Nightsiders (6 page)

McMahon paused before speaking, as if he were consulting a list or a computer screen. “Yes, they do. A boy and a girl, I think. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Robert, and then he hung up the phone.

Immediately it rang, while his hand still gripped the receiver. Reflexively, he picked it up and placed it against his ear. “Yes? McMahon, is that you?”

At first there was only silence, at least the buzzing kind of silence you hear through a telephone receiver. Then, gradually, sounds began to form. Robert recognized immediately the low, angry growling of a dog. This was then replaced by a liquid panting, as if the same or another dog was being held underwater. Finally, there came a voice, but it was garbled, barely intelligible. The words it was speaking were nonsense; he could barely make out that they were words at all. It was like another language, but one that made little sense even to the one who spoke it. He closed his eyes. Once again he sensed that odd unpeeling of reality.

Then, thankfully, the line went dead.

Robert stood with the telephone receiver still held against his ear, his mouth open, lips working but no sounds issuing forth. For a moment there, less than a moment, really—a fraction of a nanosecond—he could have sworn he heard a name in the general din of that make-believe language. The name, he was sure, had been
Molly
.

He hung up the phone and walked slowly to the bathroom door. Behind it, he could hear the sound of the shower running. Sarah was singing softly, as she always did when she bathed. He could even name the song: “Under Your Skin.”

“I’m just popping out for a minute.”

No reply. Still she sang.

“Sarah, love, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just going out to the shop…”

There came from the bathroom a sort of noncommittal grunt, and then Sarah once again began to sing, this time louder.

Robert turned away, put on his coat, and calmly walked along the landing. As he descended the staircase, that calm began to unravel and he had to resist the urge to run. Surely the disturbing phone call had been a coincidence, a wrong number or some children playing a prank. There was no way Corbeau could have called them; he was not even aware they were staying in the hotel.

The old woman was at the desk when he reached the ground floor. “Excuse me,” he said, approaching her with a loose smile. “I got a call a few minutes ago. It came straight through, from an external line. Do all calls not come through reception?”

The old woman glanced at him and put down her iPod. This time she was not wearing the headphones; she had been untying a knot in the wire as he approached. “Usually,” she said. “But each room has its own number on the system, and if you know the extension, you can get straight through. Some of our long-term residents give out those extensions, and have private calls that don’t come through the internal system.”

Robert’s throat was dry; he felt sick. “Has anyone asked you for the extension to our room? Anyone at all?”

The old woman shook her head, and returned her attention to the knot in her headphone wire. “Nope,” she said, dismissing him. “Why would they?”

Robert left the hotel feeling cold, as if a chill wind had passed through the lobby and latched onto him like a parasite.

He hurried down the street, past the police station and to the corner where he had glimpsed Molly. He was now beginning to doubt it had even been her, but not quite enough to abandon his search. He turned the corner and walked a few paces before reaching a small, grotty pub. There was no name above the door, and the interior was dark and cool and peculiarly unwelcoming. He stepped into the doorway but did not enter. There was a young couple sitting in a corner, near the jukebox, and they were kissing passionately. The boy, dressed in a denim jacket and a pair of white tracksuit bottoms, was running his hand along the girl’s leg.

Molly?

He wanted to go inside, but something stopped him. It was like a physical barrier, an invisible gate keeping him out. He stared at the couple, aware that a barman had noticed him and was walking slowly out from behind the bar. The man was holding a glass, rubbing it clean with a towel, massaging it in much the same way the boy was now caressing the girl’s tiny left breast.

“Help you?” The barman was now before him, smiling. His front two teeth on the upper row were missing. There was a smudged tattoo on his neck that could have been a swallow, a spider or a crab. “You comin’ in?” He rubbed his glass. The boy rubbed the girl’s tit.

“Molly,” said Robert, still unable to move.

Then, at last, the couple broke apart and the girl turned around, staring at the doorway. It was not Molly; it did not even resemble her. The girl had shorter hair, a thinner build, and her face was plastered with makeup. She smiled, opened her mouth, and he saw a wad of chewing gum lodged in the side of her mouth, between tooth and cheek.

The barman laughed as Robert wheeled away, stumbling into the road. He was aware of a car horn sounding, and someone shouting at him from an open window, but he did not pause. Then he saw her, farther along the street, eating an ice cream. Connor was with her, drinking Coke from a can, and they were staring in the opposite direction, as if there was nothing wrong in their world.

“Dad?” Molly spotted him first. The ice cream fell from her hands and splattered on the ground. She ran toward him, concern etched onto her features. Her hair was gloriously long. She wore no makeup. Nor was she chewing gum.

She ran to him and he held her, feeling foolish and pathetic. Why had he been so afraid? He could trust his children, of course he could; there should never be any doubt regarding that issue.

“Where were you?” He was breathless.

“We were here. Round about here. We got some ice cream and went looking for something to do.”

It sounded like the truth, but Robert once again caught his children exchanging an unreadable glance. Connor noticed his scrutiny, and smiled. That was when he became certain his son was also lying, and that there was something happening here beyond his control as a parent and as a man. Despite his previous thought, he couldn’t trust them, not entirely. Or rather, he could not trust who or what they came into contact with.

“Don’t do that again,” he said, pushing Molly away. “Always tell me where you’re going.” He winced at the edge of irritation in his voice, but could do nothing to modify it. He was angry; they had lied, and were still lying. About what, he did not know, but he aimed to find out.

Sarah was waiting for him in the bar when they got back to the hotel. She had been drinking; quickly, and probably quite heavily. Her movements were already slow and uncoordinated and her eyelids were droopy. Robert sent the children up to the room and took a seat at the bar beside his wife. He ordered a double whisky, and when it came, he drank down half of it in one go.

“Burt Morrow telephoned,” said Sarah, wobbling on her stool. “He tried your mobile first, then the room phone, and finally got me on my mobile.”

“I didn’t get any missed calls. What did he say?” Robert motioned toward the barman and raised his glass. The barman nodded, picked up another glass, and moved toward the optics on the wall.

“He wouldn’t speak to me at first, but I badgered him until he gave in. I told him I knew everything you did—whatever that’s worth—and he relented and told me what he’d found out.”

“What
has
he found out?” The barman put down another double in front of Robert. He finished his current drink and picked up the second glass.

“Fuck all. According to his sources, the paperwork Corbeau has is legal, and he can’t seem to find any record of the deeds we have. Or, should I say, the deeds we used to have but are now locked up in a drawer in Corbeau’s house.”

“
Our
house,” said Robert, his fist tightening around the glass.

“Whatever. Another large white wine, please.” She smiled at the barman.

Robert felt like he was reaching deep inside himself and hauling on a rope, like a deep-sea fisherman bringing in a net. He had no idea what he might find attached to the end of that rope, but there was no doubt he would reach it eventually. Then he would be forced to confront his catch.

“What the fuck are we going to do, Robert? What
can
we do? Morrow said to leave everything to him, but I don’t think he can help us. Whatever’s happening here, it’s stranger than we think; it’s as if the whole world is conspiring against us. Nothing seems right—even this little town, and the people in it. It’s like a fucking film set. That copper, McMahon…even he doesn’t seem right.”

Ignoring her panicked words, Robert finished his drink and stood from the stool. “Calm down. I’ll speak to Morrow. He might have something more by now. You never know.”

The barman brought Sarah’s wine. She grabbed the glass and took a large mouthful. Then, slowly, she reached into her handbag and drew out her mobile phone. She did not look into Robert’s eyes, but she turned toward him all the same. “There’s also this.”

Robert sat back down and waited. “What is it?”

Still Sarah could not meet his gaze. She flipped open the front face of her mobile phone and pressed a few buttons. Then, pausing for a moment, she swallowed. “It isn’t nice.” She turned the phone in her hand, so Robert could see the screen. On it was a photograph, and for several seconds he failed to see what it was meant to be. Then, like a fist to his gut, the meaning registered in his vision. The photograph was a close-up of a man’s erect penis, with white semen dribbling from its tip. There was no doubt in his mind whose penis it was.

“How is he getting hold of our numbers?” His voice was poised on the verge of hysteria, but he managed to keep it down, keep it inside. “This is…impossible. It can’t be happening.”

Slowly, carefully, and with decreasing subtlety, Nathan Corbeau was invading their lives. It had started with him taking possession of their house, and then advanced to rushed legal paperwork and strange phone calls, and now there was this…sexual harassment. No: sexual terrorism.

“Why is he sending you pictures of his cock?” He regretted the words as soon as they were out there, but it was too late to cancel them.

“Excuse me?” At last she looked him in the eye; her face was taut, the bones prominent. Drink had flushed her cheeks and loosened her tongue. “Are you serious?”

“Why would he? Did you come onto him back there, at the house, when I was fighting for our sanity? Did he make a move on you?” He could barely believe what he was saying; the words did not sound like his own. He knew he was losing control, but still he could not help himself. All of this seemed inevitable. It was preordained, scripted. He had to go through with it.

“You mean, like I came onto the man who raped me? Is that what you mean, Robert? When I wore that short skirt and went out without my husband? I was asking for it, wasn’t I? Just. Fucking. Begging. For. It.” She finished her drink and stalked away from the bar, behind which the barman had retreated to a safe distance. “Don’t bother coming up to the room tonight. I don’t want to see you until I’m calm and sober.” Then she left the room, her footsteps echoing across the space like gunshots.

“Another double, please,” said Robert, knowing he shouldn’t, he
really
shouldn’t, but doing so anyway.

5:30
P.M.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. He recalled a telephone conversation with Burt Morrow, but not its content, and more whisky than was probably sensible. Then he had left the hotel and stumbled out into the street, sick and hungry and brimming with a violence he did not recognize as his own.

Right now he was walking back toward the bar he had seen earlier; the one through whose doorway he had seen the couple necking, and the barman rubbing his glass. He reached the doors and barged inside, noting the place was quiet but for a handful of drinkers at the bar. He approached the woman who stood behind the bar (the original barman was nowhere to be seen) and ordered more whisky. He knew he would regret this in the morning, but by then he would not care.

Now would be the time to call Sarah, or to go crawling back to the hotel to speak to her. But something held him back. Was it doubt? Did he really believe she had encouraged Corbeau’s interest? When he looked deep inside himself, at the pathetic man he was beneath the mask he wore, he knew he’d suspected her of somehow encouraging the man who’d raped her back in London.

He was ashamed. He felt terrible. But still, he had briefly entertained the idea…

He drank for a while, watching the steady flow of traffic as people came and went, faces replaced by other, similar faces, bodies brushing up against him on their way to the toilet at the back of the room. He was not aware of how many drinks he had, but he knew the number was great. He had always been a whisky drinker, and could handle it well, but in this volume it was lethal.

The next thing he remembered was playing pool against a tall man with skinny limbs and a pock-marked face. Somehow he won the game and the pock-marked man walked away, shaking his head and waving a hand in the air. Robert watched him as he left the pub, and then looked around for his next opponent.