He pushed open the door and went inside. Molly was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and her T-shirt stretched over her kneecaps. She was staring at the bed, her face streaked with tears. She looked about four years old.
“Hello, love.” All the anger had gone now; he felt calm and detached, buoyed on currents of warm air. Things were going wrong, going haywire, and all he could do was attempt to limit or contain the damage. “How are you feeling?”
“Nothing happened, Daddy.” She had not called him that in years, not since she was tiny. “We were just walking around, holding hands. I was upset because you and Mum had that fight, and Ethan listened to me. That’s all. We just walked and talked.”
“Are you sure? Do you promise?” His voice was contracting, becoming small and quiet.
Molly looked up at him, her face a pale, drawn mask. Now she looked so much older than fourteen, and he felt like weeping for all the potential hurt that lay ahead in her future. He wished he could take care of her for the rest of her life. “I promise, Daddy.” Once again, he knew deep down she was lying: all that remained a mystery was the extent of the lie. He hoped it was a small one, a little white lie, and that its effects would be negligible. He could not judge her for her dishonesty, not in his current position. Not only was he lying to Molly, to Connor, and to Sarah, but he was also lying to himself.
He was the king of liars.
Robert went to her, and he knelt down at the side of the bed. He threw his arms around her, holding her as if she might float up and away if he ever let go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll make it all better.” Another lie: this one perhaps the biggest of them all.
10:30 A.M.
The police station was quiet when he walked in. Nobody looked at him; even the uniformed officer on desk duty ignored him. An old man sat on a bench with a small dog in his lap and two women whispered together from their seats near the door. The white-painted walls were covered in shiny paper flyers; wanted and missing-persons posters and information leaflets, commonplace police station junk probably left unread by everyone who passed through the door.
“I’m here to see Sergeant McMahon,” he said, raising his voice to a level that fell just short of shouting.
The man at the desk looked up, frowning. “Who would that be, sir?”
“Sergeant McMahon. I’d like to see him, please.”
The officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name. We have a Sergeant Mackenzie, but he’s out on a call. I can take your details and ask him to get back to you.”
A clock ticked; behind the desk, beyond a narrow corridor and through a set of doors, several telephones rang. Pipes groaned and grumbled in the walls. Robert was surprised only that he was not surprised. It was as if this moment, this small revelation was simply part of some bigger story, and he was the unwilling protagonist being put through a set of preordained paces.
“So,” said Robert, looming over the desk. “You’re telling me there isn’t a Sergeant McMahon? That he doesn’t exist?” He clenched his hands on the desktop; his fingernails dragged across the smooth Formica surface.
Beats of silence: the women had stopped whispering and even the telephones no longer rang.
“That’s right, sir. Can anyone else help?” The officer was losing interest. Now that he had decided Robert was not a threat, he was growing bored with the exchange. “If you’ll just write down your name and number here, I’ll have someone call you when the sergeant gets in.” He pushed a pad and pencil across the desk.
Noise flooded back in, filling the vacuum and making Robert’s ears drone. It was like someone was trying to tell him something, but all those other sounds were doing their best to drown out the tiny voice. He strained to hear, but nothing came through: the transmission was too weak.
“No. No, that’s okay. I must have been given duff information, that’s all. It’s nothing important, just a minor thing.” Robert felt like laughing in the man’s face; his sanity was slipping, but at least he was aware of the fact. Wasn’t it true if you thought you were mad, then surely you could not be mad? Q.E.D.
He was halfway across the room to the door when he turned back, stopping again at the desk. Something had occurred to him, a small thing, but one that amused him.
“Yes?” The officer spoke through pursed lips, clearly annoyed by now.
“I think I will leave my details after all,” said Robert, reaching for the pencil and the notepad. He carefully inscribed a name and address across the top of the page.
Nathan Corbeau
1 Oval Lane
Battle
Then, satisfied, he put down the pencil and left the station.
Robert had no idea why he had written down Corbeau’s details, other than it felt as if he were reclaiming something, a part of himself that had been snatched away by that other man who had taken his place. It made him feel powerful for a moment, and he gained an insight into what type of creature the usurper might be. He understood the thrill of theft, the prolonged high of pretending you were someone else, and took comfort from the knowledge that the life you knew could be smothered and replaced with another, even for such a short period of time.
He did not return to the hotel. Instead he climbed into the car and headed for Oval Lane. It was a short drive, but a pleasant one, and even in his current state of agitation he could enjoy the sight of the trees and the fields and the ancient farm buildings dotted along the horizon. A series of low hills rose into the distance, like the spine of a fossilized dragon, and he felt a strange sensation of being uplifted from the norm as he viewed the scene through the windshield.
He drove up the narrow access road and parked the car. He was just about to get out when his mobile phone rang. He picked it up from the dashboard and answered it.
“Rob,” said Sarah, breathless. “Is she with you? Is Molly there?”
He closed his eyes. “No, she isn’t with me. What’s happened?” He tightened his grip on the phone; plastic creaked close to his ear.
“She’s gone again, with that boy. Connor’s here, but she’s not. I was in the shower when I heard the door slam, and when I came out, Connor told me the boy had called her on her phone and she’d rushed out to meet him.” There was panic in her voice, but she remained in control. There was no danger, not yet; at least they knew who Molly was with, even if they did not know this boy personally.
“Have you called the police again?”
“No. Do you think I should?”
He paused, thinking about the question. “No. They won’t do anything anyway. As far as they’re concerned, she’s just messing about with some boy we don’t approve of: that’s not a crime. Stay there with Connor and I’ll see if I can find her.” His finger slid over the button that would terminate the call, but did not press it.
“Where are you, Rob?”
“Nowhere,” he said, thinking that was exactly where he was: nowhere at all. Nowhereville. He pressed the button and the line went dead.
He got out of the car and walked over the gravel drive, stopping at the porch. The sound of birdsong was like a recording. This time the outer door was open, so he stepped inside and rapped his knuckles against the inner frame. He did not knock again; he just waited for someone to answer. He had the feeling they knew he was there, waiting, and they would come eventually, when they were ready for him.
Nathan Corbeau opened the door. He was wearing a faded muscle vest and a pair of soccer shorts: Robert could not identify the team; he did not recognize the team logo. The man’s upper torso was wide, almost square in shape, and his arms were well defined and hairy. His skin was dark, almost swarthy. “Hello, stranger.” His smile was huge, and hungry.