Moon by James Herbert Page A

with his French ways and his French looks and his French voice… irresistible.
        She shivered and reached over the work surface near the sink to close the window. The night had turned chilly. And it was black out there, the moon but a thin sliver. Helen pulled the window shut.
        There was laughter around the dining table as Duxbury who, as well as being a commodity importer to the island, supplying local companies with office furniture, equipment and generally whatever else they needed, also arranged sales conferences for outside organisations, regaled his fellow-guests with one of his long-winded but generally funny conference-mishap stories.
        Childes took a spoonful of the souffle and made an appreciative face at Amy. She mouthed a discreet kiss in return. He had felt on edge at the beginning of the evening, unsure of Paul Sebire, aware that he would be put through some devious kind of test by him, a judgement of character and perhaps of his worth now that it was evident Amy was becoming emotionally tied. Yet the financier had been more than cordial throughout, the curtness of previous meetings gone or at least held in check. Still Childes had not relaxed, gradually becoming aware that the younger Frenchman was not just another dinner guest, but introduced by Sebire as a potential rival; the Sebire-inspired outing for Amy and Vigiers the following day had confirmed his suspicions. It was both obvious and disingenuous, but Childes had to admit he did look a little shabby against Vigiers.
        On the other hand, Vivienne Sebire had been gracious and attentive, genuinely welcoming him and, like the perfect hostess, making him feel a valued guest. She was the ideal counter to her husband's general brusqueness.
        He joined in the laughter as Duxbury reached the climax of his story, the importer barely giving them all time to recover before launching into another. Childes reached for his wine, and as he brought it towards him, he thought he caught a glimmering in the glass. He blinked, then peered into the light liquid. He had been mistaken: it must have been a reflection. Childes sipped and was about to place the wine glass back on the table when something seemed to stir within it. He looked again, bemused rather than concerned.
        No, just wine inside, nothing else, nothing that could… nothing that…
        An image. But not in the glass. In his mind.
        Suppressed chuckling as Duxbury continued his yarn.
        The image was unreal, unfocused, like the nightmare, a shimmering blur. Childes set the wine glass down, aware that his hand was shaking. A peculiar sensation had gripped the back of his neck, like a hand, a frigid hand, clasped there. He stared into the liquid.
        Amy giggled, suspecting Duxbury's story was building to a somewhat risque ending.
        The image had become images. They were slowly swimming into focus. The warmth of the room had become suffocating. Childes' other hand unconsciously went to his shirt collar as if to loosen it.
        Grace Duxbury, having heard her husband's story on numerous other occasions in different company, and knowing the punchline, was already twittering with embarrassment.
        Childes' vision had shifted inwards; he viewed a scenario inside his mind, an event that was beyond the confines of the room, yet within himself. He seemed to be moving closer to the ethereal activity, becoming integrated with it, a participant; but still he was only watching. Soft earth was being disturbed.
        Victor Platnauer's rasping chuckle, a low rumble about to erupt, was infectious, and Vivienne Sebire found herself laughing even before the story was concluded.
        Blunt, stubby fingers, covered in damp soil. Scraping against wood. The effort renewed, frantic. The wood cleared of earth so that its shape was revealed. Narrow. Rectangular. Small. Childes shuddered, spilling wine.
        Vigiers had noticed, was staring