“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?”
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.