Michael Marshall: The Intruders

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Publishers 2007

Copyright © Michael Marshall Smith 2007

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2015 Cover photographs © BBC Worldwide

Michael Marshall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or here in after invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008114954

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007325313

Version: 2014-10-27

For Nathaniel

– I did it

How can we be sure we are not impostors?

Jacques Lacan

The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part 2

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part 3

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Bad Things Extract

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By Michael Marshall

About the Publisher

Thump, thump, thump. You could hear it halfway up the street. It was bizarre the neighbours didn’t complain. Or do so more often, and more stridently. Gina sure as hell would – especially if the music sucked this bad. She knew she ought to go upstairs as soon as she got indoors, yell at Josh to turn it down. She also knew he’d look at her in that way teenagers have, like they’re wondering who you are and what gives you the right to bother them and what the hell happened in your life to make you so boring and old. He was a good son at heart though, and so he’d roll his eyes and nudge the stereo down a notch, and then over the next half hour the volume would creep up until it was even louder than before.

Usually Bill was around to get into it with him – if he wasn’t hidden in his basement, tinkering – but tonight he was out with a couple of faculty colleagues. That was good, partly so he could get the bowling out of his system without involving Gina, who couldn’t stand the dumb sport, also because he went out very seldom. They usually managed to grab a meal somewhere once every couple weeks, just the two of them, but most evenings this year had seen him disappearing downstairs after dinner, wrench in hand and a pleasurably preoccupied look on his face. For a while he’d generated his own strange noises down there, low booming sounds you felt in the pit of your stomach, but thankfully that had stopped. It was healthy for a guy to get out the house now and then, hang with other guys – even if Pete Chen and Gerry Johnson were two of the geekiest dudes Gina had met in her entire life , and she found it impossible to imagine them cutting loose at bowling or drinking or indeed anything at all that didn’t involve UNIX and/or a soldering iron. It also gave Gina a little time to herself, which – no matter how much you love your husband – is a nice thing once in a while. Her plan was a couple hours in front of the tube with her choice of show – screw the documentary channels. In preparation she’d gone to the big deli on Broadway, picked up groceries for the week and a handful of deluxe nibbles for right now.

As she opened the door to the house and stepped into a zone of even higher volume, she wondered if Josh ever considered that his vanilla mom might have rocked out on her own account, back in the day. That before she’d fallen in love with a young physics lecturer called Bill Anderson and settled down to a life of happy domesticity, she’d done plenty time in the grungier venues of Seattle-Tacoma and its environs, had been no stranger to high volume, cheap beer and waking up with a head that felt like someone had set about it with hammers. That she’d bounced sweatily to Pearl Jam and Ideal Mausoleum and even Nirvana themselves, back when they were local unknowns and sharp and hungry instead of hollow-faced and dying, and most memorably on a summer night when she’d puked while crowd-surfing, been dropped on her head and still got lucky in the soaking and dope-reeking restrooms with some guy she’d never met before, and never saw again.

Probably not. She smiled to herself.

Just went to show kids didn’t know everything, huh.

An hour later, she’d had enough. The thumping was okay while she was just watching with half an eye – and the volume had actually dropped for a while, which maybe suggested he was doing some homework, which was a relief – but it had started ratcheting up again and in ten minutes there was a re-run of a West Wing episode she’d never seen before. You needed a clear head and peace and quiet to follow what the hell was going on with those guys, they talked so fast. Plus, Jesus, it was half past nine and getting beyond a joke.

She tried hollering up at the ceiling (Josh’s bedroom was directly overhead) but received no indication she’d been heard. So she sighed, put her depleted plate of goodies on the coffee table, and hoisted herself off the couch. Tramped upstairs, feeling as if she was pushing against a wall of noise, and banged on his door.

After a fairly short time it was opened by some skinny guy with extraordinary hair. For a split second Gina didn’t even recognize him. She wasn’t looking at a boy any more, nothing like, and Gina realized suddenly that she and Bill were sharing their house with a young man.

‘Honey,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to cramp your style, but do you have anything that’s more like actual music, if you’re going to play it that loud?’

‘Huh?’

‘ Turn it down .’

He grinned lopsidedly, and went back into the room to jack the volume down. He actually cut it in half, which emboldened Gina to take a step into his room. It struck her it had been a while since she’d been there when he was also present. In years past she and Bill had spent hours sitting on the floor here together, watching their tot careering around on wobbly legs and bringing them random objects with a triumphant ‘Gah!’, thinking how magical it all was; and later tucking him in and reading a story, or two, or three; then perched on the bed in the early years of homework and puzzling out sums.

At some point in the last year the rules had changed. It was a solo mission now when she came in to fix the bed or sweep up piles of t-shirts. She was in and out quickly, too, remembering her own youth well enough to respect her child’s space.