Read Online The Watcher in the Shadows by Carlos Ruiz Zafón - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
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over to the window, his profile tinted orange by the setting sun.
‘It’s a long story,’ he began. ‘When I was a small child, my family lived in the district of Les Gobelins, in Paris. You probably know the area. It used to be poor and full of old, run-down buildings. We lived in a tiny flat in an old block on rue des Gobelins. Part of the frontage was propped up because it kept threatening to collapse, but none of the families living there could afford to move to a better part of the district. How we all managed to fit in the flat – my three brothers and me, my parents and my uncle Luc – is a mystery. But I’m digressing.
‘I was a lonely boy. Always had been. Most of the things the other children on my street were interested in bored me, and the things that interested me didn’t appeal to them. I’d learned to read – it was a revelation – and most of my friends were books. This might have worried my mother had there not been more pressing problems at home. My mother’s idea of a healthy childhood was for me to run around the streets, picking up the habits and opinions of our neighbours. All my father did was sit around waiting for my brothers and me to add another wage to the family.
‘Others were not so lucky. In our block there was a boy called Jean Neville. Jean and his widowed mother were cooped up in a tiny apartment on the ground floor, next to the entrance. Jean’s father had died years before, from a disease he’d caught in the tile factory where he worked – something to do with the chemicals they used. Apparently it was quite common. I was aware of all this because I was the only friend young Jean had. His mother, Anne, didn’t let him venture beyond the building and its inner courtyard. His home was his prison.
‘Eight years earlier, Anne Neville had given birth to twin boys in the Saint Christian Hospital. Jean and Philippe. Philippe was stillborn. For those first eight years, Jean had had to shoulder the guilt of having killed his brother at birth. Or at least, that’s what he believed. For Anne made sure she reminded Jean, every single day of his life, that his brother had been stillborn because of him; that, had it not been for Jean, her marvellous boy would now be standing in his place. Nothing Jean did or said could win his mother’s love.
‘Of course, in public Anne Neville behaved affectionately enough. But in that solitary apartment, the reality was very different. Day in, day out, Anne would remind Jean that he was lazy. Bone idle. His school results were dreadful. His character more than doubtful. His movements clumsy. His whole existence, in short, a curse. Philippe, on the other hand, would have been adorable, studious, affectionate . . . everything that Jean could never be.
‘It wasn’t long before little Jean realised that he should have been the one to die in that gloomy hospital room eight years earlier. He had taken the place of another . . . All the toys Anne had been storing up for years to give to her future son had been thrown into the flames, down in the boiler room, the week after she came back from the hospital, so Jean never had a single toy. They were forbidden to him. He didn’t deserve them.
‘One night Jean woke up screaming after a nightmare. His mother went over to his bed and asked him what was the matter. A terrified Jean confessed that he’d dreamed about a shadow, an evil spirit, pursuing him down an endless tunnel. Anne’s reply was decisive: it was a sign. The shadow he’d been dreaming about was the spirit of his dead brother, seeking retribution. He must make more of an effort to be a better son, obey his mother in everything, and not question a single one of her words or actions. Otherwise, the shadow would materialise and carry him off to hell. To reinforce her words Anne then picked up her son and dragged him down to the basement, where she left him alone in the dark for twelve hours, so that he could meditate on what she had
‘It’s a long story,’ he began. ‘When I was a small child, my family lived in the district of Les Gobelins, in Paris. You probably know the area. It used to be poor and full of old, run-down buildings. We lived in a tiny flat in an old block on rue des Gobelins. Part of the frontage was propped up because it kept threatening to collapse, but none of the families living there could afford to move to a better part of the district. How we all managed to fit in the flat – my three brothers and me, my parents and my uncle Luc – is a mystery. But I’m digressing.
‘I was a lonely boy. Always had been. Most of the things the other children on my street were interested in bored me, and the things that interested me didn’t appeal to them. I’d learned to read – it was a revelation – and most of my friends were books. This might have worried my mother had there not been more pressing problems at home. My mother’s idea of a healthy childhood was for me to run around the streets, picking up the habits and opinions of our neighbours. All my father did was sit around waiting for my brothers and me to add another wage to the family.
‘Others were not so lucky. In our block there was a boy called Jean Neville. Jean and his widowed mother were cooped up in a tiny apartment on the ground floor, next to the entrance. Jean’s father had died years before, from a disease he’d caught in the tile factory where he worked – something to do with the chemicals they used. Apparently it was quite common. I was aware of all this because I was the only friend young Jean had. His mother, Anne, didn’t let him venture beyond the building and its inner courtyard. His home was his prison.
‘Eight years earlier, Anne Neville had given birth to twin boys in the Saint Christian Hospital. Jean and Philippe. Philippe was stillborn. For those first eight years, Jean had had to shoulder the guilt of having killed his brother at birth. Or at least, that’s what he believed. For Anne made sure she reminded Jean, every single day of his life, that his brother had been stillborn because of him; that, had it not been for Jean, her marvellous boy would now be standing in his place. Nothing Jean did or said could win his mother’s love.
‘Of course, in public Anne Neville behaved affectionately enough. But in that solitary apartment, the reality was very different. Day in, day out, Anne would remind Jean that he was lazy. Bone idle. His school results were dreadful. His character more than doubtful. His movements clumsy. His whole existence, in short, a curse. Philippe, on the other hand, would have been adorable, studious, affectionate . . . everything that Jean could never be.
‘It wasn’t long before little Jean realised that he should have been the one to die in that gloomy hospital room eight years earlier. He had taken the place of another . . . All the toys Anne had been storing up for years to give to her future son had been thrown into the flames, down in the boiler room, the week after she came back from the hospital, so Jean never had a single toy. They were forbidden to him. He didn’t deserve them.
‘One night Jean woke up screaming after a nightmare. His mother went over to his bed and asked him what was the matter. A terrified Jean confessed that he’d dreamed about a shadow, an evil spirit, pursuing him down an endless tunnel. Anne’s reply was decisive: it was a sign. The shadow he’d been dreaming about was the spirit of his dead brother, seeking retribution. He must make more of an effort to be a better son, obey his mother in everything, and not question a single one of her words or actions. Otherwise, the shadow would materialise and carry him off to hell. To reinforce her words Anne then picked up her son and dragged him down to the basement, where she left him alone in the dark for twelve hours, so that he could meditate on what she had
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