Nightsiders (5 page)

“Give me a break, eh?” Robert closed the door. “Okay, who’s for a little late lunch? I’m sure we can get something from a nearby café.”

“There’s a burger bar along the road…” Molly’s mood suddenly lifted, and she almost leapt to her feet.

“Yeah, please?” Connor grabbed Robert’s arm, squeezing it.

“Okay, we can have burgers just this once.” Sarah stood and went to Robert’s side, linking his arm with her own. It felt good; it felt right. For the first time in a very long time, they were as close as he thought a family should be.

“Where have you two been, anyway? Surely there’s nothing
too
exciting around here?”

Connor and Molly exchanged a glance Robert could not read, and then they both smiled. “Oh, nowhere. Just around,” said his daughter, and he knew in that instant she was lying, or at least holding back the truth.

* * *

Burger Byte was located on a corner not far from the hotel entrance. Molly led them there, her pace hurried and her long, dark hair trailing behind her as she jogged along the footpath. She reached the café first and stood in the doorway, urging the rest of the family to follow. Connor hung back, fiddling, as usual, with his PSP. His face was bathed in a greenish light that seemed, to Robert in that moment, like a harbinger of bad tidings.

They went inside and ordered burgers, chips and fizzy pop. Sarah had a side salad and a mineral water. The modernity of the place took Robert by surprise: along the side walls were computer terminals bolted to metal brackets. Only a few of these were occupied, and of the people who sat in the plastic chairs checking email accounts and surfing the Net for online baubles and trinkets, not one of them looked over the age of thirty and they all had coffee cups resting by their machines. The era of cyberspace had come limping into Battle, and its acolytes were made up of the young and the bored and the jobless.

Midway through their meal, Sergeant McMahon walked in. He nodded at Robert and said hello to Sarah. The children eyed him with suspicion; Molly acted openly hostile.

“Please, sit down,” said Robert, hoping for some positive news.

“Let me speak before you even think about asking any questions,” said the sergeant, taking off his helmet and placing it on the low, round table. “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.” The man fidgeted in his seat, clearly ill at ease. His cheeks held the faintest trace of red.

“Go on.” Robert put down his half-eaten burger, finally admitting it tasted like shit, and not even real shit—just some synthetic substitute. “We’re listening.”

McMahon took an envelope from his inside pocket and set it down next to his helmet. “So I spoke to Nathan Corbeau, and he showed me the deeds to the property. His name is on those deeds, and he has all the relevant paperwork to back up his claim of ownership.”

Robert lunged forward, across the table, about to butt in.

“Wait. Let me finish.” McMahon looked tired: his eyes were heavy, and he seemed to have gained a stone in weight since they had last met. “He also asked me to give you this, on an official basis. I thought it might be better coming from me than from a solicitor.” He picked up the envelope and handed it to Robert, who took it from him and stared at the blank front. “What is it?” He opened the envelope and took out a sheet of typed paper. It looked official, but still he had no idea what it might be. “What is it?” he said again.

“It’s a restraining order.”

The world dropped out from under Robert’s feet. The only thing keeping him in place was the chair and the table, and the sight of the shitty burger he had discarded earlier. “What is it?” He had heard the words, but they made no sense.

“Legally, you are not allowed within a hundred yards of any member of the Corbeau family. If you break the terms of this order, you will be arrested. I will be forced to arrest you; do you understand me? I won’t be happy about it, but that’s what I’ll have to do.”

Robert stared at the sheet, then at McMahon. “Don’t these things take a while to prepare? I mean, shouldn’t there be some kind of hearing? How did he get this so fast?”

McMahon shook his head. Regret filled his eyes; his allegiance had shifted. “I don’t know how he did this, or where he went to get it, but it’s legal and binding. I’m afraid he has you over a barrel, Mr. Mitchell.” He blew air between his lips and blinked rapidly. “I really don’t understand what’s going on here, and what Corbeau has against you, but he seems to have decided you’re his enemy.”

Sarah had remained silent until now, and when she did speak, she sounded as if she might weep at any minute. “Can’t you help us? That’s our house, I swear; it’s our house. That man is trying to steal our lives.”

Robert glanced at her; her face was slack but her eyes were hard and cold, like slivers of ice. Something inside her had awakened, and she was doing her best to deny its existence. Robert could see it; he knew it; he had seen it once before, after the attack, when she had sworn to him that any man who ever touched her again without permission would die.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. I don’t even understand what there
is
to be done.”

“But we can’t just walk away and let them stay there. It’s our fucking house!” Sarah slammed a fist down onto the table. The sound was deafening in the quiet café.

Quietly, Molly began to cry. Connor reached out and held her, his body shaking with either fear or rage.

“I’m sorry,” said McMahon. “I’ll look into this, I promise. Just be patient…and trust me. I know something’s wrong here. I don’t know what it is, but it stinks, and I’ll find out what it is if I have to work through the night.” With that, the sergeant stood and walked away. When he reached the door, he turned back, offered a grim smile, and then left the building.

A great and hungry silence stole inside and filled the room, entering Robert’s head through his ears, nose and mouth. His head swelled, approaching the point of critical mass, and then just as suddenly it returned to normal. Yet it held a strange and terrible echo, like that of a scream. While around him the world kept turning; people came and went; and a frightening presence sat in his house, no doubt drinking his wine and raiding his drawers and cupboards, and possibly even burning his books.

He could almost hear their laughter as the skin of the world began to slowly unpeel.

MONDAY

4:30
A.M.

Robert woke in the dark and felt afraid. Fear gripped him by the shoulders and pinned him to the bed, trying to tell him something he should have by now realized. He strained against the night, blinking his eyes and willing his limbs to move. Gradually, he began to make out shapes in the room; the wardrobe, the other beds, the chair in the window, the open bathroom door. He knew where he was. He was safe—they were all safe, his family.

There came a sound, like that of a shoe scraping against the wall.

Robert sat up, his mouth dry and his skin prickling. There was someone else in the room. He could see a hunched figure crouching perhaps, over by the main door, watching him in the darkness.

He reached out to the side of the bed, groping for the lamp. His fingers skimmed across his wallet, a paperback book, his car keys…and then, finally, he found the base of the lamp. With weak fingers he pressed the button, and light washed across the bed, covering his legs. He was staring at the door, at the figure. It was Connor, his son: Connor, standing against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” he said, amazed he could even form the words with his dried-out lips. “What is it?”

“I can’t sleep.”

Robert opened his arms, and his son came to him, falling into the embrace. Connor buried his face in Robert’s shoulder, and Robert stroked his hair, soothing him as he had done when the boy was but a small infant, afraid of nameless, formless monsters in the dark.

“They won’t get you,” he said, still lost in those long-gone days. “I won’t let them.”

But this monster was not nameless, nor was it faceless. It had a name, and it was an ugly one that tripped nastily off the tongue, snagging on the teeth.

This time, the monster’s name was Corbeau.

8:30
A.M.

That morning they had breakfast in the hotel. Robert and Sarah ordered coffee and croissants while the children enjoyed a full English fry-up. They spoke little during the meal, each of them lost in their own bitter thoughts.

Robert was still obsessing over the restraining order. He knew very little of such things, but he was certain Corbeau had produced this one with what amounted to illegal haste.

He would ring his solicitor after breakfast. Burt Morrow was a good man, and he handled all of the family’s affairs. He had even acted as Robert’s literary agent for a while, when he was trying to write thrillers. These days, working freelance for several broadsheet newspapers and upmarket magazines, he had enough contacts to act as his own representation, but he retained Morrow for all other matters. He trusted the man.

It was after nine a.m. when they returned to their room; office hours, so Morrow should be at his desk by now. Robert picked up the phone as Sarah vanished into the bathroom. Connor and Molly once again went for a walk outside, trying to find something to occupy them in the small town.

“Hello, Morrow Legal. Sheila speaking.” It was Morrow’s longtime secretary, a good woman to have on your side in a crisis.

“Morning, Sheila. It’s Rob Mitchell here.”

“Welcome back! How was your holiday?” Her voice brightened, containing a note of genuine affection that never failed to make Robert smile.

“Fine, thank you. We’ve been back a day now, but something weird has happened. Is Burt in today?”

“Yes, I’ll put you straight through.” She was all business now, sensing something was amiss and Robert needed to talk to her boss immediately.

“Rob. What can I do for you?” This was typical Morrow: no preamble, no small talk, just right to the crux of the matter.

“I need some advice—professional advice. And maybe a little help, too.” Robert gripped the phone, his palm sweating.

“Fire away. What’s the problem?” Morrow’s voice was rich and smooth; like coffee, as Sarah was fond of saying. The man was almost sixty, but still as sharp and ruthless as a man half his age. He had bailed Robert out of minor legal and publishing tangles on countless occasions, and no doubt would continue to do so until he died: retirement, early or otherwise, was not an option for a legal animal like Burt Morrow.

“The house you helped me buy up here, near Battle. Somebody’s in it.”

“‘
In it
’? What the hell does that mean?” There came over the line the sound of pages turning, and Robert could picture Burt with his favored 2H pencil skimming over his lineless loose leaf sketch pad.

“It means someone has taken up residence in my house, and he has documents to prove he owns it. Don’t ask me how or why; just tell me what I can do about it.”

“Shit, Rob, this sounds…well, bizarre. You say the guy has deeds to the property, with his name on them?”

“Yes, and he’s taken out a restraining order on me.”

Morrow went silent for a moment. Then he regained his composure and carried on. The pause was slightly unnerving, but not entirely out of character. “Give me names and I’ll get right on this. I’ll call you back with something within the hour.”

Robert dictated the name of Nathan Corbeau, spelled it as he thought it should be spelled, and then hung up the phone. He had not even said good-bye; their friendship did not rely on such trivial niceties, and neither man had ever tried to introduce them into the dynamic they shared.

Robert went to the window and looked out at the street. Again, there was little traffic and the footpaths were not exactly bustling with crowds. The pace of life in Battle seemed almost absurdly slow compared to London, where everything was done at great speed and with little thought for taking time to enjoy whatever it was you were doing. He glanced along toward Burger Byte, where they’d eaten yesterday, and then down the other way, past the police station and the newsagent-cum-post office. Just as his gaze came to rest, he saw Molly disappearing around the corner. She was holding someone’s hand—a boy—but it was not that of her brother.

Robert leaned in toward the glass, trying to catch sight of her again, but she was gone. The boy at her side was definitely not Connor; he was shorter and stockier than Robert’s son, and with very short hair—almost a skinhead.

Robert’s heart lurched.

He went to the telephone and dialled the number for the police station; McMahon had given it to him yesterday, with a promise that he could always be reached. Once he got through to the sergeant, the words came from his mouth too fast, in one unbroken sentence, and he at first struggled to make his message understood.

“Just calm down,” said McMahon. “Take a breath and start again.”

Robert closed his eyes. Opened them. “I said: do the Corbeaus have any children? Do they have kids?”