Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy)

Praise for Gary McMahon

“McMahon writes gritty, ultra-realistic horror – a welcome antidote to the effete horror romance currently flooding the market – about the angst of urban existence in the 21
^st
century.”

–
The Guardian

“Gary McMahon is a spellbinding storyteller.
The Concrete Grove
is as feverish and unnerving as it is gripping: a black orchard of humanity where you hardly dare look at what dark things hang gleaming and winking in the branches of the trees.”

– Graham Joyce on
The Concrete Grove

“Gary McMahon is one of the finest of a new breed of horror writers. His work combines spare, elegant writing with an acute sense of the growing desperation felt by those having to deal with the crime and crumbling infrastructure of our urban centers. Illuminating these with a visionary’s sense of the supernatural makes
The Concrete Grove
one exciting read.”

– Steve Rasnic Tem on
The Concrete Grove

“If you’re a fan of slow-burn horror told in a strong and compelling way... McMahon is one to watch.”

–
Starburst

BEYOND

HERE LIES

NOTHING

Gary McMahon

First published 2012 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-444-8

ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-445-5

Copyright © Gary McMahon 2012

Cover Art by Vincent Chong

Map by Gary McMahon and Pye Parr

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Also by Gary McMahon

The Concrete Grove Trilogy

The Concrete Grove

Silent Voices

Hungry Hearts

Pretty Little Dead Things

Dead Bad Things

This one’s dedicated to my cousin Linda, who told me all about the scary movies she’d seen at the cinema when I was much too young to go and see them for myself.

I never forgot that – it meant a lot to me at the time.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wrote this novel more or less in isolation, so there aren’t many acknowledgements to make. But a huge note of thanks must go, as always, to Emily and Charlie, my beloved little family. You keep me going. Thanks also to the usual suspects – mainly Mark West, Sharon Ring, Simon Bestwick, Jim Mcleod, Michael Wilson and Ross Warren – for their constant and gratifying support. Cheers to the writer chums who invited me to a terrific working weekend in Matlock: it really helped me get started on this book. A special doff of the cap must go to Steve Volk, Tim Lebbon, Adam Nevill, Joe D’Lacey and my good mate Mark Morris for being so bloody inspirational. Finally, thanks again to Jon Oliver and the brilliant team at Solaris. I literally couldn’t have done all this without you.

Captain Clickety

He’s coming your way

Captain Clickety

He’ll make you pay

Once in the morning

Twice in the night

Three times Clickety

Will give you a fright

– Traditional children’s skipping song

(origin unknown)

I has been sent to bed by mummy and daddy. they dont want me to hear them fight. my name is jack. I want to keep a dairy and this is it. daddy thinks people who rite are funny in the head. he says I should be playin outside with my football or on my bike. I like my bike. but daddy wont let me play outside when it dark. that the scary time. nasty man mite take me away like that boy in the news before. my sister is daisy like a flower. I think somebody hates us. he is in the house all the time but we cant see him. he makes niose when nowbody else is here. he wants to hurt us. we hide under the bed when mummy and daddy are in the pub. he canit see us there. we
inibible.
inbisevil. he canit see us. but he is there. in the walls and under the floor. he creeps about and peeps threw the gaps to try and see me and daisy flower. I am scared. I can here him now. he goes clikcety clikcety like when I spilt my marbels on the kichen floor. clikcey clikcety clikc.

– From the diary of Jack Pollack, April 1974

PART ONE

The Gone-Away Girls

“Promise me that you won't try to save me.”

– Abby Hansen

CHAPTER ONE

I
T STARTS, FOR
him, with an ending...

In fact, it begins with a funeral.

Death is a constant in the Concrete Grove, just as it is everywhere else in the world. People come and they go; they live and they die, blooming and then withering like seasonal flowers on the stem. This natural cycle perpetuates, bringing existence and extinction and joy and sorrow, and everything else in-between, into sharp focus. But in the Grove these fundamental truths are pushed even closer to the surface, like a spiritual hernia; it is a place where the cycles of life and death are played out at an intimate scale across an epic canvas. A million different beginnings and endings, each with their separate details, their intimate little secrets...

But for Marc Price, it begins with an ending...

CHAPTER TWO

M
ARC WATCHED THE
short funeral cortege as it made its way off the main road and into the grounds of the Near Grove Crematorium, following the narrow tarmac road past the gravestones and monuments. Most of the cars were old, outdated models, but kept in good shape by their mostly aged owners. None of the old man’s friends had been what anyone might call well off. They were normal people, with normal amounts of cash in their pockets.

He sat in his car outside the front gates, watching through the grimy windscreen. He recognised not one of the cars in the small queue of vehicles. In fact he didn’t know anyone who’d known Harry Rose apart from his uncle, but his uncle was dead too, five years in the grave from cancer of the liver. Uncle Mike had introduced Marc to Harry Rose, but only from beyond the grave – his name had been enough to convince the old man to talk to him. The two men had once drunk together. They’d been long-ago beer buddies.

The stereo was playing softly; the CD was a compilation of Ennio Morricone’s film scores Harry Rose had given him not long after their first meeting. Marc closed his eyes and listened to the music, trying not to think about the immediacy and inevitability of death.

When he opened his eyes again, the final car in the grim little procession was inching its way through the crematorium gates. Bright shards of sunlight broke through the clouds and made patterns on the shiny roof and bonnet, which were a direct contrast to the dirty, dented bodywork of his little Nissan. He stared at the layer of dust on the dashboard, a light scattering of grey. The torn seats, the battered interior... somehow the poor condition of the car represented a facet of his lifestyle that he didn’t like to think about. It had been new once, this vehicle, but now it was old. Not a profound insight, but one that moved him deeply on this particular day at this grim hour.

Marc turned off the engine, removed the ignition key, and opened the car door. He stepped out onto the road, glancing to the side to make sure there were no cars speeding towards him, and locked the door (he used the key; there was no central locking on this old beast). He pulled up his collar against the slight autumnal chill and jogged across the road, towards the iron crematorium fence. He had not been here for a long time – not since they’d cremated Uncle Mike. The place made him feel uncomfortable, exhuming memories that he’d rather stayed buried. Conflicting images and sensations almost overwhelmed him: the smell of booze on his uncle’s breath, the man’s strong arms lifting him off the ground when he was a child, his harsh voice, the way the skin around his eyes had creased when he smiled, almost covering his eyes.