Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) (21 page)

“Need any help?” He began to follow, but she turned around.

“No, I’m fine. I can still serve a meal. You just sit down and I’ll call you in when it’s ready. I’d offer you a drink... but...”

He smiled. “I’ll be happy with a glass of water with the meal.”

She nodded. “I’m pleased to see you’re making an effort.” Before he could add anything more, she vanished into the kitchen.

Royle was too restless to sit, so he walked to the window, glancing out at the street. The old stone wall opposite the house held back a line of trees whose branches flapped and twitched in the breeze. The sky was black and distant. No traffic passed by; the road had always been quiet, hardly ever used except by the people of the village. He stared at the swaying tree branches, their leaves gone; they resembled spiny fingers grasping at the air, trying to gain purchase in the world. Some of those leaves had fallen to the ground, and they looked black in the darkness.

“Okay, you can come through now.”

He reached out and shut the window blind, then turned away from the window. He walked across the room and opened the kitchen door. Vanessa was already sitting at the big dining table, pouring water from a clear glass jug into two glasses. Large bowls of casserole sat steaming on the table.

“Looks good,” he said, sitting down opposite her.

“Thanks. You always say that.”

They started to eat and said nothing. There was a strange tension between them, as if they barely knew each other. Perhaps they didn’t; maybe that was the problem. They’d never known each other, not properly, and now the cracks were starting to show.

“So you’re keeping off the drink?”

Her question took him by surprise but not enough to faze him. “Yes,” he lied. “Well, as best I can, anyway.”

She stopped eating, put down her spoon. “What does that mean?” Her eyes were wide. In their depths, he saw everything: the life they’d had, the way things had been cut short because of his behaviour, the possible future they had together if only they could work things out. Behind this, pulsing in the darkness, were so many questions that had so far remained unasked.

“I keep slipping, a bit. I’ll go for days without even thinking of drink, but then I’ll suddenly find myself in a bar, or sitting at home with a glass in my hand. It’s nothing major. Not like it used to be...” He reached for his glass, gulped down the water, and refilled it. “Need a top-up?”

“No thanks.” Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

“I really am trying my best, you know. I want you back... I want us back together, with the baby. It’s the only life I see ahead of me, the only viable option. If I don’t have that, I have nothing.”

Her eyes gleamed beneath the kitchen lights. He wasn’t sure if she was crying or if the bulbs were too bright.

“I am trying.” It seemed pathetic that this was all he had: a promise, one that was only partially true. Words, empty reassurances, like pleading for forgiveness. He felt the Crawl upon his flesh, making him shudder. His skin prickled, his shoulders began to tense. He thought of those black leaves on the ground outside, a charred pathway to oblivion.

“Eat up,” she said, picking up her spoon. “It’ll go cold.”

Royle couldn’t help reading too much into her statement. Did she simply mean the casserole, or her love for him? Might that also go cold if he couldn’t pull himself together in time? Was she trying to say that there was a finite time span on this separation, and if they couldn’t get past these current obstacles he would lose her forever? Her and the baby...

He ate his casserole, but it was tasteless now.

After dinner he washed the dishes and she dried and put them away. They stood side by side at the sink, their hips occasionally touching, their hands moving in some kind of pattern designed to achieve a common goal.

“We could have used the dishwasher, you know.”

He glanced sideways, catching her profile. She was smiling.

“This is better,” he said. “This is much better.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

When the dishes had been put away, they went back into the living room and sat together on the sofa. He had a glass of orange juice and she was drinking herbal tea. The television was on; they stared at the screen without watching what was playing. Some old film: Paul Newman and Natalie Wood.

Royle wanted to reach out his hand and place it on her thigh, but it was too soon for such an intimate gesture. Instead he tried to be content with the minimal contact: thighs touching, breath mingling, feet resting side by side on the same low footstool.

“Oh...”

He turned, putting down his glass. “What’s wrong?”

Her face looked shiny, as if she were sweating. Her eyes were huge, glowing. “I think... I think baby’s kicking.” She grinned.

“You said it had been restless all day.”

“Yes, I did. Maybe excited about you coming...” She was still smiling, but he could tell that she was in pain.

“What can I do?” He swivelled his body on the sofa, ready to get up and fetch whatever it was she needed.

“Give me your hand.”

He wasn’t expecting that; he needed an errand to run, a task to perform. He always worked better if he had a specific job to do, a problem to solve.

“Come on.” She reached out and opened her fingers.

He slipped his hand into hers, shaking, feeling as if this was a pivotal moment, that it meant something in a way that no other moment in his life ever had.

“Gently...” She slowly pulled his hand towards her body. She placed the tips of his fingers against her belly. “Don’t be scared.” She’d never done this before. Here was progress, at last. She was warming to him again, forgetting about the pain he’d caused, remembering that they’d created this life together, out of the raw material of love.

He opened his hand and pressed the palm flat against her belly. Even through the thin cotton of the maternity dress, her body was hot, as if a fire burned somewhere under her skin. He waited for some movement, holding his breath, perched on the edge of a miracle.

The baby kicked. It happened once, a sharp little prod, as if it was trying to hit his hand.

“Did you feel it?”

He was unable to speak. He nodded, feeling the heat of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks.

“This is what you’re fighting for. Keep it up, stay off the drink, forget about the job and the stress... fight for us, Craig. For
us
: all three of us. We’re a family, and that’s how I want it to stay.”

“Can I... can I listen?”

She nodded. “Yes, if you like.”

He slid off the sofa and got down on his knees in front of her, a supplicant before this goddess, this carrier of immense power and promise. When she clasped his head in her hands and drew him in towards her, he remembered all the times she’d carried out the same movement before, but for a different reason. He tasted a ghost of the tang of her sex on his tongue, smelled the musk of her juices. He ached for her; every part of him, each single cell, wanted to be with this woman.

He placed the side of his head against her swollen belly, his hands going up, and his arms slipping around her widened waist. He closed his eyes and he listened; he listened for the heartbeat of his saviour, the answer to his pathetic secular prayers. At first he could hear nothing, and then he began to detect her heartbeat... and beneath that, or alongside it, he swore that he could hear a second frail rhythm. It was the heartbeat of his son or daughter; the only sound in the world that really mattered.

Then, he heard something else.

It began softly at first, and he thought it might be the droning of a distant motorbike disturbing the moment as it raced along the empty village streets. Then he realised that the sound was coming from inside Vanessa. It was originating from the same place as those two heartbeats.

A faint clicking sound, like castanets muffled by a pillow. It grew slightly louder, clearer, and then began to wane. The sound didn’t last long – just a couple of seconds – but as he listened, the Crawl seemed to answer its song. His entire body went cold; gooseflesh rose on his skin; he started to shake, to tremble like a frightened child.

He pulled away from Vanessa, stumbling across the floor and falling onto his backside.

“What’s wrong?” Her face went slack. Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to see the distrust in her face, not again, not now.

“Nothing.” He stood, running a hand through his hair. “I just... it was the emotion. I was overwhelmed. That was a heartbeat. I heard its fucking heart beating.”

Vanessa relaxed, reaching out to pat the sofa beside her. “Come and sit by me, Craig.”

He moved to the sofa and sat down. He was cold. He tried not to shiver.

She clasped his hand, squeezing his fingers. Her skin was warm; it took away the chill.

“I’d like you to stay the night,” she said.

He turned to face her but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the television, her face serious. Paul Newman was standing in the street, looking up at the sky.

“I don’t want you to go, not tonight.”

“I...”

“No, wait. Just hear me out.” Finally she looked at him, and her eyes were hard, like chips of ice. “I’ve had this feeling all day... a feeling that something’s on its way and it won’t be good for you. For us. I’m scared. It’s probably just hormones, but the fact is... the fact is, I’m scared. I want you to stay. I want you to sleep beside me, in our bed. I don’t know what this means in terms of us, but I think it says a lot that I want you close to me, I want you holding me in the night.”

His lips were dry, but he was no longer cold.

“You can say something now.” A flicker of humour crossed her face.

“Of course I’ll stay. There’s nothing I’d like better.”

She looked down at her knees. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper.

She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, desperate not to break the fragile connection.

They stayed that way for a little while longer, holding on to each other yet still maintaining a short distance between their questioning bodies; intimate strangers waiting for some kind of sign or signal. Then, when the film ended, they went wordlessly upstairs to bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HIS TIME
A
BBY
is aware of sitting up in bed and turning to face the door. The room is dark; the shapes of the furniture are somehow threatening, as if they are poised to pounce. She feels as if she might be in danger, but she isn’t sure what form it will take.

She walks across the room, shedding her nightgown. She is hot; her skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat. She opens the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. The door to her daughter’s room is already open and light spills out across the carpet. Shadows caper across the walls. Abby is holding her breath. If she lets it out, she might disturb whoever is in there.

She moves slowly towards the room, her arms hanging down by her sides, hands open. Her skin prickles, excitement makes her blood run faster.

She enters the room and there is no one there. The homemade totem, the stack of Tessa’s things, looks larger, taller; its tip is now almost touching the ceiling. She cannot remember adding anything new to the pile. She has not touched it for quite some time, as if some residue of fear has kept her away.

She walks across the room and stands before the conical mound of her daughter’s belongings. Things have been rearranged. The photo of Tessa’s face is no longer there, and toys she does not recognise have been added to the construction.

She kneels down and closes her eyes.

“
Tessa, Tessa, Tessa... bless her, bless her, bless her... come back to me
.” She recites the familiar prayer without even thinking about it. She does not hear the words as they pass her lips.

She hears the creaking, rustling sound of the totem shifting. She does not open her eyes. If she sees what is happening, it might break the spell. Something touches her face, brushing softly across her cheek. It feels like a tiny hand, but one that is not fully formed. The fingers are fused together and the skin feels soft and inchoate.

Whatever it is pulls away, making a louder rustling sound this time as it is sucked back into the mass of the totem.

Abby opens her eyes.

She is no longer inside the room, or even in the house.

She is kneeling at the centre of a grove of oak trees. It is dark. The sky is black and starless. There is no moon. The ground is covered with leaves.

Figures are hiding in the undergrowth, standing silently, watching her. The figures are small, slight, like malnourished children.

“Hello...”

The figures do not move. Their eyes sparkle behind a screen of foliage. White teeth are bared in either smiles or snarls. There are three of them, and slowly she begins to realise that they are waiting for her. In unison, they raise their hands above their heads, open their fists, and each of them drops a handful of black leaves onto the ground.