Gary McMahon

NIGHTSIDERS

Dedicated to the angry, the helpless, and those who are unable to fight for themselves.

Thanks to Greg Gifune for approaching me to submit something, and to Dave Thomas for coming up with a great title change. And, as always, thanks to my wife and son for being a constant inspiration.

A man’s home is his castle.

—Old English folk saying

FRIDAY

3:30 A.M.

The boy watched the wounded kitten as it struggled gamely through the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden, then followed patiently on all fours. He paused for a moment to lick the blood from his fingers. It tasted good, like the memory of something special on his tongue. He had not eaten properly in days—his thin, undernourished body was testament to that—and any food, even this meagre feast, was to be savored.

The girl sat on the porch, her legs swinging as she rocked back and forth, back and forth in the wicker rocker, watching the boy; enjoying the hunt. She turned toward the house, to the powdery light that filtered through the wooden shutters—one of which had been destroyed when the boy had first grabbed the kitten—and smiled. On her thin, pale face, the expression looked venal.

The man and woman were inside, doing things on the kitchen floor. Noisy things. Soft and hard and ugly-moist things the girl didn’t really like to see but couldn’t stop herself from watching whenever the opportunity presented itself. She was interested in a way that made her feel detached, and it set her apart from the others. The man often told her she was too sharp for her own good, but that only made the girl think of a knife blade. And of cutting.

The other boy—the older one who was almost a man—was in there now, watching, and waiting his turn with the woman. Images of what they were doing flashed across a couple of large wall-mounted TV screens. The screens were broken and splashed with paint, but the girl could still make out the action.

The boy capered across the lawn like an animal, pushing through the wiry bushes and out into the clearing beyond the large garden, then along the narrow stream that bordered the length of the property before diverting into a small stone culvert and disappearing underground. Deep underground, where the darkness dwelled and secrets were always hidden.

The boy smiled. His teeth were crooked, and some of them were stained yellow and diseased. His gums were red, even beneath the layer of fresh kitten blood.

He crept up on the animal as it licked its gashed leg. He’d done that with his hands, his long, untrimmed fingernails. Later, he would be forced to take a bath, and then be preened and tidied like a show horse, but for now he could run like a beast.

The cat made a single sound when he grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, his fingers nipping the soft, warm flesh and the soft, warm fur that covered the soft, warm meat.

Soft, warm things were his favorites to play with.

With a flick of his other wrist, the animal’s neck was broken. The cracking-snapping sound it made was clearly audible in the still night, the natural quiet of the countryside this far out of town allowing the sound to travel back to the porch, where the girl sat and giggled.

“Leave me some,” she said. Her voice was low and hoarse, not at all like the unsure tones one might expect to hear coming from the mouth of a small prepubescent girl.

The boy licked his lips before digging in, tearing away the soft bulge of the kitten’s throat and chewing the tender flesh. He swallowed. The taste was…he couldn’t find the right word; his vocabulary was limited, his education negligible after being brought up on the road by the man and the woman.

But his heart responded to the calling of the blood, the sensation of it dripping down across his lips and staining his chin. Oh yes, the words might fail him but the actions were always there, like a second nature, an ancient instinct that had been relearned at some point during his short lifespan.

He stopped short of stripping the flesh from the bone; he saved the rest for the girl. Gripping the dead kitten between his teeth, its wet fur tickling his lips, he walked upright through the low gate and back into the garden. The girl was waiting for him, standing in a wash of yellow light that spilled from the kitchen window in long, thin strips. The man and the woman made moaning sounds from within, their cries rising in pitch and frequency. The older boy laughed.

The small boy held out his kill. The girl reached for it, her hands caressing his wrist. Then she took the fresh meat and retreated to a corner of the porch, where she slid down into a low crouch.

The sound she made while feeding was quite beautiful. It was music to the boy’s ears.

SUNDAY

10:30 A.M.

Robert Mitchell was stressed.

He’d known all along it would happen; this response had always been inevitable. After a fortnight spent camping in the Lake District, the entire family relaxed and at ease with the world, he would have bet his bottom dollar that the first sniff of reality, of so-called civilisation, would set his triggers twitching.

And here it was; the absolute proof of his prognosis.

Twenty-five miles outside Battle, the town whose outskirts they’d moved to only three weeks ago (bad timing considering the planned holiday, but Robert had managed to get a good deal at a property auction), and civilisation had returned with a vengeance to bite him in the arse. He’d been idling along at a steady thirty miles per hour, obeying the speed signs and still sustaining a reasonable mood from the holiday, when some prick in a four-wheel-drive Jeep had cruised up behind him, getting closer to his rear bumper and generally making it obvious he wanted to overtake.

The road was narrow, only wide enough for a single vehicle, and there were no passing points in sight. So Robert had carried on at the same steady speed, glancing in the rearview mirror and catching sight of some fat man scowling through his windscreen, his broad tattooed arm and dimpled elbow sticking out of the open side window.

Then the fat man edged even farther forward, his wide, black, mud-spattered front end nudging the rear of Robert’s ten-year-old Volvo Estate…gently, gently, and without causing any damage, but nudging it all the same.

Robert glanced again into the rearview mirror, his mouth becoming dry and his eyes watering. The fat man was wearing a pair of mirror-lens aviator sunglasses; his shiny jowls were cleanly shaven, his hair cut short, like an American army crew cut. His mouth was carved into a thin smile, bright white teeth showing like little fangs.

Robert’s hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel. The man’s very presence was threatening, but in a quiet, understated way. Not like the idiots in the city, where Robert and his family used to live. Not like…like him. The one who’d changed everything; the bastard whose lean, creased face Robert saw behind him, leering over his shoulder, every time he looked into a mirror.

No. No. Not like him. Not this one.

“What’s wrong?”

Robert glanced at Sarah, unable for the moment to speak, to grunt, to communicate in any way. He forced a smile. Then, finally, his voice returned. “Nothing, love. Just this moron sitting up my backside. He’s, you know—he’s getting on my nerves.”

Sarah’s eyes flickered to the mirror in the sun visor; only moments earlier she’d been putting on lipstick, so the visor was down, despite the fact that the sun was not strong enough to warrant the protection.

“It’s nothing.” As soon as he said this, Robert tasted the lie. It was like a particularly strong spice on his tongue; unpleasant and lingering.

“Just speed up and he’ll soon get bored,” said Sarah, not sounding too convinced by her own rationale.

“What’s up, Dad?” Molly’s voice was still thick with tiredness from the early morning start; she must have taken out her omnipresent earphones, perhaps sensing the tension inside the car.

“It’s okay, Moll. We’re almost there.” Robert craned his neck to smile at the girl. She shrugged, stuck the earphones back in, and went vacant, like any other fourteen-year-old on a long, dull car journey.

Beside her, Connor did not even look up from his PSP. His eyes were wide yet lacking any kind of lustre beyond that reflected from the handheld console. It was a look that often reminded Robert of movie zombies, or the roadkill he sometimes saw flattened on the road.

The sound of a horn blaring pulled his attention back toward the road, then the mirror. The fat man was gesticulating, waving his stubby fingers in a sideways motion.

“He wants me to pull over,” he said, not taking his eyes off the man.

“Fuck him,” said Sarah. “Fuck. Him. He doesn’t own the road.”

Robert tore his gaze away from the mirror and stared at his wife. Sometimes she surprised him by reacting like this. Back in the city, before…before what had happened, she had been calm and collected, timid even. But now, after everything she had gone through, Sarah occasionally slipped into another mode, becoming someone Robert only thought he knew. A different version of his wife: an upgrade.

Robert’s foot pressed down onto the accelerator; in the rearview mirror, the man and his four-wheel-drive receded slightly, slipping back into the dust rising from the road like a light mist. Then he caught himself, and lifted his foot off the pedal. Adrenaline was coursing through his system, but instead of energising him it simply made him shake. Something hard and warm rose in his throat. Robert wanted to puke.

He turned the steering wheel and pulled the Volvo into a passing point, allowing the other vehicle to overtake. The horn blared a second time; the fat man turned to look at Robert. He was smiling. He had won the battle with ease.

“I’m sorry.” His hands were shaking on the wheel.

“For what?” asked Sarah. But she knew; oh yes, she knew. His weakness was there for all to see, and not for the first time.

Sarah reached out and turned on the radio; an old Beatles tune was just ending. She sat and waited for Robert to compose himself, listening to the DJ as he introduced a guest, some psychology professor who was plugging his new book.

Robert began to breathe more easily. He indicated, and pulled back out into the road. He could still see the dust created by the speeding fat man, and to him it looked like some kind of monster from a cheesy B-movie.

He listened to the talking heads on the radio, trying to rid himself of whatever nameless horror was stirring inside his heart, and to take his mind off the memories bubbling slowly to the surface—grim, bitter recollections of their final weeks in the city.

“In today’s all-consuming culture of corruption there is nowhere left to hide. Our homes have already been invaded by this insidious enemy that seeks to twist our minds and poison our hearts through the unmonitored Internet, television, magazines, and music our families ingest on a daily basis.”

The pompous professor was giving a brief synopsis of his book, some cheapjack volume of popular psychology. Robert changed the channel, and was relieved when he found an old, familiar refrain: Nina Simone singing about the “Backlash Blues.”

But for some reason he could not get the words from the radio out of his mind. They were haunting him, or taunting him. He could not be sure which.

Our homes have already been invaded by this insidious enemy that seeks to twist our minds and poison our hearts.

Jesus, why was that staying with him? The phrase was stuck in his brain, like an insect trapped in a jar, constantly beating itself against the glass until it went insane. He knew it was linked to the bad times they’d all gone through, but he also knew he should not allow those memories to hold such power over him.

Robert stared at the road ahead. He was alone, so horribly, terribly alone, despite the presence of his family inside the car. The moment soon passed, but it left behind an emotional residue—a stain—he could not remove however hard he tried.

Even among loved ones, he thought, we are entirely on our own.

“So,” he said, mainly to shift his own dark mood. “Are we all looking forward to getting back to the new house? Settling in, unpacking properly this time, and starting things again?” He wished he had kept quiet. The words he had used, and the way he’d said them, were linked directly to the memories he was trying to keep down.

“Yeah,” said Molly. “It should be fun. Apart from the new school.” She made a puking noise. Beside her, Connor laughed, finally looking up from his game.

“Oh, come on, you two. Dad’s done us proud with this place. I know we didn’t get the chance to get settled in before the trip, but now we can make our mark on the house, make it a real home. There’s still a long time left of the summer holidays, and we can forget about school until then. In the meantime, let’s all just dive into this new adventure and start being a family again.” Despite her surface optimism, Robert knew Sarah’s eyes betrayed how she really felt. She was clearly afraid: of the new life they were planning, of the strange territory represented by the new house and the countryside…of everything.

“Yes, that’s what we want to hear: some positivity.” His own voice held a note of trepidation. Why couldn’t they all just admit they were scared and be done with it? Was it so difficult to open yourself up and show your weaknesses, even to the ones closest to you?

They all went quiet, as if in recognition of their unspoken fears, and Robert stared through the windscreen as if he had never seen a road before. The trees moved slowly, their tops shifting like nodding heads in a slight breeze, and leaves clutched like fingers at the air. Daylight pierced the spaces between those leaves, creating bright spots in the dark treetops. He saw a rabbit racing along the verge, head down, ears pinned back, and he smiled sadly as it veered off into a clump of bushes. The sun hung in the sky as if it were painted on; its glare was unbearable when he looked directly at it, but when viewed askance the yellow blob seemed to become more solid.

Sarah’s hand strayed to touch his knee. Her long fingers clasped him, lightly but with enough pressure to let him know she meant it.

It’s going to be all right, he thought. Everything will be fine.

Before long the battered road sign for the small town of Battle came into view. It was scraped and scratched; someone had daubed meaningless black lines across it in either paint or marker pen. Battle was more like a village than a town, with a few shops, two pubs and a sub-post office counter at the rear of a newsagent. It was exactly the kind of place they needed to heal their wounds; a quiet, almost lazy backwater where everyone knew everyone else’s business but nobody really bothered to interfere.

More importantly, it was a million miles away from the city—if not figuratively, then at least metaphorically. Things moved slower in the country; the people cared little about your past, and even less about your present. He and his family could be outsiders, and now they would relish that sense of alienation. It was a different type of segregation to that found in the city, and one they could use to their advantage.

He began to recognize small sights and markers: a length of tumbledown stone wall, a sign for a farm selling fresh eggs and other produce, a drainage ditch that ran under the road but did not reappear at the opposite side. Soon, he knew, would appear the access road to the house. He was surprised at how quickly, and how deeply, it was starting to feel like home.

“Nearly there now,” he said, waiting for the road to lurch toward them around the next bend. He slowed the car, taking the curve smoothly, and bumped over the slight raised area at the side of the carriageway before shifting down a gear to take the access road.

The road climbed slowly, and if he was honest, it was barely a road at all, more of a dirt track upon which someone had thrown some wood shavings to absorb the surface water. The Volvo’s engine whined a little, but managed the steep climb with ease, and within less than a minute the car was cresting the rise and the house leapt up to meet them.

“I forgot how nice it is,” said Sarah.

“Yeah,” agreed Molly. “It is. It really is.”

Even Connor managed a muted response from somewhere at the back of his throat.

“Whose car is that?” Robert was suddenly wary. They were expecting no visitors, and not even his solicitor knew the exact date of their return from the camping trip.

“Is it the estate agent?” Sarah sounded hopeful, too hopeful, as if she were pleading with him to affirm her query.

It was an old car—a Ford Cortina—with mud caking the tyres and the wings, and deep grazes in the front bumper. The windscreen was tinted, and even from this distance Robert could see it was coated in a layer of dirt and dead insects, with tracks cut through the mess by the windscreen wipers. It was a dirty car, a vehicle that did not look cared for or well-maintained. The dirt ran deeper than the bodywork. He was certain whoever drove this vehicle was nobody he knew, or wanted to know.

He pulled up on the wide gravel drive, setting the handbrake and turning off the engine. He shifted his gaze from the filthy car to the house, and noted the curtains and blinds were all open. He had pulled them all shut before locking up the place; he was as sure of this as he was of the fact that there had been no car in the drive when they left for their trip.

“Stay here,” he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the gravel. Stones crunched loudly, as if attempting to signal his arrival. “I’ll check this out.”

As he walked slowly and cautiously toward his new home, a place where he had hoped to silence the terrors that cried out to him at night, a single curtain twitched in a downstairs room and a pale face appeared briefly at the window before moving away.

11:05 A.M.

Robert kept his pace even as he approached the front porch, refusing to betray his fear to either his family in the car, or whoever was occupying his house. Surely there was a rational explanation for all this; perhaps the estate agent had employed a cleaner to get the house ready for their return from the Lakes.

Yes, that must be it. A cleaner.

Deep down inside him, where he wrestled with demons, the truth fought to be heard. There was no cleaner, and the agent knew nothing about whoever had parked their filthy little car on his drive.

Robert paused at the outer door to the porch, taking a breath and adjusting his footing. For some reason it seemed important to solidify his grip on the world, and he curled his toes inside his shoes as if he were trying to grasp the dirt through the thin leather soles. He’d started using this technique when Sarah was in the hospital. He found it helped root him into the moment.

He reached inside his pocket and grasped the set of keys he had been carrying since taking possession of the house. On it were keys for the front porch, the inner front door, the back and side doors, and the garage, which was situated at the back of the main building. He held the keys for a moment before pulling them out of his pocket, as if he needed to convince himself of their reality before allowing them to be seen.

He took the key (marked with a yellow sticker) and pushed it into the lock. The key jammed halfway in, and even when he jiggled it, rocking it from side to side, it was apparent the key did not fit the aperture. He took out the key, checked the sticker. Yes; yellow for the front door, blue for the back, green for the side and black for the garage. He tried the key a second time but it jammed again.

Suddenly the inner door was jerked open and a smiling man slipped out onto the small porch. The man was around average height, with broad shoulders and muscled arms. He had a small potbelly, but looked otherwise in pretty good shape, and old blue tattoos struggled to show themselves through the thick hairs on his forearms. He looked like a man who did physical work, as part of a road crew, or lifting heavy bins to tip their contents into a refuse wagon.

The man was wearing a T-shirt that said I’M THE BOSS and a pair of faded denim jeans. On his feet were a pair of scuffed work boots, the laces undone and hanging loose, and the jeans were turned up an inch at the bottom. His hair was cut very short, almost a skinhead, and for some reason Robert noted that it was very thick, unlike his own thinning thatch.

The man reached out and opened the outer door. His hands were huge, the fingers as thick as sausages. His smile did not falter; his eyes were small and dark, and the smile did not touch them.

“Can I help you?” said the man, remaining just inside the porch. His boots had left dirt on the mat, and Robert winced at the sight of it.

“I think,” said Robert, “I should be asking you the same question.” He tried to smile but it would not come; his lips refused to twist into the required position. “You’re in my house, after all.”

The man’s brow furrowed. He looked around him, putting on what Robert thought was a rather theatrical display, and then shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.” His voice was deep, slow, with the hint of a harsh regional accent—was it northeastern? Robert could not be sure, but he classed it as the kind of unmodified working-class accent heard on a building site rather than one you might come across in a city center office. The man definitely looked like a manual laborer, with his big hands and his faded tattoos.

“Listen, I’m not being funny, but…well, you’re in my house.” What else was he supposed to say? This situation was so absurd, so unexpected, that he simply did not know how to deal with it. “My house,” he repeated, hoping it might sink in.

“Sorry, mate, but I bought this place a few weeks ago. This is my house, and I’ll thank you to stop pissing about and tell me why you tried to stick your key in my lock.” The man’s smile turned salacious, as if he and Robert were sharing a private and slightly dirty joke. Then he glanced at the Volvo, and at Robert’s family encased within its thin shell, and the joke turned sour.

Robert took an involuntary step back, onto the drive, and was shocked by the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. “I…listen, I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but could you please get out of my house?”

A woman appeared behind the man in the porch. She had bleached blonde hair, light blue eyes. She was wearing a shirt that was open to the solar plexus and a short, tight black skirt that accentuated her hard-muscled legs. Beneath the shirt, Robert could see her white bra against tanned skin, and he suddenly wondered what kind of knickers, if any at all, she was wearing under the skirt.

“What’s going on, Nate?” Her voice was similar to the man’s: low, husky, with a trace of an accent.

“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 skull: 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.

Nate Corbeau stood to one side, holding his face. There were a few spots of blood on the side of his forehead, below the hairline, but otherwise he looked unharmed. He was not even breathing heavily. The scuffle had clearly left him unmoved.

“Now,” said the policeman, “can anyone tell me what the hell’s been going on here?”

Monica Corbeau rushed to the policeman’s side. “Listen, McMahon, this sodding idiot just attacked my Nathan. I want him locked up.” Her face had become hard, the lines turning into edges and taking on a sharpness Robert had failed to notice previously. “He’s mad.”

Sergeant McMahon sighed. He scratched his arm and crouched down beside Robert. “Listen, sir, I can see you’re a sensible man, not usually prone to violence. I mean, you’re knackered after that little episode, aren’t you?” He smiled again, and in that smile Robert saw a possible ally.

“I’m sorry. Really. But, you see, we bought this house weeks ago, before going on holiday, and when we got back just now, we found these…people here. They were in our house. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Sergeant McMahon looked around at Nathan and Monica Corbeau. His face was out of sight, so Robert failed to see what kind of expression passed between them. When he turned back to Robert, the sergeant’s face was harder, almost rigid. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station, in Battle. The Corbeaus here have been living in this house for about a fortnight. I was here when they moved in.”

“But…” Sarah had spoken at last, but her words dissipated in the warm, still air. She raised her hands to her face, and her eyes grew wide with disbelief. Robert had never before seen such a look of confusion on her face, and it saddened him to know it was merely a reflection of how his own face must look. He nodded, stood slowly, and allowed the sergeant to direct him to the front of the police car.

“Can you drive?” said McMahon, speaking now to Sarah. “Can you follow us in your car? I’m sure we’ll get this all cleared up without any further need for unpleasantness. I was hoping to avoid the paperwork, but your fella here seems adamant on putting me through it today.” Again there was the flash of a kind smile, and a vague sense of warmth.

Sarah nodded. “Yes, I’ll follow. I’ll follow you in.” She turned and stared at the Corbeaus, hatred blazing in her eyes, and then spun away to stalk back toward the Volvo. “Get in the car!” she snapped at the kids, and they silently obeyed her, knowing well enough to hold their tongues. Robert experienced a strange sense of loss as he watched them all climb into the vehicle. Sergeant McMahon pushed his head down to avoid the roof and gently helped him inside the police car.

Robert stared at the house through the rear window. The Corbeaus were standing there, watching him leave, and even as the car pulled away he could see their sullen grins. They were enjoying this; it was all going to plan. For some reason they had chosen him and his family for mischief, and he knew this would never be over until they had achieved whatever their aim might be. He hoped simple mischief was all they were after, and that once they had won they would move on, leaving him to pick up the pieces. He was very good at picking up the pieces.

It was a short drive into town, and the police station was situated on the main road just as they entered Battle itself. It was a small, squat building, made of red brick and with tiny windows. It looked like it might have been built in the early 1980s—certainly no earlier than the mid-1970s—and reflected the casual ugliness of that era. A few police cars and motorcycles were parked in spaces at the front of the building, but Sergeant McMahon drove them round the back, where he pulled up in a space beside some double doors. “No need for the main entrance,” he said. “Let’s keep this nice and low-key, eh?”

“Thank you,” said Robert, lifting his head and examining the man’s face. McMahon was slightly overweight, but not quite tall enough to carry it off. His face, now that his color had returned to normal, was long and plain, with dark brown eyes and a slight gingery stubble growth on his chin. He looked young—perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties—yet radiated a sense of trust and experience. Robert doubted the man had much trouble dealing with whatever passed for crime in a small town like Battle, and his aforementioned dislike of paperwork probably contributed to his strategy of low-level policing.

“Let’s get you inside, make you a cup of tea, and get this nasty little problem ironed out. I’m not sure about you, but I’m parched.”

McMahon opened the rear door and waited for Robert to climb out of the car; then he led his docile prisoner across the car park and in through the double doors.

After passing through a back office, where a handful of mostly uniformed people at desks barely looked up from their work to acknowledge their presence, Robert found himself sitting in a plastic chair in a cramped room with photos on the wall. The photographs mostly showed another man, not Sergeant McMahon, on various fishing expeditions. In each shot he was holding large fish, grinning with other men, and posing on some riverbank.

“It’s my boss’s office. He’s on holiday. Do you fish?”

“No,” said Robert. “No, I don’t. Not much call for it in London.” He regretted his flippancy immediately, but by then it was too late to take it back.

“Ah, I see,” said McMahon, stretching. “Not in London now, though, are you? You’re up north, with us lot.” He smiled, but this time it was not quite as friendly. He looked toward the glass door, cocking his head to one side. “I think your wife has just come in. Just relax and I’ll make sure she’s comfortable while we have a little chat.” He left the office and closed the door behind him.

Robert looked around the small room, reading the spines of the law books and paperback thrillers on the shelves, glancing at the bushes and the landscaped area beyond the window, and then finally looking inward, where his anger was now sleeping.

“Now, then.” McMahon had reentered the room, and was carrying two Styrofoam cups. “Sugar?” He had been gone just long enough to send for the teas, and perhaps to start checking up on Robert and his family, to access official records and official databases to see who they were.

Robert nodded.

McMahon sat down opposite him and stirred the teas, and then he pushed one toward Robert. “Drink up.” He took a sip from his own cup, grimaced, and then put the cup down on the uncluttered desk. “Tastes like liquidized shit, but it’s better than nothing.”

Robert waited for his tea to cool. He stared at the cloud of vapor that shimmered above the rim of the cup, wondering what had gone so very wrong with his life—not just now, in the last hour or so, but before, when they had been forced to leave London and come here, where they clearly did not belong.

“So what happened? In your own words, what’s been going on?” McMahon leaned back in his chair and carefully studied Robert’s face.

“Like I said, my family and I have been away camping in the Lake District. We got back this morning, to the house we bought before going away, and found those people there, acting as if they owned the place…claiming they do own the place.”

McMahon sat forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. “And then you attacked Mr. Corbeau? Is that right?”

Robert shook his head; then he nodded. “He provoked me, goaded me into it. I mean, what would you do if you found someone in your house? He’s even changed the locks. My key…it wouldn’t fit.” Right then he began to realize how stupid this all sounded. His story barely held water. As far as McMahon was concerned, he had been called out to a dispute and found two grown men fighting, one of whom he knew and the other a stranger—an impolite, rather standoffish stranger from London. “I know how this looks…” He tailed off, lamely.

“I really don’t know what to make of this, sir. We’ve already run a quick check and you are who you say you are—your identity tallies with what you’ve told me—but do you have any evidence that you own the house? As I said earlier, I was present when the Corbeaus moved in; I even helped them shift an old fridge out into the drive.”

“That was my old fridge,” said Robert, once again on the verge of tears.

“Listen, I’ve spoken with the estate agent, and I know those people bought the place. I honestly don’t know what to tell you. You seem like a reasonable man, but you must realize how unreasonable this all seems. I mean, show me the deeds with your name on them and I’ll reconsider my position, but until then I’m afraid that I’ll have to issue you with a formal warning. Please, stay away from the Corbeaus, or I’ll be forced to arrest you.”

The room was suddenly airless. Robert’s head began to throb. “The deeds are in an oak writing desk in the spare room: the third drawer down, in a manila folder marked PROPERTY SALE. Go round there and take a look.” He stared at Sergeant McMahon, trying to appeal to the man’s sense of fair play.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll have a little word with Nathan Corbeau. I’m sure he’ll let me see the necessary paperwork, and all this will be cleared up. In the meantime, I suggest you and your family check into the Collingwood Hotel. It’s a nice place, reasonable rates, and right here in town. So you don’t have to go back out there to Oval Lane. Do we understand each other?”

Robert looked down at his hands. They were clenched tightly into fists, the knuckles white. He looked back up again, at McMahon, and nodded once. “Yes, we understand each other,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

He felt empty. Not even his fear remained.

1:00 P.M.

They found the Collingwood Hotel with ease. It was situated a few hundred yards along from the police station, and had a huge vacancy sign hanging above the door.

“Looks cosy,” said Sarah, not even glancing at the place. It was the first thing she had said since they left the station, and Robert decided to go with the flow and see where it went.

“Yes,” he said, pulling on the handbrake. “I’m sure it’ll be fine until all this crap gets cleared up.”

“Why are we staying here, Dad? Who were those awful people?” Molly’s voice was strained; she was on the verge of cracking. He could tell. He could always tell.

“Don’t you worry, love, we’ll be fine. All we have to do is prove we bought the house, and then they’ll be out of there. Sergeant McMahon is looking into it now.”

Sarah let out a long, slow breath. When he glanced at her, he saw her eyes were closed. Her lips were pinched shut. Despite the somewhat hardened expression, she was beautiful. He had never stopped thinking so, even as she lay in a north London hospital bed, her face swollen with bruises and those full lips shredded by her attacker’s cheap gold rings.

“We’ll be fine,” he repeated, but this time to Sarah, to his wife.

She did not respond to his assurance.

“Come on, then. Let’s make the best of this, eh? A night or two in a hotel won’t kill us.” These false high spirits were making his head ache. His eyes began to water. He gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers, squeezed, and then quickly got out of the car. He heard the car doors open and then slam shut behind him, but did not turn around to watch as the others followed him. Instead he kept squeezing his nose as he walked toward the hotel entrance, his vision wavering and his legs refusing to move properly.

Several stone steps led up to an old-fashioned revolving door. Glass doors flanked the central entrance, and Robert chose the left one, but the kids hit the revolving door and giggled as it spun them around and spilled them into the lobby. Sarah used the right-hand door; Robert could not help but take it as a form of silent rebuke.

Behind a high check-in desk there sat an old woman with headphones in her ears. She took off the headphones as Robert approached the desk, smiling distractedly. “Hello there,” she said, turning off the iPod she had pulled from the breast pocket of her white blouse. “Sorry. I was listening to the football.”

“I was wondering,” said Robert, bellying up to the desk. “Could we check in for two or three nights?”

The old woman consulted the large leather-bound book on the desk, looked back up, and nodded. “Room 216 suit you? Second floor. And it’s a family room with a nice view of the town square.” She held out a pen and rotated the guest book so he could sign. The page was empty; no other names adorned the fine-ruled page.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry your own bags. Our porter is in hospital having his gallstones removed.”

Behind him, Connor giggled. Molly shushed him.

“That’s fine. We don’t have many bags.” He did not know why he had lied. Of course, they had the bags from their two-week holiday, and the tent was stashed in the roof-rack storage container. “Just a couple of overnight bags. I’ll get them later.”

After giving his credit card details, Robert took the key and led the way up the wide staircase to the second floor. The place had clearly been nice once, but a lack of regular maintenance had ensured the hotel was now going to seed. Paper was curling on the walls, the carpets were worn in places, and the banister in the stairwell was loose.

“We won’t be here long,” he promised the kids, as he reached the top of the stairs and made his way along the landing to their room.

The room itself was clean, but basic. There were three beds—a double, a single, and a fold-out divan—and a large wardrobe. A set of drawers was positioned behind the door, with a television set on top, and an old armchair sat forlornly in the bay window. The en suite bathroom was spacious, but again it showed signs of general wear and tear: a cracked tile, damp stains in one corner, a broken window latch.

“I’ll go and get our cases—the small ones, with the toiletries. If we need anything else, we can just get it as and when.” He smiled. No one returned the gesture.

Robert went back down to the car. The street seemed filled with light as he opened the boot and extracted the luggage: enough light to fill his senses, but with little heat behind it. There were not many people around, and those few pedestrians he did see ignored him, as if he were an extra in the movie of their lives. Cars passed slowly on the main road, obeying the speed limit. The place was almost too quiet to be real.

He carried the bags back up to the room. When he tried to get back inside, the door got stuck in the frame. He pushed; Sarah pulled from the other side. The kids laughed. Eventually the door lurched open and he sprawled into the room, almost dropping the bags.

“Can we go and explore?” Molly was excited, and Robert thought it best to try and maintain her good mood.

“Yes,” he said. “But I want you back here in exactly one hour, and do not get into any trouble. I mean that…”

The kids slunk from the room, and then, when the door closed, he heard them running for the stairs. At least they were upbeat; that meant one less thing to worry about.

He sat on the bed next to Sarah. She shifted along, away from him, and stared at the blank television screen. He saw her face reflected there; saw the way her body had stiffened and her hands lay dead in her lap.

“What’s going on, Rob?” Her shoulders began to shake. The shock of what had happened back at the house on Oval Lane was finally setting in, and her reaction was extreme. “This is too much. Just too damn much.”

He reached out to her, but she pulled away, twisting her body out of his grasp.

“Who the hell are those people? And why did you attack that man? That’s not like you; you’re not a fighter.” She turned to him at last, her face soft and blurred by emotion. “He wanted you to hit him. You do realize that, don’t you? He was pushing you into it, and you responded exactly how he wanted you to.”

Robert looked down at his hands, at the frayed bedsheets. “I know. It’s just…I never want to fail you again. I need to protect you, and the kids, too.” He kept his head down, closed his eyes.

Her hand slipped into his, clasping it tightly. There should have been warmth there, in her touch, but all he felt was cold. A distance had crept between them, replacing the bond they had once shared. The attack back in London had wounded their relationship in ways that were only now becoming clear. The rape and beating had hurt so much more than her body; even the internal scars she carried were nothing compared to the wounds that had developed in their marriage.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely audible, less than a whisper. “This all feels so strange…like a bad dream.”

Robert looked up, at the side of her face. He could see the faint scars on her cheek, the pits and scratches were the attacker had cut her as he smashed his fist into her features. His gaze followed the crooked line of her nose—once as smooth and linear as a mountain slope—and down to her lips. She was his wife, but different; the attack had robbed her of something indefinable.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. All he could muster. He hoped it might just be enough.

Her grip on his hand tightened. Relaxed. Tightened again. At last he felt a familiar warmth.

“I’m hungry, but I also feel sick.” She smiled, her eyes shining at last. “What do you suggest?” Her hand travelled along his forearm, rubbing his skin. She leaned into him, her mouth opening, the lips parting and the tip of her tongue poking out to point at him.

“I don’t think it’s food I’m hungry for.”

The switch in her mood shocked him, but he was used to these extremes of emotion. Ever since the attack, she’d become unpredictable. He could never judge what she might do.

They embraced clumsily, like inexperienced lovers. Robert realized they had not made love for months, and the last time had been a cold, passionless fuck, as if Sarah were simply trying to reclaim her sexuality after the attack and was using him as a sex toy.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, just before her lips mashed against his mouth. It was all the answer he needed.

They pulled aside their clothing, not even bothering to undress. The heat of the moment carried them along, and it was as if they both realized they needed to act quickly, before it burned itself out.

He slipped inside her, making her gasp. She bit his ear; her tongue left a dab of saliva on his earlobe. The unreality of their current situation receded, replaced by the solidity of their relationship. Despite the damage, it was fundamentally sound.

It took a few moments to find their rhythm, but finally it happened. Robert felt distanced from the act, as if he were watching it on a screen—hotel pornography raised to the nth degree. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and decided it did not really matter if he looked into Sarah’s face or at the back of his own eyelids because her eyes were screwed tightly shut anyway. She whispered into the side of his neck, but he could not make out the words. It was her private language, a glossolalia of past hurts, and he wasn’t meant to decipher the message. All he had to do was accept what was happening.

Sarah’s legs tightened around his waist as she approached orgasm. He was a long distance from his own climax, but realized this was not about him, nor about her. It was about retaking control yet at the same time trying to lose themselves in the moment, and make it more real than anything else around them.

Sarah yelled, calling his name. He thrust into her, and kept going until she began to pull at his arms and shoulders. Finally, he reached his own shuddery climax and rolled off her, coming to rest on his back. The mattress was lumpy, but still it provided enough comfort.

Sarah was panting, breathless. Her hand groped for his across the sheets.

“I love you,” he said. She did not answer.

* * *

They were showered and changed by the time the children arrived back from their expedition. Molly burst into the room first, a look of irritation on her face.

“Tell him to stop winding me up!” she cried, slamming the door in her brother’s face.

“Come on, Connor. What’s all this about?” Robert moved across the room, giving Sarah’s hand a squeeze as he passed her: she looked up from her place in the chair by the window and gave him a distracted smile.

“Nothing, Dad. I’m just telling her about Sawney Bean, and the way his family would eat strangers when they came to town. And Leatherface, from those chain-saw films.” He grinned, enjoying his sister’s discomfort.

Molly sat heavily on the bed, drawing up her legs and propping her chin on her fists.

“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?”

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.

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…

He drank for a while, watching the steady flow of traffic as people came and went, faces replaced by other, similar faces, bodies brushing up against him on their way to the toilet at the back of the room. He was not aware of how many drinks he had, but he knew the number was great. He had always been a whisky drinker, and could handle it well, but in this volume it was lethal.

The next thing he remembered was playing pool against a tall man with skinny limbs and a pock-marked face. Somehow he won the game and the pock-marked man walked away, shaking his head and waving a hand in the air. Robert watched him as he left the pub, and then looked around for his next opponent.

She was standing a yard or two away, staring at him and nursing a bottled lager. When he saw her, she raised her bottle and winked at him. He recognized her immediately, but could not place her face. Then, abruptly, realisation rushed it. It was Nathan Corbeau’s wife, Monica, and she was alone.

Before he knew it she was standing next to him, a fresh lager in one hand and a whisky in the other. “Can I join you? I’m pretty good at this game. Misspent childhood, an’ all that.”

Robert was numb. He looked at her badly made-up face, her pale blue eyes, and her cheaply dyed hair. Then his gaze trickled down to her chest—the low-cut blouse revealed just a little bit too much cleavage—and her flat belly, then finally to the tiny leather skirt wrapped like a thick belt around her waist. Her legs were firm and shapely and hairless, coated with obviously fake tan. He felt an erection stirring, and grabbed the whisky from her hand just to occupy his mind.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Let me set them up.”

Robert stared at her, taking her in. All of her. “I can be arrested for even standing next to you.” He took a sip from his drink, feeling shut off from his surroundings. The whole room narrowed down to the small area around them: the wet floor, the dust beneath their feet, the scuffmarks on the wooden boards.

“I know. I’m sorry. That wasn’t my idea.” Slowly she walked the length of the pool table, enjoying the fact that he was watching her.

Her sexuality was blunt, vulgar, yet it was also crudely effective. She bent over too far to reach beneath the pool table and retrieve the balls from their slot, and as she arranged them in the wooden triangle, she made sure her breasts were spilling out of that thin blouse. Her smile devoured him, and then spat him back out in pieces.

Robert knew precisely what she was doing, and part of him was flattered; another part of him, the part that ate healthily, slept well, read good books and tried to lead an orderly and productive life, was utterly horrified. The coarseness of this woman made him feel at once unclean and highly aroused. He could blame the drink, of course, but deep down he knew something about her had connected with something inside him. It was a truth he would have preferred to ignore.

Also, deep inside him, the man that was weak and wounded and resentful noted this might be the perfect way to take revenge on Sarah. How dare she send him away? What right did she have to doubt him?

In his past, Robert had experienced many sleazy sexual encounters: he had been drawn to the thrill, and to the filth. He liked dirty women; he loved dirty sex. When he was single, he visited prostitutes out of choice rather than desperation, and even the act of paying for that kind of sex had given him a thrill. Once he was married he started pushing that side of him away, repressing his proclivity for sleaze, but it was still there; it was always there, waiting to be unleashed. This whole situation had triggered something and a door had opened up inside of him, letting out those dark, base desires.

Something inside him was stirring. The shadows of his past were on the move.

“My break,” she said, reaching out to pick a cue from the rack on the wall.

They played in silence for a while, and Robert noted she had not been lying: she was very good indeed.

“I really am sorry about that little misunderstanding,” she said when they paused in their game to take a drink. “Things got out of hand. It was silly.” She licked her lips; again it was such an obvious thing to do that Robert could hardly believe what he had seen, or his response to the action.

Robert did not know what to say. His civilized aspect wanted to indulge her in conversation, to discuss what had happened, why it had happened, and how they could resolve things. His primitive self wanted to grab her by the hair and fuck her across the pool table. Never before had he experienced such intense and unwelcome feelings. It was both terrifying and invigorating. He felt strong. He felt weak. He felt like a man.

His head was spinning; the whisky was taking hold. He was aware of the pub emptying, of people drifting out into the night, and thought it must be getting late. “It’s getting late,” he said, as if confirming his own wayward thoughts. “I should go.” He could hear the slurring of his voice, and was more than aware of his uneven gait as he stalked along the edge of the pool table, but some part of him refused to leave.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s late. I’ll walk you out. My car is parked in the back. Want a lift?” She walked away without waiting for an answer, nodding at the barmaid as she passed and going through the rear door. Robert stared at the pale patches on the back of her knees, where she’d forgotten to apply the fake tan.

The seduction was so easy that Robert was almost embarrassed. He had not even put up a fight. He stumbled after her, not really thinking about why; he just felt the urge to be out there, in the night, where anything might happen. He felt the hot air on his cheek; he smelled tobacco mixed with diesel fumes; and then he saw her leaning against the back wall, smoking a cigarette.

He stood before her, as if naked. He stared into her damned and damning eyes, and he realized he wanted her—all of him, every tiny element that made up his being, wanted her. He was ashamed; he was thrilled. The night seemed to shift and form a funnel, the narrow end positioned directly above him, vomiting out blackness. He reached up, reached out, and embraced it…embraced her. The cigarette fell from her hand and described a fiery arc as it headed toward the ground. Her lips went to his throat, but not his mouth: that kind of intimacy had no place here.

She spun him like a toy and pinned him to the wall, her hands going to his trousers and pulling down his zipper. She took out his cock and rolled it between her palms, brought her hands to her face and spat on them, and then once again grabbed his twitching member. Slowly, she went to her knees, her warm, wet, sticky mouth enveloping him. He grabbed her head, his fingers knotting in her tatty hair, and felt like punching her, smashing her skull with his bunched fists just to watch her bleed. Again the intensity and horrific nature of these thoughts took him by surprise, and he was instantly ashamed of them. Robert was not a violent man; he was a man of peace. But somehow this woman had reached deep inside him and unlocked a door to reveal a kind of brute carnality that had always been there but never before let out.

She wants this, he thought. She wants this…and so do I.

He came in seconds, and when she pulled away, he saw his seed glistening on her cheek. She laughed, drawing the arm of her blouse across her mouth, her lips twisting into an animalistic snarl as she stood and backed away from him. “Fucking useless,” she said. Then she spat in his face and turned her back on him, walking toward the center of the car park.

Robert sank to his knees, ruined, the potential for violence now gone. He watched as she reached the exact center of the car park, and suddenly headlights flashed on in the darkness. An engine rumbled to life, and a battered Ford Cortina trundled into view from the shadows.

The car stopped beside Monica Corbeau, and the passenger door popped open. She climbed in, still laughing, still snarling, and slammed the door shut. The car made a slow circle, and Nathan Corbeau stuck his head out of the window.

“My turn next,” he said, grinning. “But I’ll do a lot better than that with your woman.” Monica’s leering face hovered at his shoulder, a grim ghost riding shotgun.

The car roared away into the night, and Robert dropped his head and threw up on the cracked concrete, thinking about his wife, his children and hoping he could still face them all in the morning.

TUESDAY

7:10 A.M.

He awoke curled up on the ground behind the pub, his mouth plastered to the cracked cement and his back and legs aching. Cautiously, he raised himself into a low crouch. There was vomit on his face and the cuffs of his jacket. He did his best to rub away the dry flakes from his cheeks and lips, and then pulled himself fully upright using his hands against the rough wall. He tried the back door, but it was locked. Turning slowly, he surveyed the car park; it was empty.

Robert trudged across the tarmac and stepped over the low fence, where he followed the footpath round to the front of the building. Daylight stabbed at his eyes. The sky was pale blue and looked incredibly distant, like a painting or a photograph; or, to extend Sarah’s metaphor from yesterday, a matte background from an old film.

Before long he was outside the hotel. There was a police car parked at the curb. Robert’s heart began to stammer, punching against the inside of his chest.

He entered the hotel and saw Sarah standing in the lobby, biting her nails and talking with a uniformed police officer he had not seen before. He wondered where Sergeant McMahon was, and if he knew what was going on here.

“Rob!” Sarah ran to him, reaching out and then pulling back her arms at the last minute. Her momentum carried her forward, and she almost collided with him. It was clumsy and a little embarrassing, but she managed to save face by putting a hand on his chest. “Where have you been?”

He hoped he didn’t smell of sex. “I…slept on a bench somewhere. Had too much to drink after we fought. I’m sorry. What’s happening?” He could not maintain eye contact with her.

Sarah leaned into him, more, he felt, for show than out of any kind of real affection. “It’s Molly. She was out all night.”

Robert staggered backward; the world seemed to hitch, like a roundabout getting stuck on its bearings. “Where is she now?”

“It’s okay. It’s fine. This officer found her about an hour ago, walking the streets and pinching a milk bottle from someone’s doorstep. Molly’s upstairs, asleep. We can talk to her later, when she wakes up.” Robert suddenly realized Sarah’s odd behavior was probably due to the intense relief she felt at having both her daughter and husband back. He felt guilty for missing it all, ashamed for allowing himself to be drawn into that absurd and vaguely nightmarish situation last night. And what about that anyway; was it even real, or had he dreamed it all? Right now, under the harsh hotel lights, it seemed he might have imagined the whole thing.

He certainly wished he had.

“I’ll leave you to talk,” said the officer, putting away his notebook and skulking out of the lobby, toward the door. “Call if you need anything.”

“Where’s McMahon? Has he been here?” Robert rubbed at his head and scratched his scalp.

Sarah looked at him askance; there was something odd about her expression, and it made him feel uncomfortable. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “I mentioned McMahon to that young officer, and he looked at me as if I was mad. He said there was no such person as Sergeant McMahon in the Battle constabulary.” Her face was hanging loose from her bones; the skin was slipping like the wallpaper in the hotel stairwell.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Robert said, backing away. He pulled at his hair, trying to connect himself to the pain, to inhabit the moment entirely. Strangely, it did not hurt a bit. “This is insane, all of it. It makes no sense.” Everything was spinning out of his grasp—his wife, his children, his very existence. “Where was Molly? Has she said anything?”

Sarah took a single step toward him and then halted. She raised her hands, an attempt at a placatory gesture that seemed somehow forced, as if she were trying to make it happen rather than let their reconciliation take its natural course. “She said she was with a boy—a local. Nothing happened, she promised me. They just walked around all night, talking.”

“That’s not like her. It’s not Molly. She doesn’t do things like that.” He started for the stairs. Things were slipping out of control. “Where’s Connor?”

“He’s in the bar, finishing his breakfast.”

Robert changed direction and headed for the bar, feeling the rage building inside him. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down; he knew shouting at everyone would achieve nothing. By the time he entered the room and saw the boy sitting at the table, he had just about managed to bring down his blood pressure.

He sat down opposite his son. “How are you doing?”

Connor looked up from his toast. There were crumbs on his chin. His eyes were ringed with black; clearly he had not slept much at all. “I don’t know anything, Dad. She left me outside the chip shop and made me promise not to say anything. She put me in an awkward position.”

“I know, son, and I promise you’re not in trouble. We just need to know where she’s been, and what might have happened.” He slipped his hand across the table but stopped it before the fingers touched Connor’s sleeve.

“All I know is she was with some boy. I don’t know his name, or where he lives, but Molly’s smitten with him.” His use of that antiquated word—smitten—was almost comical under the circumstances. It was a word Robert himself used often, and his son had obviously picked it up without realising. Robert felt a strange kind of pride.

“Okay, son. We’ll just leave it at that. You finish your breakfast and I’ll go and talk to your sister. He stood and pushed away from the table, still light-headed and slightly nauseous. He needed a shower, and to brush his teeth. He needed to wash the stink of Monica Corbeau’s mouth off his cock.

“Sorry, Dad.” Connor’s voice was tiny, like that of an infant.

Robert walked away, not sure what else he could say. He felt close to tears.

He climbed the stairs and went to their room, then stood outside and listened at the door. He could hear Molly crying, and was afraid if he went inside he would be unable to stop himself from screaming at her. He thought of that couple in the bar, practically eating each other’s faces, and felt his stomach flip. He imagined some boy’s hands all over his daughter’s body, and feared for her because of her lack of street smarts. He had always done his best to protect his children, and to bring them up in what he thought of as the right way. This inevitably meant they were both a little naive, and some of their friends knew much more about the seamier side of life…but was it so wrong to try and retain a sense of purity within the sanctity of your family, to do your best to keep the tide of filth at bay?

Oh, God, he thought. What if she’s pregnant? What if…what if she gave away her virginity in a back lane and finds out she’s up the duff?

He gritted his teeth and leaned his forehead against the door. The wood was cold and hard, but still it felt as if his head would pass right through it if he tried. The edges of his world had become less rigid, all borders were now blurred. Nothing was the same; everything had changed. Fact and fiction had become part of the same experience, reshaping the world into a strange and frightening place.

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.

“We need to talk.” Robert held his gaze, refusing to budge even an inch. He remembered the rape, the aftermath, and the promises he and Sarah had made both to each other and to themselves. He was not a victim; he would never be a victim again.

“Well, come on in, loverboy.” Corbeau stepped back and to the side, opening the door wider.

Robert stepped across the threshold, recalling something he had once read about vampires having to be invited in before they can enter a person’s home. “Thank you.”

Corbeau led him along the hallway and to the living room doorway. The wallpaper was scratched and torn, and somebody had spray-painted crude obscenities from floor to ceiling. The living room door had been removed from its frame. The wood around the absent hinges was rough and jagged, as if it had been hacked at by a dull blade.

“We’re decorating, so you’ll have to excuse the mess.” Corbeau led the way into the living room, smiling.

Monica Corbeau was sitting on the sofa, one hand buried in a slit in the cushions and pulling out the padding. She was wearing some kind of housedress, open to the waist, and no underwear. Her breasts hung loose; there were food stains on her skin. She turned to him and smiled, chocolate stains on her teeth and rubbed into her messy hair. “We weren’t expecting visitors,” she said. “If you’d called ahead, we could have dressed up and made a bit of an effort.” She giggled, and kept on tearing the stuffing out of the sofa.

The floor was littered with detritus: fast-food cartons, beer cans, condoms, wooden crates, pages torn from pornographic magazines, and, oddly, cut flowers. The stems of the flowers were dry and brittle, and the petals had been scattered across the grubby carpet in decorative arcs. The room smelled bad, like backed-up sewage pipes.

“What have you done to my house?” Robert stared at the walls. There were brown stains that looked like they might be feces, and when he raised his eyes to examine the ceiling, he saw that wads of dirty toilet paper had been balled up and thrown so that they stuck to the plaster.

The blinds and curtains were drawn, and someone had set fire to the trailing edge of the curtains before extinguishing the flames to create a long charred hem that had left deposits of ash on the floor.

“We’ve been making the place feel more like a home, making our mark, putting our stamp on things.” Corbeau moved toward his supine wife, reached out a hand and grabbed one of her breasts. She giggled again.

Robert realized then that he was truly in the company of beasts: there was no other explanation for these people and the things they did. He cast aside his inbred middle-class liberalism and accepted they were monsters. It felt strange, going against everything he had been taught, to dismiss fellow human beings in this way, but his only hope for survival was to see them for what they were. No excuses; no theories or postulations. They were beasts.

“Why are you doing this to us?” His shoulders slumped, but he knew he had to gain a degree of control. “Just tell me why.”

Corbeau let go of his wife’s breast and walked back toward Robert. His feet crunched on food containers and broken glass. “We’re playing games, now. We’re just beginning.” His voice was quiet, but sounded louder than a jet engine in the stifling silence of the room. “We’re playing funny games.”

Robert looked him in the eye, and reflected there he saw…nothing. No love, no hate, no empathy, no antipathy…nothing but an empty yearning for diversion, the need to be entertained. “But who are you?”

Corbeau stopped in his tracks, spreading his legs apart as if to balance his weight in an unstable world. He put his hands on his hips and leaned back slightly, like a stage actor preparing to bellow his lines at an audience. His face looked odd, as if it didn’t quite fit on his skull.

“Who are we?” He repeated Robert’s question, but with a tone of contempt in his voice. “I’ll tell you who we are. We’re the ones you don’t want to be reminded of. The ones born on forgotten council estates, and who grow up to steal your cars, break into your houses, and rape your wives and your daughters. We’re the ones whose names you never know, but whose faces haunt your CCTV dreams…the ones with steel in our bones and acid in our blood. The mad ones, the bad ones, the glad ones. We’re every lazy middle-class stereotype brought to life.”

His face seemed to grow, to enlarge and inflate, and the light dimmed and flickered around him.

“We are exactly who you don’t want to be, who you’re glad you’re not. We’re the ones who remind you to be good and careful, to do your jobs and pay your taxes and not get bitten on the arse. We’re the flipside, the underside, the nightside. We’re the damned, the damned, the damned…and we’re never going away. We are them; we are They.” His theatrical speech sounded rehearsed, scripted.

When Corbeau stopped speaking, a silence seemed to fill the room, straining the joints in the construction. Robert expected timbers to creak and crack, windows to shatter, bricks to explode under the unbearable pressure of all that ghastly silence. But it did not happen. Instead, Monica Corbeau once more began to giggle.

Nathan Corbeau took the final few steps toward Robert, stopping only when he was right in his face. The man’s breath smelled like dog shit. Robert winced, but stood firm. It was all he could do; put on a show of strength.

“Remember this?” Corbeau slowly raised his hand, and Robert saw he was holding a mobile phone. He twisted his wrist, showing Robert the screen, and the picture upon it. He must have taken the shot from the car last night, outside the bar. It showed Monica on her knees from the side, with her face buried in Robert’s crotch. Her eyes were closed, her cheek bulged, and Robert’s hands were gripping the sides of her head. “She has a good technique, learned from working on her back in backrooms and bedsits, when we were too poor to put food in the babies’ mouths.” Corbeau pressed a button and the still picture began to move. It was not a photograph; it was a film clip.

Robert tore his eyes from the little screen and stared at Corbeau.

“I suppose your wife still has the same number?” Corbeau raised the phone into the air, as if in a form of victory salute, and made a big show of pressing another one of the buttons. “And there it goes, right to her handset. The wonders of technology, eh?”

Realization dawned upon Robert, and the earth trembled beneath him. “No. You haven’t…”

Corbeau nodded. “Oh yes I have.”

What should he do, where could he go? There was no point in running, because the file would already have arrived, and by the time he reached her Sarah would have seen it. This was irreversible; there was nothing he could do to prevent the outcome, or to rewind the tape of the last few minutes. All he could do was hope her capacity for mercy had not left her after the attack, and that he had done enough in all their years of marriage for her to realize how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, despite his many flaws.

“One more thing.” Corbeau, still smiling, turned to face the door that led to the kitchen. “You can bring her out now.”

Robert was frozen. He was a man of ice. What now, what next?

Molly walked through the door, her face dirty with tears. She was sniffling, but quietly, as if she had been ordered to remain silent. Her feet scuffed the carpet and her hands played with the hem of her sweater. She looked small, tiny; a mere baby in a room filled with adults.

There was a boy standing behind her. He looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. On his head was a Burberry baseball cap and he was wearing an ugly tracksuit. Fine stubble shone at his chin, but his cheeks were hairless and marked with old acne scars. Robert was sure this was the boy he had seen Molly with before—the boy she had been secretly spending time with.

“Meet my son, Ethan. He’s a good boy, but does play a bit rough.” Corbeau took a step back, as if expecting Robert to leap at him, fists swinging.

Robert, beyond even the thought of violence now, stared at his daughter. “Molly. Are you okay?”

She nodded, but did not speak. She was frightened and ashamed. Now her father knew the depth and breadth of her lie, and the sheer magnitude of this betrayal had taken away her voice, rendering her mute.

“What do you want to do?” Corbeau’s voice had once again lowered and taken on an almost sensual tone. “Do you want to kill him, or do you want to kill me? You want to kill someone, I know you do. I can smell it on you, like the scent on a dog. You want to spill blood, but you don’t know how. Your safe and secure upbringing has kept you in a bubble, kept you away from having to take a life. Now’s the time to look back, reach inside, and become primal…but you don’t have a clue where to start.”

On the sofa, Monica Corbeau began to sing. It was a sad song, a lament or a hymn in a foreign tongue, and it sounded incongruous here, in this room, at this moment.

Ethan Corbeau pushed Molly away from him, toward Robert. The boy, he could now see, was holding a knife. He had been pressing the blade into Molly’s back, against her spine.

“Go on,” said Nathan Corbeau. “Kill him. Give it a try.”

Robert wanted to strike. Oh, how he wanted to strike: he could feel bone shattering against his knuckles, taste blood on his lips, could even hear the sound of screams in the air. But he knew he was outnumbered, and that if he even tried to make a move for either the man or the boy, he would be killed. The game would be over.

“No.” He shook his head and reached out for Molly. She ran into his arms, finally able to sob. He felt the heat of her terror against his chest, the dampness of her tears on his skin.

Two more children, these ones a lot younger than Ethan, stepped out from behind their brother. The boy was small, underfed; his skinny arms and legs were white as paper. The girl was even smaller, and had wispy white-blonde hair. They did not look alike; their features held no similarities whatsoever. Robert realized this was, at best, a makeshift family, and he wondered where these children had been taken from. Did they have real parents somewhere, weeping for the loss of their young ones?

“My family,” said Corbeau, making an expansive gesture with his arms. “My clan. All together, at last.”

Robert began to back away, slowly, carefully, not making any sudden movements. It felt like he was facing down a rabid dog, lulling it into believing he was not afraid and that he was not going anywhere…but all the time waiting for the right moment to bolt.

“Don’t worry,” said Corbeau, shattering the illusion. “You’re free to go. This time. But the next time we meet…this all ends. It ends in tears. It’s been fun, and it still is, but all fun must come to an end.” He bared his teeth, hissing like a vampire from an old film, and his eyes were black as coal. Not for the first time, Robert wondered if the man was even human.

But no; there were no easy answers here, no quick and simplistic solutions. There was no monster in the home or ghost in the machine. This was a man—a ruined, broken man—and the damage he could do was real and deadly. No crucifix would send him away; no wooden stake or silver bullet could be employed to stop his heart. He was flesh and blood, yet of a different breed entirely. Robert’s notion of a rabid dog was closer to the truth than that of a supernatural entity. Nathan Corbeau was feral, ferocious; he was an animal…but an entirely human animal.

Robert backed out of the room and along the hallway, clinging desperately to Molly, not wanting to ever let her go again. He reached behind him and unlatched the front door, only turning his back on the Corbeaus once he was in the little porch. He walked quickly, but he did not run. Molly clung to him, her fingers digging into his clothing, and into the skin beneath.

Even when he reached the car he could hear laughter coming from the house, and only when he drove away did he allow himself to cry.

2:30 P.M.

“Burt, it’s me. It’s Robert.” He had pulled the car off the road and into a dirt shoulder. Molly was asleep on the backseat; her misadventure had taken its toll, and she barely had time to reassure him she had not been physically harmed during the ordeal before her eyelids had begun to flicker closed.

“I was planning on speaking to you. I have something to tell you.” Morrow’s voice was unreadable. He was giving nothing away.

“What have you found out? We’re desperate here. Things have taken a weird turn, and I’m beginning to doubt everyone…and every damn thing. Tell me I’m not going mad.” Robert’s cheeks were still damp from the tears, but all his crying was now done. He was finally ready to fight back.

“In all my years in law I have never encountered anything like this. It’s beyond belief.” Morrow paused, as if preparing himself. “I’ve done some research on this Corbeau character, and it seems he doesn’t even exist.”

Birds sang outside the car. A rabbit ran across the road in front of the bonnet, stopping to stare for a moment before moving on. An airplane contrail formed a hazy arc in the sky above the windshield.

“Oh, all the paperwork is in place: there’s a driver’s license, a birth certificate, a national insurance number—the illusion of an identity. But when I looked deeper, digging under the official layer, there’s no further proof of the man or his family. It’s like someone has set up these identities, but for a reason I cannot possibly even guess at. He’s been involved in no criminal activity, doesn’t even flag up on the constabulary’s HOLMES system as having any kind of criminal record. There’s nothing…and that’s what first made me suspicious.”

“What do you mean?” Robert’s mind was working overtime. This was too much, too little…too something.

“People always make ripples on the pond, Robert, it’s impossible not to, especially these days. We have CCTV on every street corner; your name is on so many official lists it would make your head spin… there’s no way anyone can go unnoticed. But somehow, and for some reason, that’s exactly what this Corbeau has done. He has never had a parking ticket or a police caution. He has appeared on no surveillance camera in the UK. There’s nothing. Nothing. And that’s impossible.”

Once again Robert felt himself slipping away. Why would a man with no real identity steal his? It did not make sense, not on any level. There was nothing to be gained from his actions… nothing but… entertainment. He did not even want to think about the possibly fictional Sergeant McMahon, and whatever his elusive presence represented. “Did you know,” he said into the phone, “corbeau is the French word for crow?” He stared out of the windshield, up into the treetops. Birds’ nests were clustered there like scabs.

“Robert? Are you okay, Robert?”

He brought his attention back to the phone. “And crows feed on carrion, don’t they? They eat dead and abandoned flesh.”

“Come on, Robert. Snap out of it…we can solve this, I promise you. I just need some time.”

Robert smiled. He realized for the first time that part of him was actually envious of Corbeau; he was jealous of the freedom the man possessed, of the way he could simply uproot and build a new family whenever he needed, or perhaps not bother and drift alone for a while, until he once again felt the urge to piece together a clan. “There’s no time left, Burt. But thank you. Thanks for all you’ve done for us.” He ended the call and threw the phone into the footwell, then turned to look at his sleeping daughter. She was curled up like an infant, sucking her thumb. Briefly, he wondered what his life might have been like if she and her brother had never been born.

Then he looked forward and started the car, pulling out again into the narrow road. There was no traffic, so he should be back at the hotel in Battle within half an hour. Molly would probably not even wake during the journey, and the rest would do her some good. There was a long night ahead, and the demands upon her young body and mind might be immense. It was good she get some rest now, while she was able.

The image of Nathan Corbeau loomed large in Robert’s mind, and behind him stood the shadowy figure of Sergeant McMahon. Corbeau was a man—he had to be—but if that was the case, then what exactly was McMahon? He had acted odd from the start, the way one might expect a small-town policeman to act rather than how a real one would behave. It had taken a while for Robert to consciously register this, but it had niggled away at the back of his mind, taking small bites, shading things, from the very start.

But if the sergeant had never really existed, how could they have even met him? He had even taken them into the station and interviewed Robert in his boss’s office. He tried to remember exactly how things had happened. Sarah and the kids had certainly spoken with him, and Corbeau had used the sergeant’s name. He could not be a figment of Robert’s imagination because others had interacted with him…but that did not mean he wasn’t a figment of Corbeau’s diseased mind; a figment that had walked out into the world, moving among them to push along the sequence of events.

The idea shocked him in a way he could not pin down. He had earlier thought of McMahon as a fictional presence and himself as a reluctant protagonist in some mysterious plot. What, then, if that were true? What if this entire situation was a fiction, and they were all merely players? It was like that Shakespeare quote, the one about all life being a stage…

Robert tried to examine his life before they had arrived in Battle, but everything seemed shrouded in mist. Shapes loomed and retreated; events were partially glimpsed. Even the attack on Sarah felt like a story someone had once told him. He knew it had happened—he remembered it—but he felt no real connection to the event other than a sense of muted rage.

What did it all mean? There was no way of knowing; the human mind was like a faulty machine, rewriting its internal programming as it went along. For all Robert knew, he had been born only a minute ago, fully formed and with implanted memories. That did not necessarily mean any of this was real.

He was a writer; he created lies for a living, even when he was meant to be writing about the truth. What if all of creation was a lie? Robert had never believed in God or religion, and right now that seemed like an even more logical choice. Everything, he suddenly realized, was caught up in the act of creation. Everything was fluid, poised on the cusp of change.

He supposed that was the closest thing to a cogent theory he would ever achieve: the notion of a fluid reality constantly reshaping itself around those living it, a sort of improvised existence.

Molly moaned on the backseat, changing her position as she slept. She was real; she had to be. The love he felt, the pain at her discomfort…real, all of it. But now he was into the realm of emotion, of the inner world, and none of that was relevant to the world he could see outside the car windows. His head began to ache. It was all too large to take in, too slippery to grasp. It went against everything he knew about reality, and opened up too many questions to even consider. If none of this was real, if people could be ciphers who dipped in and out of the narrative of our lives, acknowledged only by ourselves, what did that say about the nature of reality itself?

He drove toward Battle with a chill in his hands, confusion in his mind, and sorrow in his heart. Above him, pale clouds scudded across a washed-out sun. But whose clouds where they; which author had created them; who or what had brought them into being?

“Nearly there,” he whispered, to Molly and to himself. “Nearly where?” The question was a valid one, but he doubted he would ever reach a conclusive answer.

The streets of Battle were, as always, quiet and restive: few people were outdoors, and the road traffic was characteristically light. Robert smiled as he climbed out of the car and went around to the back door. The scene was like a lightly sketched passage from a novel; the surroundings were not important to the plot, so detail was kept to a bare minimum. The scene seemed to fade away at the edges, like the visual limits of a video game.

He opened the rear door and took Molly in his arms, closing the door with his foot. He did not bother locking the car; he felt sure that car theft was not part of the story, and that the vehicle would still be there when they came out to collect it.

He took her through the back door and up the emergency stairs, not wanting to bring attention to the fact that she had to be carried. The last thing they needed right now was more police interest—even from real live policemen. He trod softly along the second-floor landing, slightly out of breath from the climb.

Sarah opened the door even before he reached it. Her face was dark, creased, and filled with an unexpected look of pity. “Is she okay?”

He nodded. “She’s just sleeping. She hasn’t been harmed, just shaken up a bit.”

Connor stood behind his mother, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Put her on the bed,” he said.

Robert entered the room and laid Molly on the mattress, impressed once again by Connor’s concern for his sister. He turned to face the room—to face his wife—and opened his hands, as if showing her he was unarmed. It was a strange gesture to make, but for some reason it felt right.

He turned back to his daughter and stroked her hair, pushing it out of her face. She shifted onto her side, and he saw it there, on the back of her neck: a small, neat mark, an incision. It was in the shape of the letter C. They’d marked her, branded her like someone would do to cattle.

“They’ve cut her,” he said, trying to look away but unable to look anywhere else.

Sarah walked over and looked at Molly’s neck. She sucked in air through her teeth. “The bastards,” she said.

Connor let out a single sob. “The fucking cunts.” His language was blunt and to the point; Robert could see no point in is chastising him for it.

“This can’t go on,” he said, smoothing down Molly’s hair to hide the mark. “We have to stop them.”

Sarah nodded. Connor remained silent and moved to the other side of the room, started rummaging for his PSP.

“I assume you’ve seen the film clip.” There was no point in sidestepping the issue; confrontation was the only way now. He finally admitted to himself it always had been the way, and only now could he accept that.

“I’ve seen it. I can’t believe you were so stupid.” Her eyes were cold and hard, and Robert could see the hatred behind them. It stirred slowly and sinuously, like a serpent.

“I’m sorry.” It sounded pathetic, but what else could he say?

“I think we have more immediate problems than your tacky little blow job, Rob. I’m not falling into that fucker’s hands and going at you. That’s exactly what he wants, and I refuse to give it to him. I learned a lot when I was raped.”

Robert winced, as he always did when she mentioned the attack. He realized now that they had never properly confronted the issue, only ever approached it from the edges. Perhaps if they had been braver, and discussed it more openly a long time ago, things might be different now. Maybe they might still be the owners of their lives.

“I learned a lot about power and possession, and invasion. That’s what he did, you know: he invaded me. He forced himself inside me, invading me in my most personal spaces. I am not letting that happen again.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, forming thin snail trails on her skin.

“I don’t know what it means anymore, but I love you.” Again, his words sounded ridiculous, but Sarah seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

She nodded, glanced away, and then behind her, at Connor, who stood in the bathroom doorway clutching his PSP like a religious artifact—a weapon to repel the demons. “Love isn’t the issue here. The issue is hate. Are we capable of enough hate, enough primal loathing, to finish this thing?” She looked back at Robert, searching for a strength he did not even think was there.

“I hope so,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “But if we aren’t, we need to learn fast.” He glanced to Sarah’s side, at the mirror on the wardrobe door, and barely even recognized the man who stared back at him. He was losing himself, his features fading and his connection with the world degrading. Soon there would be nothing left but a smudge.

Sarah picked up her phone off the bedside cabinet. She held it up for them both to see the screen.

“Watch this with me. Know exactly what it is you’ve done.” She pressed a button to start the clip.

Robert watched in silence. After a few seconds, the scene altered, becoming something he could not remember. Corbeau’s wife turned to look directly into the phone camera, and she smiled. The smile sliced across the entire bottom of her face, bisecting it. Her nose changed, becoming like a pig’s snout. Her mouth opened wide, wider, showing nothing but blackness.

“This didn’t happen before.” Sarah’s hand was shaking, but she kept it together. “What is this? What’s happening to us? Where the hell are we?” She threw the phone onto the floor.

Robert shook his head. “We’re nowhere,” he said, wishing he knew what that meant.

The mobile phone twitched on the floor. Slowly, it began to move, and flipped over to display the screen. Nathan Corbeau’s face, wide and pale and hideous, stared at them. It pressed against the small glass panel, and then made it bulge outwards, as if it were made of rubber.

Calmly, Sarah got up, walked over to the phone, and stamped on it.

“We have to do something,” she said. “We have to stop them.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon as a family, locked up together and eating room service. With Molly rested and awake, they played games, they held hands; they even told each other stories, sitting in a tight circle on the master bed. This strange behavior added yet another layer of unreality to the whole situation, but by now Robert had learned to accept the weirdness. If this was just a fiction, a story being told to make a reader or a listener more afraid of the dark, then he intended to play his part well. The ending, when it came, would be brutal, but he would ensure it was also swift…and just.

The innocent must suffer, he thought, and the guilty must be punished. Was that a line from a book or a film? He was not sure, but it had always resonated with him, seeming to mean something beyond the boundaries of fiction. The question now was, who was innocent and who was guilty? He suspected everyone had a little bit of both about them, and the true test would be strength of conviction.

The Corbeaus were animals in search of entertainment, but the Mitchells were now a family in search of meaning.

Robert closed his eyes and thought: Let the strongest survive.

WEDNESDAY

3:00 A.M.

He parked the car half a mile away from the access road, and they journeyed the rest of the way on foot. The night was warm but breezy; the wind helped keep them cool as they trod the narrow road toward Number One Oval Lane. The air around them was charged with energy. The trees along the side of the road appeared as if they were being created in that instant, filling in the gaps.

Robert was carrying a large carving knife. He had taken it from the hotel kitchen when he sneaked in there before they left, looking for a weapon. Sarah was content with the smaller blade they had been carrying in the car, along with the camping and cooking gear from their trip to the Lakes (a trip that now seemed so long ago, part of another lifetime). Connor carried his cricket bat. It was old and solid; an expensive gift one Christmas, when he first had fallen in love with the game. Molly was frightened of weapons of any kind, but under duress she had finally relented and taken up a small meat cleaver—again from the hotel kitchen—which she could conceal beneath the sleeve of her cardigan.

Ordinary weapons for an ordinary family trapped in extraordinary circumstances.

Robert could not help but smile at the sight they must have made, tramping along the side of the road, kitchen utensils and sporting goods gripped in their hands, and murder in their hearts. In his younger years, Robert had enjoyed procuring so-called “video nasties” to watch with his friends: notorious films like Straw Dogs, Last House on the Left, Deliverance, I Spit on Your Grave…movies where normal people were driven to atrocious acts of violence in defense of their homes, their family, or their chastity. This moment felt like a scene from any one of those films and their countless imitators…and just as unreal. He wondered if the character of Sergeant McMahon would make a final, vital appearance, or if his part in the proceedings was now over and done with.

“We need a theme, some soundtrack music.” He felt like laughing, but realized that would be insane, and possibly dangerous. If he started, he might never stop.

“What?” Sarah looked at him, the knife blade glinting in her hand. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. It isn’t important.” He stared at the road ahead and waited for the way to clear. There was nothing physical blocking their path, but he felt like he was pushing through layers of something he could not see; invisible curtains, or skeins of flesh that hung down from the sky like drapes.

A sound drew his attention—the cawing of a bird from somewhere above. Robert slowed his pace and looked up: the distant moon flared in his eyes, dimming his vision, but when it cleared, he saw two crows perched on a branch in a ragged tree. The crows shuffled sideways along the branch, as if following him. One of the birds released a white wad of guano and flapped its wings. The crows cawed again and Robert looked away, afraid.

That was real: fear was real. He had managed to deflect its effects since leaving the house, where he had rescued (if that was even the right word for what he had done) Molly, but now it had returned, stronger than ever. This confrontation he sought may be final, a fight to the death, and he had to consider the consequences of whatever action they were planning to take.

He was not fully convinced his family believed in the monstrous nature of the Corbeaus, but they believed in him enough to take up arms and follow him here. At the very least, something would be proved.

He gripped the knife, and it felt good. His hands adapted to the handle, fingers flowing around it as if the thing was meant to be in his hand. Fuck the consequences, he thought, and suddenly he was no longer so afraid.

Sarah reached out and grabbed his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. Familiar warmth passed between them, and once again he was proud of her for saving their personal row for later. He knew the time must come when they would face what he had done, but right now they were united, a team, and ready to go into combat against a common foe. Even if their marriage fell apart, they would always have this, and it would sustain them through the wreckage.

“Remember when we were courting?” Sarah’s voice was soft and quiet, as if she were afraid to break the memory. “When we went for long drives in that old banger you used to own?”

Robert smiled in the darkness. “Yes, of course. How could I ever forget?”

“We used to come to places like this and park up, have a bit of a kiss and a cuddle.”

“Oh, Mum. Please.” Connor’s voice held the faintest trace of laughter.

Molly chuckled softly.

“They were good times,” said Sarah, ignoring her children’s rebukes. “Real times.”

“What do you mean, real?” Robert slowed down, tipping his head to watch her.

“None of this feels real. It’s like a story I remember from childhood, when a family was banished to the woods and started killing strangers so they could steal their money and their goods. All that before: us, when we were first together, the kids being born, all the strains and struggles we had with our careers. All that was real. This…it’s just a dark fantasy or a fairy tale, part of somebody else’s twisted dream.”

Robert wished with all his heart he could feel the same way, but the truth was he felt the exact opposite. None of his memories felt real; only this, only now, seemed real in any way. He anticipated the smell of blood, the taste of death, and it promised more reality than anything he had ever experienced—or thought he had experienced. Everything else was mere background material…

“I know,” he said, lying again; always, always lying. He wondered if any of them had ever told the truth, even once. Everyone in the world was lying, they all constructed their own experiences, picking and choosing from barely recalled memories, rewriting history, reducing the facts to slim pickings through which they rummaged like coyotes in the belly of a corpse. Why should he be any different? Why should he be any better?

This situation was like the logical extension of that theory, the living end.

Something moved through the air to his right, and when he turned to see, he caught sight of the two crows from the tree as they flew in a jagged line toward the house on Oval Lane. If he allowed his mind to wander, and gave vent to his imagination, he could pretend the birds were in fact Nathan and Monica Corbeau, and they were heading back to defend the ground they had stolen.

More lies. More fiction.

The access lane came into view, and they all slowed their movements, desperate to make their approach a stealthy one. Robert unconsciously ducked his body, bending both legs at the knee, and his family copied the posture.

“This is it,” he whispered. “Are we ready?”

They nodded, unwilling to speak.

“You wait here, at the entrance, and I’ll go up there first to make sure everything’s okay. Keep an eye out; I’ll signal when you can follow me up.” His lips were dry and his eyes prickled.

“Why don’t we all go up there together?” Sarah was reluctant to break up the team. Robert knew she viewed their unity as their main strength.

“Just in case we’re expected,” he answered, shrugging and backing away. “That way they’ll think I’ve come alone.”

He moved slowly up the incline, being careful not to make too much noise as he trod on the loose stones, gravel and chippings. The trees and bushes on either side of him whispered softly in the slight breeze, and he heard small animals shifting though the undergrowth. The darkness was more intense here, as if clustered, and he began to doubt they could win this war. The moon was a smudge in the sky, and very few stars were visible in the surrounding blackness.

Robert was almost at the top of the access road. He shifted his grip on the knife, his palm slick with sweat. There came a sound from up ahead: a shifting of stones, a low hissing or panting that sounded somehow familiar. When the dog appeared, he was taken completely by surprise. It was big—probably a mastiff, or a derivation thereof—and it moved with silent speed. Its firm, muscled body hit him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. He went down like a bag of rocks, and the knife flew from his hand, skittering across the stones.

The dog had given him a glancing blow, bouncing off him as he fell, but it was up on its feet and heading once more toward him, this time slower, and with grim intent. A low growl sounded in the dog’s throat, and Robert suspected he was done for. The animal lunged, snapping its teeth, as Robert reached for the knife. He snatched back his hand, terrified of losing a few fingers, and reconsidered the direct approach.

“Easy boy,” he said, through gritted teeth. There was a pain in his side; it was huge and heavy, like broken bones rattling in a bag. “Get back!”

The dog leapt at him, and he had no time to act, only to react. No time to hope or to pray (despite his admitted disbelief in God) and no time to contemplate. The dog’s jaws latched onto his shoulder, its teeth going in deep, and he struggled to hold back a scream. The dog’s head moved from side to side, working at the meat, and he felt muscle tearing away from bone.

He had rolled closer to the knife, and as the dog concentrated on tearing off a piece of him, he reached out…reached out…farther, farther. Suddenly, his fingers fell upon the blade, and he scrabbled across the gravel to snatch it up. He found he was holding the knife the wrong way, by the sharp end, and he had to pause to switch his grip. The dog kept gnawing at his shoulder. Hot blood sprayed the side of his neck and his face.

Swiftly, and without thought, he brought the knife round in a wide arc and shoved it under the dog’s belly, feeling the blade sink in and tearing his arm across, to open up its stomach. He felt the contents of the stomach sac erupt onto his hand and run down his arm; stringy intestines wrapped around his forearm, trapping it against the side of the wound. There were also soft fibers in there, not dissimilar to the padding Corbeau’s wife had been pulling from the cushions when he’d seen her earlier. It was as if the dog was part flesh and part puppet: a construct. The dog struggled madly, and for a moment he thought he would black out from the pain, but then it relaxed its grip, the jaws opening slightly, and he was able to kick the body away and crawl a few yards across the stony ground.

He threw up on the ground, but vomiting was the only thing that kept him conscious. After lying back for precious seconds, sharp stones pressing into the rear of his skull, he sat back up and looked around. He could see the house from here, and the upstairs lights were blazing. The lower floor was in darkness. Silhouettes moved stiffly across the upstairs glass, as if he were watching a stylized dance of mummers or Japanese shadow puppets.

After he had regained his breath, Robert stood and staggered back a short way down the access road. He clasped his shoulder to stem the flow of blood, but the intense pain told him some serious damage had been done. The area was going numb; the pain was receding. That, too, felt like trouble.

He peered down and caught sight of Sarah’s outline. “Come on!” He tried to whisper loudly, aware if his family could hear him, there was a good chance other ears might also pick up on his signal. His only hope was that loud music was playing inside the house, or the Corbeaus were so confident that they had become blasé. “Come up!”

Sarah twitched; then she gathered the children together and jogged up the rise. Her face paled when she saw him, covered in blood, with guts knotted around his arm, and holding on to the knife with a force that made his hand shake. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “A dog attacked me.”

“I didn’t even know they had a dog,” said Sarah, moving toward him to examine his shoulder. She took his hand away, inspected the mess, and then placed his hand back on the wound. “It’s bad,” she said, visibly straining to hold back her emotion.

“Dad?” Connor stepped forward, moving in front of his sister.

Good lad.

“It’ll be fine. Just need a bit of patching up.” He smiled, but it hurt his face and his shoulder.

Sarah took off her sweater, then the T-shirt she was wearing underneath. She tore the shirt into bandagelike strips and put back on the sweater. “Best I can do,” she said. It took her several minutes to apply the homemade dressing to his shoulder, but when she had finished, the worst of the bleeding had stopped. Blood still seeped through the white material, forming dark red patches, but it was a slow process: seepage rather than a heavy flow.

Robert led the way as they moved across the drive, stepping carefully so as not to make too much of a sound. Soon they stood before the house…their house; the one that had been taken from them. The darkened lower windows were all shut, but upstairs they were all open, and the sounds of music and laughter drifted out into the night. Robert held Sarah’s hand; Sarah held Molly’s hand; Molly held on to the hand of her brother. And they stood there, in the open, watching the house and waiting; waiting for the signal they needed to pounce.

4:20 A.M.

The lights had been out for just over ten minutes, and Robert was convinced the time had come. They were sitting at the edge of the drive, shielded by the trees, and had been watching things closely. The figures had remained on the upper floors, flitting from room to room. Music went on and off. Once, briefly, they had heard sounds of rather energetic sex—screaming and moaning and the calling of names—but it had only occurred the once. Robert had no idea who had been fucking whom, and he did not particularly want to know.

“I think it’s time,” said Sarah, preempting him. “I think we should make our move.”

Robert stared at his family in the darkness, and to him they resembled a group of primitive hunters, weapons in hand, and hunger in their bellies. There was not a tear to be seen, nor had any one of them professed a change of heart: each was committed to the task at hand, and their determination was visible like war paint on their faces.

“Are you sure about this? All of you?”

They nodded, one by one, grimly.

“Then let’s go.”

They moved out of hiding one at a time, with Robert once again in the lead. He crossed the drive and went around the back of the house, looking for a way inside. The garage, behind the main building, was open, its up-and-over door sticking out like a metal tongue. The Cortina had been parked half inside, with its front wheels resting on the external gravel. Robert walked over to the car and bent down by the front nearside tire. He stabbed the tip of the knife into the tire, pushing his weight against it, and then removed it, smiling at the sound of air hissing out of the slit. He repeated this process on the other three tires, and then returned to his waiting family. “Just in case,” he muttered.

The only windows left open were those on the top floor, and he could trace a manageable access route up an external drainpipe and through the bathroom window. It would be tough going, particularly in the dark and when trying to be silent, but he could do it if he kept his focus.

“I’m going up,” he said, directing his gaze to the window in question.

Sarah followed his eye line, nodded, and turned to the children. “We’ll wait here while your dad climbs up, and once he’s inside he can go downstairs and open the back door. Then we’re in. Then we sort this thing out.” She looked back at Robert, and in the gloom, with her dirt-streaked face, he barely even recognized her.

“Stay quiet. If I’m not down in ten minutes, something’s gone wrong.” He did not know what to suggest if that did happen, so he simply let the sentence trail off into the night.

Sarah stepped toward him and kissed him on the side of the mouth. She did not say anything; she did not need to. Her gesture had said more than words ever could; he knew that now more than ever. Words were not real, they could be molded and manipulated and had more than one meaning, but gestures were made of more solid stuff, and between two people who knew each other intimately their meanings could be easily read.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He broke away and made for the drainage pipe. It was the old-fashioned kind, made of cast iron, and bolted firmly to the wall. He tested it with his hands, and it did not shift an inch when he tugged on it. He raised his hand and grabbed the pipe above his head, and then hauled himself up, his feet scrabbling quietly on the wall. Soon he had a good grip, and he began to make his way up the face of the building, hand over hand, foot over foot. He did not look down. He could not look down in case he caught sight of the ones he was leaving behind, down there in the dark.

His wounded shoulder ached, but he bit down and tried to ignore the pain. Robert had long believed in the concept of mind over matter, and here was the perfect opportunity to put that belief to the test. Gritting his teeth against the incessant burning at a spot deep within the meat of his shoulder, he climbed. He climbed for his life, or what was left of it. It felt like he was leaving reality behind.

Only when he reached the window did he pause to take a breather. It was a short climb, but in his condition it had been hard going. He hung there, like some giant mutant simian, and fought to regain control of his body. After a short while he felt ready to continue, and hoisted himself onto the outside lip of the window ledge. The ledge consisted of roughly an inch of rotten timber, and he was barely able to get his toes on its crumbling surface. He moved quickly, aware that the ledge could break away at any minute, and even if he did not fall, he would certainly draw attention to his clumsy attempt at entry.

He popped the window latch and opened it fully, then slithered up, forcing his hands and then his arms into the small gap. Wriggling wildly, yet trying to make as little noise as possible, he squirmed though the gap, his body tight against the frame. Then, finally, he reached the point of no return and the rest of his body slid through easily, sending him sprawling on the bathroom floor. He lay there for a moment, holding the knife to his chest, convinced he had disturbed someone with his racket, but when no one came, he dared to believe he had managed to enter unheard.

The bathroom was in darkness, and when he looked up at the light, he saw the bulb had been shattered. He trod carefully, not wanting to put a foot down on broken glass and wake up the whole house, and made his way from window to door. He glanced to his side, at the toilet, and saw it had been smashed. The stench was terrible—a strong meaty odor. The floor around it was wet and chunks of porcelain toilet bowl lay along the skirting boards. The mirror above the sink had also been shattered, and smeared with excrement; at least he guessed that was what it was by the smell. The sink itself was black, and filled with ashes.

Looking at the opposite wall, he glanced at the bathtub. It was filled with what looked like about a ton of bloody meat, and the sight stirred up a roiling nausea in his guts. The full force of the smell hit him, then, after he had seen the mass of decaying matter, and he placed a hand across his mouth to stifle the gag reflex. He refused to accept the meat was moving, that even now something (or was it someone?) was shifting within its terrible mass and preparing to sit up…

It’s for the dogs, he thought. It’s just meat for the dogs…

Sensing yet another shift in his perception of reality, Robert stopped and swallowed hard. His mouth was dry; there was no spit to lubricate his throat. He turned and moved toward the bathtub; he was aware now of a slight sloshing sound, as if something was bathing in that tubful of offal. He stared at the meat; it reached almost to the lip of the old claw-footed tub. As his eyes adjusted to the mess, he realized that a shape was resting on the surface: it was a hand, the fingers smeared with congealing blood. It took him a moment to understand what was wrong with the hand. It had no fingernails.

Gently, he reached down and prodded the hand with his finger. It shifted slightly, disturbing the bloody, chunky fluid to reveal a body beneath the surface. He looked around and saw a toilet brush on the floor. He picked it up, trying not to inspect it too closely, and returned his attention to the bath. He paused a moment, and then leaned over and prodded the sticky meat, pushing it away so he could reveal the body beneath. The body turned, the hand slipping off the chest and a head rolling into view.

The face he saw was that of Sergeant McMahon, but, like the hand, there was something unusual about it, an unfinished quality. The face looked like an incomplete sculpture, where the clay had been shaped and molded into the approximation of human features but not yet teased into its final form. The nose was lacking apertures, the eyes were sealed tight, and there were no ears on the sides of the head. It was an image, a homunculus, a thing either frozen in the process of creation, or that of being deliberately unmade.

Sergeant McMahon, Robert finally realized, was not a man at all. He was a facsimile, a symbol, a shredded being pushed around the stage like a prop, a meat puppet designed for a specific purpose.

He turned away, retching but bringing up nothing from his cramping stomach. He dropped the toilet brush and lurched away from the bathtub, wishing he had ignored it instead of answering the call of his morbid curiosity. Some things, he thought, were better left unseen.

When he reached the door, he stood with his hand on the handle, afraid to open it in case someone was standing right outside, listening to him. The image gained strength, so much that he was forced to close his eyes and count to ten, hoping he could rob the idea of the power it had over him. If this was a novel, he thought, that’s exactly what would happen. But it isn’t a story; it’s real. I’m real. They’re real. Believe it.

But belief was something he was finding increasingly difficult to hold on to.

It took a while to accept his own argument, and even then he was only partially on-side. It was as if there would now forever be a part of him that would never quite believe in the reality of any situation, but would instead stand to the side, self-aware and aloof. If he survived this night, he would never again be able to rid himself of the notion he had been given a glimpse behind the scenes of reality, and that somewhere—perhaps down some deserted back alley, or behind a high brick wall—faceless writers and technicians were working hard to create the scenes he was living through.

He opened the door inward, fast and hard, holding his breath as its edge almost brushed his nose because he was standing so close. The landing beyond was empty. Again, the place had been wrecked. There were broken plates and torn-up magazines and newspapers (most of them red-top scandal-sheets, from what he could make out) scattered across the landing, and the pictures had been pulled from the walls. Wallpaper was shredded; carpet had been torn up and set fire to. It resembled a war zone, and Robert thought the comparison fitting.

He stepped out onto the landing, being careful not to tread on any loose boards. Light shone under a door opposite; one of the spare bedrooms, a guest room. He could hear nothing, so kept moving, putting one foot in front of the other and hoping his luck held. He kept to the center of the landing, away from the walls—and, more importantly, away from the doors. If anyone opened one of them and came out at him, he wanted to allow himself room to make at least an attempt at escape.

His shoulder ached, burning white-hot. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from his hand, onto the ruined carpet. Slogans had been daubed onto the walls in red paint (surely it could not be blood) but they were crude and meaningless, more like signs or sigils than actual words. Then, gradually, they became increasingly legible, and he was drawn to examine the essence of their meaning. The writing had grown smaller as he made his way toward the stairs, and the scrawl transformed into a recognizable language, illustrated with the occasional sketch.

Filled with dread, he read bits and pieces of the story of the Corbeaus: how they took children from suburban streets to call their own, how they travelled from town to town, place to place, to converge with certain points in a narrative written by whatever gods had shaped them. It was written in broad strokes, this plot, like the Bayeux Tapestry in Normandy, or messages inscribed on an ancient Egyptian tomb wall, but it was there if only you had the eyes to see it.

The medium that told the story was a combination of daubed text and crude diagrams not unlike those seen in prehistoric cave paintings. As he moved along the landing, he saw representations of himself, and of his family, of Sergeant McMahon, and even of the dog he had killed. The story ended at that point, the death of the hound, with the rest as yet unwritten. Disturbed beyond his capacity to understand, Robert spun around and glared into the shadows, fully expecting someone to step forward, paintbrush in hand, and finish the tale.

Light bled under the door he had noticed earlier; shadows trembled in the corners. But he was utterly alone on the landing. He looked again at the words and pictures on the wall, and the universe seemed to quiver above and around him.

He hurried to the stairs, filled with a sort of existential terror. Never before had he felt this way; he barely even understood what this kind of fear meant, or where it came from. He was not equipped to deal with such extremes, and his mind was buckling under the strain of even thinking about it.

Moving down the stairs, he tried to brace himself, to refocus on the moment. Something like that…it could cripple a man’s senses, turn him inside out. He needed to be sane, to be sure of himself and his intentions, but instead he found his mind was straining to fly toward the skies. He turned at the bottom of the stairs and crept along the hallway, heading toward the kitchen, and the back door. He glanced into the door-less living room, and what he saw there stopped him dead in his tracks.

Monica Corbeau was sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. Her back was rigid, and her arms were held stiffly against her sides. She looked like a statue, a carved stone effigy. Robert was convinced she was not even breathing.

Dead, he thought. He’s killed her.

But as he stared, and studied her features, her posture, the way she was holding herself primly upright, he came to the conclusion she was in fact conscious…but she was not sentient. Her eyes were open; she had not blinked since he noticed her there, alone in the darkened room. Because of his stealth, she was completely unaware of his presence, and her condition had not been disturbed. He gripped the knife tighter, but in the face of such an enemy it felt useless and even slightly absurd.

It was as if, when Robert and his family were not around, the Corbeau family became inactive, seizing up as if petrified. If a tree falls in a forest and there’s nobody there to hear it, does that tree even make a sound?

The possible implications of this insight rocked him to the core. He could not understand any of it, but he did realize this meant the Corbeaus were his very own demons, linked to him alone, and they would probably not stop until he was dead.

A thick string of liquid oozed between Monica Corbeau’s pale lips, slid across her mouth, and drooped in a line from her chin. The string lengthened, becoming thin as thread, and then it finally snapped. Robert twitched, taking an involuntary step backward, and was terrified to see the woman move. She did not stir much, just a fraction, but it was enough to make him move away and to the kitchen, where he could reach the back door.

The kitchen was a mess. Food had been piled to rot in the sink, cockroaches scurried across the tiled floor, and huge chunks had been gouged out of the plaster walls to reveal the water pipes beneath. The legs had been sawn off the kitchen table. Someone had started to dig a hole in the concrete floor against the side wall, and again the walls were caked with dried food and shit.

Robert flew across the kitchen and grabbed the door. His hands did not seem to want to take hold of the key sticking out of the lock, but eventually he managed to turn it and open the door. Sarah stood there, mouth agape, and when she looked into his eyes, he felt reality flooding back into place, filling the corners of his life with things he recognized. Things he loved.

5:00 A.M.

A line of deep red sunlight was eating into the horizon as he let his family inside. It was still dark, but that darkness would not hold out for long. Robert did not know if this was a good or a bad thing; all his old preconceptions had been destroyed, blown apart like flimsy huts in a tornado. He decided it probably did not matter either way.

He led them into the hallway, and stopped again at the living room door. This time, the room was empty, there was no one sitting on the sofa. He began to doubt he had even seen Monica Corbeau, and then his resolve began to unravel. What the hell where they doing here, he and his family? They were comfortable, middle-class—and spineless. No way could they win such a fight as this, against opponents such as these. They would be torn apart, their body parts used as ornaments, and no ground would be gained by their pointless deaths.

Just then, when he most needed her, Sarah came up behind him and laid a hand on his waist. His shoulder was no longer aching, a fact he took as a warning, but he felt her hand at his waist like a dead weight. It tied him to the earth, bound him into this scenario, and made him realize for the last time there was no way out.

He nodded. Sarah took away her hand, and he felt its absence like another kind of agony.

They climbed the stairs in silence, gripping their weapons, ready for the fight. He hoped his children would not flinch at the final moment; that they would be able to draw blood and rejoice in the thrill of battle. He knew now he was capable of such a thing, of becoming a beast not unlike the beasts he sought to vanquish.

Once again he passed by the story on the walls, and he was aware of the others gaping at the scrawls and scribbles in horror. The bloody mural’s meaning was vague, concealed, but the very fact that it existed at all was a terror well worth tasting.

“Pretty pictures, aren’t they? Pretty, pretty pictures.” The voice came from behind them, at the top of the stairs but above the bulkhead. Robert turned, but now he was at the rear. He stepped forward, moving aside Sarah and the children, so that once again he stood at the front of the group as they reached the top of the stairs. A door opened behind them, and he knew wherever he positioned himself on the landing he was unable to prevent an attack on his loved ones.

“Do you like our art?” Nathan Corbeau was naked but for a pair of tight white underpants. His muscular legs were shoulder-width apart, his arms held out at his sides, and his face jutted forward from his thick neck. “It took ages to do, but we’re quite proud of it.”

“This ends now,” said Robert, taking another step forward. Something crunched under his foot, but he kept his eyes on Corbeau. There came a hissing sound from behind, like escaping gas, but he refused to be drawn.

“Shit,” said Connor, his voice trembling. “They’re all here now.”

“We’re the flipside,” said a soft, low voice from behind and somewhere off to his left. “We’re the underside. We’re the nightside. And we’re never. Going. Away.”

“Fight or flight,” said Nathan Corbeau, moving slowly forward across his section of the landing and maneuvering his body to block the stairs. He was flexing his fists; they looked huge, bigger than before. It was as if his body was changing, becoming even more monstrous. His mouth gaped, the lower jaw touching his chest.

Robert realized he and his family had somehow moved backward, toward the other rooms. He spun around and saw that Monica Corbeau was standing there, having stepped from one of the doorways, and she looked like something from a nightmare. Her white nightgown billowed around her slender form, as if caught up in a wind, and when he glanced down her legs and her feet, he could have sworn that for a moment he glimpsed piglike trotters rather than human toes.

He blinked, hard, making his eyes hurt, and when he opened them, she was normal, a skinny woman in a cheap nightgown, arms held out as if expecting an embrace. Of the Corbeau children, only Ethan was visible. He stood on the landing to his mother’s left, brandishing a switchblade—perhaps the same one from before, when Robert had come here to confront them. His face was dead; there was no vitality there, just a forlorn emptiness that seemed to swallow his whole head.

“Come on, then. Come and fucking get it.” Sarah did not sound like herself. She had now fully embraced that side of her which had first been drawn out by the rape, the part of her that wanted to kill and would enjoy—even relish—the bloodshed. “Fucking come on, you monsters!”

Connor and Molly began to scream; a series of strange, wailing war cries that echoed down the stairwell. Primal screams.

Robert turned again to Nathan Corbeau, and he saw a look cross the man’s face that made him think they could just win this. That look was confusion, and he had never before seen it associated with Corbeau. It looked wrong, somehow, as if this was indeed the first time the man had ever experienced the sensation of not being fully in control.

A second later, without even thinking about it, he was charging at Nathan Corbeau, knife held aloft, a scream in his throat, murder on his mind. Corbeau, caught up in his own story, mirrored Robert’s actions and ran at him, his face a mask of loathing. The two men connected like vehicles impacting at high speed. Robert felt his shoulder blaze, and the blunt impact of a few ribs cracking. He slashed with the knife, catching Corbeau across the cheek and laying it bare to the bone. His teeth were bared through the wound; it was simply an extension of his terrible grin.

“Die!” He screamed the word, slashing again and again with the knife, and then he felt the other man’s arms around him, pulling him down. They twisted to the right, crashing against the banister, and as the wood cracked and the banister broke, they went tumbling down into the stairwell. Robert was only vaguely aware of more fighting above him, and he sent out his love to his fellow warriors in the hope it would gift them with strength enough to finish the fight.

The climax was approaching; the story would soon be told.

The men rolled down the stairs, thrashing and punching and biting. Robert found within him a savagery he had never expected, a bloodlust that took him completely by surprise. He revelled in the primal joy of causing pain to another human being, and realized he had now lost all sense of himself.

When he rolled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, Robert realized he was no longer part of a human knot with Nathan Corbeau. He got to his knees, wincing at the pain; a sharp, slicing feeling that could have been anywhere or everywhere on his body. Corbeau lay a few yards away, his face turned to the wall. He was holding his side, his front obscured from view, and his legs were twitching.

Robert moved toward his felled opponent, feeling invigorated. If he stopped to think about it, he knew the agony wracking his body would put him on the floor, so instead he kept on going, making up the ground between himself and the other man. The knife was no longer in his hand, nor could he see it anywhere on the floor. But he still had his fists and his feet…even his teeth, if need be.

Corbeau moaned, and rolled slowly onto his back. The carving knife was sticking out from his stomach at an angle. Blood pumped freely from around the blade, shockingly thick and copious. He was breathing heavily, his naked, reddened chest rising and falling. His porcine face was white, bloodless. One of his hands crawled across his belly and clutched the knife handle. The fingers had fused together, forming a crude hoof.

“So you had it in you after all? I thought as much. You’re all the same, you fucking yuppies: all you need is the right amount of pushing.” He laughed, and blood sprayed from between his lips. “You know how this story ends, don’t you?”

Robert fell to his knees, the pain finally becoming too much. “How does it end, Corbeau? You tell me…tell me fast, before you bleed to death.”

Corbeau’s grin was wide and red and ragged. “It ends like it always ends: with death and desolation. It ends with no winners and far too many losers.” He gripped the knife handle, his knuckles turning white. “It always ends the same way.” Visibly straining, he pulled the knife sideways across his belly, dragging the blade through the layers of flesh and fat and gristle. Then he raised his other hand and plunged it into the wound, hooking his misshapen fingers around his intestinal tract and tugging it out into the open, gutting himself; laying bare the metaphor and making of it the meat of cold, hard fact. “It ends…like this.” He gave one final tug on his slick, wet innards; blood sprayed like spilled paint across the floor and up the walls.

Then at last, Nathan Corbeau was still.

There were no sounds coming from upstairs, and Robert feared the worst, yet still he could not move. Instead, he stared at the body of his enemy, puzzling over the meaning of his death. His story, like all stories, had eventually reached its end, but Robert was none the wiser for the spilling of blood and the opening of a gut. He stared into the wound, looking deep inside Corbeau’s corpse for answers to questions he could not even bear to ask. If there were tiny words written there, on the man’s insides, then Robert could not read them. It was all just so much red upon red: wet red words upon a wet red background. It felt like a message but try as he might he could not even begin to understand what he was being told.

Finally he struggled to his feet, bones creaking, head spinning, and limped toward the bottom of the stairs. He looked up, thinking it was such a long way to climb, and put his hand against the wall. It was wet with blood. He glanced at his hand, and what it was concealing. Then he took the hand away and gaped in awe at what was uncovered.

Along the wall, all the way up the staircase, was now written the very ending he had dreaded: words and pictures, all drawn and written in Corbeau’s blood, the same blood that had sprayed so poetically, so finally, when he had opened himself up for inspection.

It depicted a holocaust.

Robert saw Sarah’s death, and how she had torn out Monica Corbeau’s throat with her teeth as the last of her breath left her body. Then, in yet more violent slashes of red, he witnessed Connor falling, slashed and torn, as he tried to protect his sister from Ethan Corbeau’s killing blade. Molly had taken down the boy with her cleaver, only to have him slash her throat with a knife as he fell.

They had died together, his children, brother and sister, side by side. At least they had that, in the end.

Weeping and wailing, he reached the top of the stairs and fell down among the remains of his family, trying to put them back together. But the pieces would not join; the glue had run out and they would remain apart, torn from him by something larger and more complex than he could ever hope to fathom. What he did understand, in that moment of extremity, was that he was the only one left alive for the sequel.

His mind ripped to shreds, Robert smiled through a layer of blood.

This story, at last, was over; a new one was about to begin.

THURSDAY

00:00 A.M.

They came for him much later, after the police and the ambulance crews had arrived at the scene to catalog the list of atrocities.

They had watched the aftermath from the trees, realizing they were now free and wondering what to do with that freedom. They watched as the bodies were carried out, nodding as they recognized three of them: the man, the woman, and the boy—the older one they had never really liked. These people—these intimate strangers—whose remains would never properly be identified.

It was dark again. He was sitting in the woods, crying into his fists, when they emerged from the tree line, hand in hand. They were barefoot, their faces were dirty and they did not seem to know where they were or where they had come from. They approached him with caution, as if he were a wild beast, but when he looked up and smiled, they began to run toward him.

They fell into his arms, feeling like they were home at last. The man and the woman and even the boy—had never treated them well, had beaten them and raped them and made them do things to each other that should never be done, not between brother and sister. They still remembered the time before the man and the woman, when they had lived somewhere else with people who had loved and cared for them. This man, they felt, might care for them, too.

They waited for the man to finish crying, moving away from him, but not too far. They wanted to keep him in sight, within reach. The girl sat on a tree stump and watched the man, wondering what his tears would taste like. The boy ran off after a squirrel, baring his teeth and hissing like a snake.

The man continued to cry. The girl thought he might never stop, just go on crying forever, until he finally stopped living. But soon enough he did stop; and he smiled at her with a look that meant she could trust him, and that he could trust her and the boy in return.

The boy emerged from the trees with the squirrel in his teeth. There was red on his cheeks, and the squirrel still twitched, its hind leg jacking like a little piston. The man laughed, and the boy laughed, too. The girl did not see anything funny, but she joined in because she knew it would please them both.

Shortly thereafter, they left the scene, the girl and the boy each holding one of the man’s red hands. They walked into the woods, going deeper and deeper, until finally they came to a place where mist hung at ground level and the spaces between the trees were black as night. The man leaned down and kissed both the boy and the girl on the cheek, and then he straightened and led them into that darkness; the darkness between scenes, between pages, the invisible gaps between stories as yet untold.

Afterword

Nightsiders started out life as a straight homage to films like The Straw Dogs and Last House on the Left—the kind of grungy, violent 1970s extreme cinema for which I have a real (and slightly guilty) fondness. I wanted to put my own stamp on the now slightly clichéd setup of a middle-class family being attacked and forced to turn to violence in order to protect themselves… or in this case, themselves and their home.

Then, as I sat down to write, something peculiar happened. The story refused to bend to my will. It began to twist and turn in my grasp, taking on a new shape, becoming something entirely different from what I’d originally envisaged.

So now, rather than a tough, noirish thriller with sociopolitical overtones, I was dealing with something much more ambitious and problematic.

That was when I decided to hand everything over to my muse and just go with it, and it led to the strangest writing experience of my life. The story basically told itself, with no apparent gap between thought and page, no room to react to what was forming in my brain before I saw it on the laptop screen. It was if I were simply transcribing the words being whispered in my ear by a particularly giddy psychopath—perhaps it was even Nathan Corbeau himself.

I like to think that the end product has more in common with Michael Haneke’s Funny Games than any of the other films I mention above—indeed, I have come to see it as a sort of literary cousin to that truly disturbing piece of cinema, and hope that my novella is even half as effective and interesting. I have a feeling that some people won’t like the direction this story takes, but I hope that an equal amount of readers will appreciate what I’ve tried to do, and acknowledge the freedom I allowed my creative instinct during this project.

Rather than pay sheepish tribute to what I feel is by-and-large an unfairly maligned subgenre of horror cinema, I have attempted to take a fictional template and push it beyond the perceived boundaries of its ilk, while at the same time trying not to sacrifice the basic scares and thrills inherent in the situation I have created.

The horror in which my characters find themselves is a very real one, and even though that sense of reality is stretched just about as far as it can go, I believe that I have paid honest respect to the roots of this kind of story.

I can only hope that I’ve succeeded in my lofty aims, but if I didn’t, then I’ll still be happy if I have at least told a tense, perhaps even thrilling story to keep you entertained as the sun goes down and the neighborhood dogs begin to howl…

—Gary McMahon

Leeds, October 2012

About the Author

Gary McMahon’s short fiction has been reprinted in both The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror and The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror. He is the acclaimed author of the novels Hungry Hearts from Abaddon Books, Pretty Little Dead Things and Dead Bad Things from Angry Robot/Osprey and The Concrete Grove trilogy from Solaris. He practices Shotokan karate and likes running in the rain.

You can visit his website at: www.garymcmahon.com.

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Copyright

First Edition

Nightsiders © 2013 by Gary McMahon

All Rights Reserved.

A DarkFuse Release

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Content

Gary McMahon
NIGHTSIDERS

FRIDAY

3:30 A.M.

SUNDAY

10:30 A.M.

11:05 A.M.

11:37 A.M.

1:00 P.M.

MONDAY

4:30 A.M.

8:30 A.M.

5:30 P.M.

TUESDAY

7:10 A.M.

10:30 A.M.

2:30 P.M.

WEDNESDAY

3:00 A.M.

4:20 A.M.

5:00 A.M.

THURSDAY

00:00 A.M.

Afterword

About the Author

Join the Kindle Book Club

Copyright