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…