“Dunno, pet. This bloke seems to think we’re in his house.” A look passed between them, quick as a lightning flash and dark as storm clouds. There was humor in that glance, and something more, something deeper and much too complex for Robert to assess in such a short space of time.
“Does he, now?” She glared at Robert, her hands going to her hips, sharp elbows bent and shoulders rising. “Does he really?” Her orangey tan seemed to flare; the dark roots in her bottle-blonde hair went a shade darker; her pale eyes widened. A small red tongue flicked between her lips, like that of a hungry reptile.
Robert was disturbed to find he found her attractive.
“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here. I’ve owned this house for about three weeks. If you’ll just let me inside, I can clear all this up in a few moments.” Robert hated the sound of his voice: it sounded small, polite, polished. It was the voice of his fear.
“Fuck off, mate. This was funny at first, but now you’re starting to bore me.” The man—Nate—stepped down from the porch, flexing his hands. The smile was gone, replaced now by an expression Robert could not read.
“Rob?” Sarah’s voice punctured the moment, and Robert turned to face the car as she walked toward him, a look of puzzled concern on her face. He could not help but notice her hands were clenched into fists.
“It’s okay, darling. I’ll sort this out.”
“Oh, will you?” said Nate, laughing softly. “Will you really?”
“What’s going on, Rob? Who are these people?” Sarah was now level with him, and he could smell her scent—citrus mixed with sweat. She looked from him to the couple who seemed to have claimed their home, her eyes wide and only now beginning to display a sense of fear.
“I don’t know what’s happened here, but I’m sure a call to the police will sort everything out.” He took out his mobile phone, suddenly energized and pleased he was being proactive. Nate shook his head, leaned back against the side of the porch, and grinned at Sarah.
“Please,” said Sarah. “Just leave. How did you even get in there?”
The blonde woman leaned forward, through the open porch door, and showed her teeth. “The estate agent gave us a key when we bought the place, pet. That’s how it works, you know.” Her smile was smug, as if she had already won whatever subtle battle was taking place.
“Hello. Yes, can I have the police, please?” Robert spoke carefully into the phone, desperate to keep his tone even. “Yes, it is an emergency; well, it is to us, anyway.”
Nate laughed. “Monica, love, go and put the kettle on, will you? I’m sure Sergeant McMahon would like a brew when he gets here.”
Robert stared at the mobile phone in his hand, and then at the man called Nate. He looked back at the phone, and then at his feet.
“Battle police station. Can I help you?” The voice in his ear was distant, as far away as the world now seemed to be. Everything was receding, pulling away from him, just like before, in the city, when Sarah had been attacked. He had not expected to be put through to the local force. He’d been primed to speak to an emergency operator.
“Could you send someone out to Number One Oval Lane? I think there’s an altercation taking place.” Then he pressed the button to hang up the phone and grabbed hold of the emotion that was stirring in his chest—the promise he had made himself not long ago, that he would protect his family at all costs. What had happened to Sarah would never happen again: he would not allow that kind of nightmare back into his life, their lives. Not ever again.
“Listen, you bastard!” Robert strode forward, his entire body tensing like a single flexed muscle. “Get out of my house right now!” He grabbed at Nate’s T-shirt, noting once again the proclamation that he was The Boss. Oh no you’re not, not this time, sonny, he thought wildly. His anger took him by surprise. He had always known it was there, held within, but only now had it surfaced. He wished he’d been capable of this before. Maybe things would have been different.
Nate’s eyes widened in surprise; his lips compressed into a tight sneer. Robert was dimly aware of raised voices—belonging to both Sarah and the other woman, Monica—but he could not make out what they were saying. He pushed right up against Nate, feeling the man’s warmth and almost tasting the sweat on his body. The world flared brightly, as if a series of lights had been switched on, and his vision exploded. He felt his fist make contact with Nate’s skulclass="underline" at least it felt like his skull; hard, unyielding.
The world tilted and he was on the floor, on his back, and Nate was above him, laughing and spitting, with a slash of red at his temple. The other man seemed to be urging him on, and Robert did not need an invitation. Not again, he thought. Never again…
It seemed to go on for hours, slowed down to a disorientating pace, and Robert was barely even aware of any damage being done to either his opponent or himself. Pain was beyond him; all he wanted was to rid himself of this terrible man, this invader.
Our homes have already been invaded by this insidious enemy that seeks to twist our minds and poison our hearts.
He knew the voice was only in his head, and that it was an echo of one he had heard very recently, but now it seemed to be speaking directly to him, telling him what to do. He struck out, and struck out again, and was frightened to realize he was crying.
Then he was pulled away, pulled off his victim, and the voices around him became discernable once again. Sarah was yelling his name, shrieking at him to stop, and Monica—bleached blonde Monica, with her white bra and fantasy knickers—was shouting and swearing as she helped Nate to his feet.
Nate was smiling, but attempting to hide his amused triumph. It was replaced, suddenly and effectively, by a look of pure shocked terror. “I dunno what happened. He just went for me like a bloody maniac.”
Another voice, this one belonging to whoever was holding him, replied: “Just calm down, sir. Please be calm and move away from Mr. Corbeau.” He had little choice in the matter: the man, whose arms were now wrapped around Robert’s neck, was tugging him away from the scene, across the drive and toward a waiting police car. As he was slammed facedown into the bonnet, he turned his head to the side and saw his children standing by the Volvo. Molly’s hand covered the lower part of her face, and Connor had one arm around his sister, comforting her.
Good boy, he thought. Good lad. Protect her.
The policeman—the renowned Sergeant McMahon?—had pulled Robert’s arms around behind him, and he twisted them upward so that it felt as if his shoulders were about to pop out of their sockets. Then his cheek was forced against the paintwork, and the officer was saying something he could not quite hear: it sounded like something about him being under arrest.
11:37 A.M.
“Are you calm now, sir? Are you under control?”
Robert nodded; his whole body was slumped and empty of whatever uncharacteristic energy had propelled him only moments earlier.
“Are you sure, sir? I don’t want to have to use my handcuffs. The paperwork is a ball-ache.” The policeman had a kind face; his little half smile was incredibly appealing. His face was pale but he was red in the cheeks.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Robert was panting, out of breath, and far from being fine, but he no longer wanted to pursue the course of violence. All that was gone; it was vented from his system by the frantic burst of activity. What he wanted now was a hot cup of tea and a place to lie down in peace.