Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) (24 page)

To Erik, standing alone there under a weird, vivid night sky, this felt like the end of something he’d not even realised had begun. For years now, he’d been blind. He had orbited this great black hole, taking from it what he could, and now the black hole was claiming everything, including him, turning it all into cosmic debris, blasting it all into black flame. If he could open up his chest, exposing his innards, he’d find bits of charcoal, a charred ruin. He was a shell; no longer a real man.

His whole existence, his perception of what it meant to be alive, had changed now that he’d met a monster.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“H
I.
” H
E WAS
standing on the doorstep like an unwelcome visitor – and perhaps that’s exactly what he was, despite what she’d said earlier on the phone. He was beginning to get used to the fact that she always made him feel uncomfortable, and he could never be sure if he was welcome or not.

“I suppose you’d better come in.” Abby stepped back, turned and walked slowly down the hallway, her bare feet soundless on the worn carpet. Her feet were dirty, as if she’d been walking in mud. He wondered what on earth she’d been up to.

Marc followed her inside, trailing her into the living room. The lamp was on but the main lights were off. The curtains were open, letting in the light from the streetlamps.

“How about a drink?”

He could see that she’d already been drinking: a wine bottle, half empty, was resting on the table.

“Yeah, cheers.”

She left the room and returned with another wine glass and a new bottle, the belt on her dressing gown hanging loose, a flash of grubby thigh exposed under the flap. She topped up her own glass and then filled his, killing the first bottle. She sat down without tightening the belt.

“So how come you couldn’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

He nodded. “I can sympathise. What about?”

“My daughter.” She sipped her wine. Her face was so pale that it looked bloodless. Her long fingers seemed to lack meat; they were all bone.

“I’m sorry... it’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” she said, standing. “Fancy some music?” She moved over to the stereo without waiting for a response and switched it on. Classical music came through speakers that were set high up on the wall, mounted on brackets in the corners of the room.

“I wasn’t expecting that.” He smiled.

“We’re not all hopeless fucking chavs, you know. I realise that people like you – journalists, the middle class, all you wankers – like to cast us in a set role, but a few of us have experienced culture.” She sat back down, drank from her glass.

He ignored the remark about class. He didn’t want to get into that now. “Shit... that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t realise you were into classical music.”

“I like to read, too. Dickens, Emily Bronte, Mary Shelley, George Orwell... surprised, aren’t you, that a fuckwit like me even knows who Orwell is?” Colour rose back into her cheeks, her eyes flared, challenging him.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m a dick. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Just because I live on a shitty estate, drink too much and sleep around, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

He was unable to tell now if she was rattling his chain or being serious. She was a mystery, this woman. Perhaps that was part of the reason he was so drawn to her, why he found her so damned irresistible. Why he wanted to fuck her, even when he didn’t want to be near her.

“Sit down. You’re cluttering up the room.” She patted the sofa next to her, those long fingers twitching like the limbs of a pale mantis.

He sat down, took a mouthful of wine, wincing at a slight bitterness. She was much more animated than the last time he’d seen her, and he liked this version of her better. There was passion here, the type of which he had not even been aware of before. A fire burned deep inside her, but obviously she rarely let it out on show.

“I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you.”

She turned to face him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t get too cocky. Yours was the first number I could think of to call. All the other guys I know, they’d read too much into this. I was lonely. I got scared because of the nightmare. I just want some company, okay?”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Just don’t fall in love with me. They fucking all do that, and I hate it.”

He stared at her profile, once again wondering what on earth it was that he saw in this hard-faced bitch. “Don’t worry. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. Company sounds good to me... just the right deal. I promise not to get too clingy.”

She shook her head, her mood softening. “So what kept you up late tonight?”

“I was going through some of Harry Rose’s things. I’m staying there. His brother gave me the key.”

“I thought you managed to get here quickly. That explains it. What kind of stuff? Like, his will?”

“No, it was nothing like that. Just some old records... books and files, notebooks he’d kept about the Northumberland Poltergeist and something called Captain Clickety.”

Abby giggled. Then, softly, she began to chant a rhyme.

“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.”

“What’s that?”

“Just an old skipping song. We used to sing it when we were at school.”

“The Pollack children called their ghost Captain Clickety.”

She laughed, quietly, humourlessly. “He’s like a catch-all around here, our own little bogeyman. Everything gets blamed on good old Captain Clickety.”

Marc took another drink of wine, leaned his head back against the sofa. “I’m starting to think that Captain Clickety might be a lot more than some colourful local urban legend.”

“What do you mean?” her hand strayed to his thigh, rested there, gripping him lightly.

“I think he really existed. In Harry’s notes, I found a name. Terryn Mowbray. He was a plague doctor, back during the time of the Black Death.”

“Really?” She sounded drowsy. The wine was affecting her.

“Yeah. Not a very nice man, by all accounts, and he went missing in the grove of oak trees that used to be where the Needle was built. Two hundred years later, someone by that name also turned up at a colony of settlers in America. They went missing, leaving behind strange words carved into trees. I think the trees were oaks and rowans... English trees, not native to America. The same name was mentioned, but I’m certain it wasn’t the same guy... I mean, it couldn’t be. That’s impossible.” His mind was racing again, struggling to put together a puzzle to which he only possessed a handful of pieces.

“Sounds like a fairy story to me,” said Abby, stretching her spine, like a tired cat.

“Yeah. Yes, it does.” He closed his eyes and saw a beak-faced man standing unmoving in the darkness behind the lids.

Abby set down her glass on the floor, turned, and lunged at him. Her dressing gown gaped, exposing her breasts. She rammed her tongue between his lips, bit at his mouth, grabbed at his cock. She smelled of loam and wood smoke: the aroma of autumn.

“Whoa,” he said, pulling back. “At least let me get warmed up first.”

Five minutes later they were upstairs, fucking like banshees.

Afterwards they lay side by side in bed, finishing off the wine. Abby rested her head on his chest and he stroked her dry, brittle hair. He ran his fingers along her long, smooth throat, and cupped one of her breasts.

She stirred, moaned, pulled up her head and kissed his chest. Then she turned her attention to the tattoo on his left bicep. She leaned on one elbow and traced the outline with her other hand.

“What is it?”

“A flower.”

“I can see that, you idiot. What kind of flower?”

“It’s a daisy, I think.”

“You think?” She kissed it, the tip of her tongue flicking lightly at his flesh.

“Yes... it’s a daisy.”

“Does it mean anything? Anything particular, like?”

He shook his head. “No, not really. It just means I was pissed when I got it. See the weird black lines around the petals? I liked the look of it. I had it done when I was eighteen, after an all-day drinking session with a few mates. Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit. In retrospect, I wish I’d got something more profound.”

“Like a British bulldog?”

“A Union Jack or a football badge... perhaps a scroll with the word ‘mother’ on it.”

She laughed softly. Pulling away from him, she lay on her back with her breasts exposed. The nipples were standing up like bullets. Her skin was corpse-white, apart from the few faint mucky smears he’d noticed earlier.

Marc shifted his position and lay on his side, so that he could watch her reaction to his question: “That bloke, the one who came to see you the morning I was here...”

“Erik? What about him?” Her face was impassive as she stared up at the ceiling.

“He was Tessa’s dad, wasn’t he?”

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

“He threatened me. Warned me off, told me he’d hurt me if I came around here again.”

“But here you are.”

It was his turn to nod. He stroked her arm and once again cupped her breast, unable to keep his hands off her.

She smiled. “Don’t worry.” She closed her eyes. “He does that all the time. He can’t stand to see me with someone else. It’s partly my fault, I suppose. I used to go with men right under his nose, rub it in his face. Just to hurt him, like.”

“Why would you want to do that – hurt him?”

She sighed and opened her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell, filling and then emptying the motionless palm of his hand. “Because he’s a reminder of the way things used to be, when Tessa was still here. I can’t stand to even look at him because whenever I do, I think of her. I see her, standing there, holding his hand and smiling. She loved her Dad... and he loved her, in his own way. He loved us both too much, and not enough.”

“I see.” But he didn’t; he didn’t see at all. She was making little sense, but he was too tired to go into it any deeper. Let her have her rants, her furies. Just as long as they could fuck: as long as she allowed him inside her, where it was cold and harsh and compelling.

Before long he heard the sound of her snoring. It caught hold of him, that sound, and he felt himself slipping away, entering a light sleep. He was still clasping her breast in one hand. The nipple was hard, but it started to soften as she slumbered. He tried to open his eyes but it was impossible. When finally he did open them, she was gone from the bed. Time had passed but he wasn’t sure how long. The bedroom door was open. There was a light on somewhere along the hall, coming from an open door.

Tessa’s room.

He got out of bed and put on his clothes, feeling drowsy and disorientated. He left the room, walked along the hall, and stood outside the room, looking in. Abby was there, naked, kneeling before the pile of clothes and toys and paper. Her left hand was thrust between her legs, working furiously. There was sweat on her brow. Her shoulders were hunched, her back arched. When she came, she did so silently. Then she stood, walked past him without noticing, and returned to bed. By the time he’d followed her back into the bedroom, she was once again sleeping. He stood there, listening to her snore, wondering exactly how fucked up she might be. Wondering if she was more fucked up than he was.

H
E WALKED BACK
to Harry Rose’s place. It wasn’t far, and by now he knew the way. The night air was warm, the moon and the stars were bright, and most of the streetlights were still working. Voices carried on the air; he heard the distant sound of a revving engine; an alarm started to blare, but it was too far away to bother him. Occasionally, he glanced back over his shoulder, certain that he was being followed, but there was never anyone there. One time he thought he glimpsed a shadow – not much, just a swiftly moving dark patch. It looked like it might be a dog, but its head was much too large, lolling on a thin, stalk-like neck. He only caught sight of it for a second, and then began to doubt that he’d seen anything at all.

Back at Harry’s place he locked the door and checked the ground floor windows were secure. Everything was good; he was sealed safely inside, where no one could get to him. He tried to shrug off these paranoid thoughts, but they wouldn’t let go. They clung to him like strands of silk, sticking wherever they touched.

The sex and the wine had exhausted him, but not enough that he’d wanted to stay at Abby’s place until morning. He’d left a note on the bedside cabinet, a hastily scribbled message telling her that he’d call her in a few days. He figured that it was enough. If she didn’t want commitment, it should be plenty.

He sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote control, switching on the television. Harry had only used the normal terrestrial channels: no cable, no satellite. There wasn’t much on at this late hour, just a re-run of some old black and white American sitcom, a documentary about insects, and news programmes. He left on the documentary, staring at images of mandibles and segmented exoskeletons. Before he knew it, he was dozing again, the world growing dark and empty.