Nightsiders by Gary McMahon Read Free Book Online

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,