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
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
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