Nightsiders (3 page)

“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.”