On the way back to his room, Vidor paused to examine the jagged line of the mountains rising above the valley, only to be seized by an attack of vertigo as the world revolved under his feet. On the other side of the gardens, screened by a wall of shrubbery, lay the vast bowl of open space. Strange that there wasn’t a sturdier fence to protect them from their baser impulses. As long as he could remember, Vidor had loathed standing on any kind of high place, be it cliff, bridge, or parapet. Terrified of the siren call of the infinite ether, l’appel du vide. Not that he harboured a wish to die, but the compulsion to launch his body into the tantalising emptiness might someday prove too much.

Sweat broke out on his brow as he stumbled up the steps of his chalet. The bearded attendant at the front desk glanced up as he hurried past and pushed open the door to his room. Alone at last.

Except he wasn’t.

A man was sitting on his bed. Dark hair, blue shirt, slip-on shoes. A flash of rage stabbed him in the chest. ‘What are you doing? Get out of my room.’ When Vidor raised his fist in the air, the man copied him in perfect synchrony. It was like looking in a mirror. The face, so familiar, jeered at him.

‘Get out.’ Vidor launched himself at the intruder and fell flat on the empty bed. No one was there, nothing at all but a figment of his imagination. Had he gone mad? He held his head and groaned. It was this wretched place, with its cabal of doctors and attendants, all conspiring to drive him to the brink of lunacy. They wouldn’t stop until he was reduced to a gibbering creature, shrivelled and pale, chained to the wall of a dank bunker deep in the mountains. He had to get out. But who would help him? His pulse slowed as the surge of adrenaline waned. Dr Lindstrom seemed sympathetic. It was Gessen who was keeping him here against his will. Today, he would devise a plan. Tomorrow, he would beg Dr Lindstrom to help him escape.

18

‘Did you have a mishap with the gardening shears?’ Vidor dropped into the chair opposite Gessen’s desk.

‘What?’ He frowned. ‘Oh that, it’s nothing.’ He’d forgotten about the plaster on his thumb. It should have healed by now, but the nasty cut he’d acquired while poking around Vidor’s study was taking an inordinate amount of time to heal.

He followed Vidor’s gaze as he took note of the recent additions to his office. Green and gold paisley cushions on the chair in the corner. A row of fossil ammonites on the bookshelf, flaunting their perfect spiralled symmetry. That morning, he’d brought in a few specimens from his collection at home, thinking they might make a good conversation piece.