swung open. I
stepped inside, and called: "Hello?
Michael?" My voice hung in the msty air.
The stairs were narrow and bare. Balls of
fluff lay on the boards. The stairwell was
painted hospital green. I put my hand on the
varnished banister, which was tacky to the touch, as if
lots of sticky fingers had held it before mine.
There was hardly room for the two of us. I went first
and Furth followed, as if we were climbing a
winding staircase in the turret of a 65
castle. As I went up the flight of steps
toward the door at the top, I became aware of a
thick, meaty smell. Suddenly I knew this was
all wrong. "We can't do this," I said to Furth,
in a low voice.
"What do you mean?" Furth hissed. "Have you
lost your nerve?"
I shook my head. "No, no. I need
to see him on my own."
"What are you talking about? I can't let you do
that, for Chrissake."
"Don't you see? You and me and him all over
again. What would he think?"
Furth looked around desperately, as if there
was someone else on the stairs who could take
charge. "You're not going in there on your own."
"You told me he was a petty little pervert.
What's the problem?"
"I've told you, I think he's a killer."
I thought. "You stay on the stairs. I'll
tell him you're there. It'll work."
Furth was silent for a moment. "I'll be right
outside. Just shout and I'll be in. Do you hear
me? One second's doubt and you scream,
Kit."
"Perfect." I said, taking a deep breath.
"Stay a few steps down until I'm inside.
Michael?" I called again, and rapped firmly
against the door, painted in the same depressing
green.
Someone slid a chain lock into place, then
pulled the door open a couple of inches. "What
do you want?"
A tiny segment of Doll's face peered out
at me. His eyes looked slightly bloodshot;
his pasty forehead was covered in dozens of tiny
under-the-skin pimples. The smell was stronger now.
"It's Kit Quinn, Michael. Dr.
Quinn. The police phoned about me dropping
by."
"But I wasn't expecting, I haven't ...
It's a mess in here. You're too early.
Everything's a mess."
"That doesn't matter at all."
"Wait. Wait." The door shut on me and
I could hear sounds of him clearing up; things were being
dragged across the floor, drawers slamming shut,
a tap running.
A few minutes later the door opened, this time
full. Doll was there. I made myself 67
smile and I saw him smile back. I made
myself step forward.
He had brushed his lank hair back behind his
ears, and dabbed some kind of lotion over himself. The
sweet smell of it, combined with the meaty odor,
caught in my nostrils.
I made myself hold out my hand. I saw it was
quite steady. He shook it delicately, as if it
was a bomb that might go off. His palm was soft and
sweaty against mine. He couldn't meet my eye.
"Hello, Michael," I said, and he stood
back to let me into the room. As I stepped over
the threshold, I heard a low growl, then a dark
shape hurtled toward me. I saw yellow
teeth, a red tongue, shining eyes, and smelled the
fierce reek of its breath against me before Doll
pulled it off.
"Down, Kenny!" Kenny was big and
blackish-brown, with a large amount of Alsatian
in him. "Sorry. Sorry."
"That's fine. He didn't even touch me."
The chemical rush of fear sluiced through my
veins. The growl was still rumbling at the back of
Kenny's throat.
"No. I'm so sorry. So sorry."
"Oh. You mean about this." I touched my face
and he stared at the scar.
"Sorry," he said again. "Sorry sorry
sorry. I didn't mean ... It was just the way
they treat you ... It wasn't really my fault,
you were just there and they said things."
"I'm not here to talk about that, Michael."
"You're with them."
"I'm not with them. I want to be straight with
you.