by Gary McMahon
An old man brushed up against him and leaned across the bar, interrupting his thoughts. “Pint of bitter,” he mumbled to the skinny barmaid. She was standing against the wall reading a fat, dog-eared paperback with a water-damaged front cover. Most of the title had been rubbed off – something about kicking a hornet’s nest. The barmaid glanced up from the page, nodded, and pushed away from the wall like a swimmer moving away from the shore. She put her book down on the bar and pulled a pint, her thin, hard forearms tensing as she tugged on the pump.
“Ta, petal,” said the old man, leering as he handed her a five pound note. She sighed, shook her head, and gave him his change.
“Stupid old fart,” she said to herself, as she picked up her book and drifted back to her spot against the wall.
Simon laughed, but she didn’t even acknowledge him. He coughed lightly, dipped his lips to his glass, and looked around at the rest of the drinkers.
The Dropped Penny had not changed a bit since he’d last been here. Even the faces looked the same, only older, more worn and wrinkled. It had never seemed to get too busy back when Simon used to sneak in for an under-age drink, nor was it ever empty. Always roughly the same number of punters, drinking quietly, chatting in low voices, and watching the world from over the rim of a dirty glass.
He saw Brendan enter the pub, watching him in the mirrored wall. His old friend looked twitchy, on edge. His eyes were rimmed with red, as if he’d already been drinking heavily. Or perhaps he was simply deprived of sleep, like Simon.
He was just about to turn around when Brendan saw him. A look of regret – or was it sadness? – crossed his face, and then he walked towards the bar.
“What can I get you?” Simon smiled. It took some effort, but it was the least he could do. He had to try and get the man on-side.
“Pint of Landlord. It’s good in here.”
“It certainly is,” said Simon, nodding towards the remains of his own drink. “Two Landlords, please,” he called to the barmaid, who was lost in her book.
The woman looked up, sighed, and trudged to the bar to pour the drinks.
“If it isn’t too much trouble, that is.” Simon smiled.
“Don’t get smart with me, son, or I’ll bar you.” She did not return the smile.
“The old Ridley charm... it never fails.” He turned to Brendan and winked.
Despite himself, Brendan smiled. “I remember you could charm the pants off a nun... an old nun, with a smelly crotch and poor personal hygiene.”
“Thanks, mate,” said Simon, handing Brendan a pint. “You always knew how to make me feel better about myself.”
“Let’s sit down. There’s a table over here.” Brendan moved away from the bar and sat at a table near the window, more relaxed now that he had a drink in his hand. He took a long swallow with his eyes closed, and then placed the pint glass on a soggy beermat but kept hold of it, as if he were afraid that someone might try to take it away.
“Shall we start again?” Simon sat down opposite him.
“What do you mean?” Brendan hunched his shoulders, and winced, as if he was experiencing mild pain.
“I don’t think I handled our reunion very well when I came to your place. I barrelled right in like a bull, ignoring all the pleasantries.”
Brendan shrugged. “Aye. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” He took another swig of his drink, draining the glass to the half-way point.
“But it does matter. These things do matter, don’t they? We were best friends. We haven’t seen each other for twenty years. And what do I do? I charge into your house and demand answers to questions I barely even understand. I was out of order. I’m sorry.”
Brendan shrugged again. He looked uneasy. “No harm done. Want another?” He drained his glass and stood, moving towards the bar without waiting for an answer.
Simon watched him as he ordered two more pints of bitter, sharing a quiet joke – no doubt at Simon’s expense – with the barmaid. They seemed familiar; he wondered if she was an ex-girlfriend, or part of a crowd Brendan had hung around with after Simon had left the estate. He realised that he knew little of his friend’s life history. He’d known him as a child, and less so as a teenager, but was now meeting him for the first time as an adult.
“Thanks,” he said as Brendan sat back down and slid a glass across the table. “So. How have you been?”
Brendan laughed. “Jesus... you’re really asking me that?”
“Why not? We barely even know each other anymore. The last time I saw you we both had bum fluff on our chins.” Simon raised his glass in a small salute.
“I thought you’d kept tabs on me? You seem to know enough about where I work.”
Simon shook his head. “No... I’ve not kept tabs, not exactly. My Aunty Annie still lives in Near Grove. Whenever I call her, she mentions you – tells me what she’s heard. She knows we used to be close.” It was only partly a lie.
“Christ,” said Brendan. “Good old Aunty Annie. I remember her – she always used to give us those old-fashioned sour sweets.” He grinned. “I fucking hated them, but was always too polite to tell her.”
Simon laughed softly. “Me, too, mate. They were bloody horrible.”
They sat for a while in a silence that was almost companionable, or would have seemed so to a casual observer. They sipped their drinks slowly now, the initial nerves having dissipated. Someone put a song on the jukebox, an old number Simon didn’t recognise; a woman singing the blues. Her voice was strained, almost painful to hear. It was beautiful.
“How’s Jane?” He glanced at Brendan, wondering if he’d pushed too far.
Brendan’s eyes flashed, but then he relaxed again. “Took you long enough to ask.”
“Well,” said Simon. “It’s none of my business really, is it?”
Brendan licked his lips and blinked rapidly. “She’s fine. We’re fine, in case that was your next question. We’re more than fine, actually.”
“No, that wasn’t my next question.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “But I’m glad. I’m really glad that you’re still together. It makes sense; the two of you, it’s logical. Know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Brendan. “It does make sense. It makes a lot of sense. We were always close...”
Whatever was left unsaid, Simon felt it prudent not too push too hard to find out. Had the two of them slept together when he and Jane had been an item? They were only fifteen, barely old enough to know their own hearts, never mind anyone else’s. That made sense, too: them sleeping together behind his back. He hoped that it was true; their infidelity would make him feel a lot better about the way he’d abandoned them.
Simon nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. You have kids, now, don’t you?”
“Aye,” said Brendan. “Twins: Harry and Isobel. They’re ten years old... the same age we were when, well, you know. When that shit happened to the three of us.”
There was another short pause, when neither of them spoke, but this one was strained. Something sat between them now, something that had not been there before. It licked its lips and waited; it had all the time in the world.
“Are you still in touch with Marty?” Simon leaned forward; his back was aching. The bar seat was old and the cushion was too soft.
“No,” said Brendan, shaking his head. “We lost touch years ago, when he went off the rails. Did you know about that?”
Simon nodded. “I know a little. Didn’t he start boxing, and then some kind of injury cut his career short? Then he went... dodgy?”
“Dodgy’s the right word for what he is.” Brendan pointed at his glass. “It’s your round.”
Simon got up and bought two more beers, then returned to the table.
“Marty Rivers,” said Brendan. “What a fucking psycho he turned out to be.”
Simon said nothing. He just let the other man speak.
“He used to train for hours: up at dawn for early runs, then in the gym every night for sparring sessions. He was intense; se
rious about his sport. Then he crashed his motorbike and his girlfriend was killed in the accident. He was a mess. His injuries never healed, not properly, and his career was over before it even began. A lot of people said that he might have been a great, that he would have gone places. But we’ll never know.”
Simon blew air though his lips. “Jesus, I didn’t know he was ever that good. I remember he was always fit, and hard as nails, but I didn’t realise he took the boxing that seriously. I thought it was just something he did because of his dad – you know, the cult of the hard man, and all that.”
“No,” said Brendan. “He was serious. He loved to box. When it all went tits-up, he had nothing else to fall back on. He wasn’t academic; he wasn’t driven, like you. He didn’t have anyone special in his life, not after the bike accident. So he started working the doors on the roughest pubs in Newcastle. I heard a lot of rumours about illegal boxing contests in social club basements, maybe even bare knuckle bouts. Somebody told me Marty took on and beat the King of the Gypsies about ten years ago, but people tend to talk a lot of shit around here. You never know what to believe.” He stood up quickly, then reached out and steadied himself by gripping the table. “I need a piss. I’ll get a couple more pints on my way back.” He belched and then headed off towards the gents at the other side of the room.
Simon was starting to feel drunk. He wasn’t used to drinking this much during the day, just the occasional half-bottle of wine over a lunch meeting, or a cocktail with clients. The strong beer was making him dizzy; his vision was blurred.
Before Simon had time to properly register his absence, Brendan returned with more drinks. “Get that down your neck,” he said, slamming down the glasses. “Our old mate Marty got involved with drugs, and he did a few jobs for a local gangster named Monty Bright. I’m not sure how much he was involved with that scumbag’s affairs, but when Bright’s gym burned down, with him in it, most people around here waved goodbye to bad rubbish.”
Simon tried to focus on the words. “Yeah... I heard about that. Someone sent me the news item, a page from the paper. I don’t know why, but whoever it is who sends me this stuff seems to think I’m still interested in what goes on in the Grove.”
“Maybe it’s Marty,” said Brendan. “It might be his way of keeping in touch, of trying to cling to the memory of the Three Amigos.”
Simon raised his head. “Hey, that’s a good point. I never thought of that. All this time, I just assumed it was you. We were best friends.”
Brendan put down his glass, gripping it tightly. “We were all best friends – the three of us. The fucking Three Amigos, remember? Best friends, until whatever happened that weekend tore us apart.”
Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about one of them speaking the thought aloud. It was true, of course it was, but he had not felt confident enough to vocalise what he thought. But clearly Brendan thought that way, too – and maybe Marty did, and that was why he’d been sending all that stuff, trying to keep the Amigos together, even in this small way.
“I need you to help me contact Marty,” he said, leaning across the table. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but I think it’s important that the three of us at least get into a room together and talk about the past. Even if it’s just for our own mental wellbeing, we need to sit down around a table and try to work through what happened back then.”
Brendan clenched his teeth. His face was thin, the colour fading from his cheeks. “This isn’t some Hollywood blockbuster, mate. We can’t re-form our little gang and slay the monster before running off into the sunset. That’s not how it works in the real world. The Three Amigos don’t exist anymore. I’m a broken-down, drink-dependent security guard, you’re a phoney little rich-boy with a chip on his shoulder, and Marty is a fucking maniac who’d probably break your neck if he ever saw you again...”
He bowed his head, letting go of his glass. “We’re not heroes. We can’t even stand the sight of each other.”
Simon tried to counter his remarks, but could think of nothing to say. Brendan was right. This was stupid. What the hell had he been thinking to even come here? “Do you want to know why I bought that place – the Needle?”
Brendan nodded. “Tell me,” he said, his voice low, a whisper.
“I bought it because I want to tear it down, brick by brick, timber by timber, bit by bit. I want to reduce that fucking building to its component parts, and then sift through them, looking for what we all lost. I want to find out what happened to us, so I can move on and put it behind me. I’m sick and tired of being haunted. I’m fed up of running away from my demons. Look at us – we’ve both been hamstrung by whatever happened twenty years ago, and neither of us has the slightest fucking idea what it was. What happened to us in there? What did we leave behind?” He felt hot tears running down his cheeks and wiped them away with the back of his hand. “What was taken from us?”
“I don’t know.” Brendan could not look him in the eye. He kept his head lowered, gazing at the stained tabletop. “I wish I did.”
“This place,” said Simon. His voice had taken on a strange hissing quality. He was speaking quietly, trying to make sure no one overhead him, but the rage had altered his tone. “It’s the place – the Concrete Grove. Have you never noticed how there’s always a strange atmosphere here, like a constant gas leak? And what about the streets? Even the layout of the estate is fucked. I mean, why is Grove Street West at the east end of the Grove? And why does Grove Drive West point north to south? It’s like someone was playing games, or the place has been flipped over so many times that the compass has lost all meaning. I remember several times, drunk and walking home, I would end up in a part of the Grove that I shouldn’t be in. Somehow, I’d get lost, even though I knew exactly where I was going...”
Brendan looked up. His eyes were filled with tears. “It’s just... just the Grove. The whole place is fucked. It’s like a town planner’s worst nightmare, or something.”
Simon pulled back; he’d already said too much. He could not risk pushing any harder, not yet. “I dunno, Brendan... really, I don’t. Nothing feels right here. It’s like confusion and anxiety is the natural mental state.”
“Okay,” said Brendan. “I’ll help you. We’ll go and see Marty. If it means that much to you, we can sort it out.”
Simon did not know how to respond.
“You and me, we’ll find out where he’s living and we’ll go round there, see if he’s willing to talk. What harm could it do, right?”
As Simon gazed deeply into Brendan’s eyes, he knew that his friend was lying. But for the life of him, he did not understand the nature of those lies, or what truths they were meant to hide.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ARE YOU SURE you want to do this now?” Brendan’s voice sounded dry and croaky, as if he’d smoked a whole packet of cigarettes in one sitting. “I mean, there’s no real need to do it now. We could wait until the morning, if you like.”
Simon shook his head. “I’ve waited twenty years to come back here and see this place again. If I don’t go in there now, I probably never will. But I can’t do it alone, not the first time anyway. We’re both here, so why not?”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
Simon increased his pace and drew level with Brendan. He’d been walking a couple of steps behind, taking in the gritty early evening atmosphere as he tried to sober up. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Brendan turned his head. His mouth was a grim line. “I’ve been in there hundreds of times now, and there’s nothing. I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find, but the place is empty. Empty of everything. There are no ghosts, no memories clinging to the walls or ceilings like bats. Just a lot of dust and filth and old drug workings.”
The two men walked a little way along the curve on the east side of Grove Road, and then crossed the road to enter a narrow, overgrown cut between gardens that led on to Grove Crescent. The east side of the estate was the roughest part; the worst kind of scumbags lived
here. The west side was relatively peaceful, and many of the residents along the roads that skirted the Embankment – including Brendan’s street – were honest, hard-working families. But here, on the opposite end of the Grove, the rules were not as clear cut.
Grove Street itself was wrapped in a kind of murky haze; the streetlight at the end of the short road had been vandalised. It was still early, and the sky offered some brightness, but the other lights around the estate were already coming on, illuminating the corners of this strange world in a frantic effort to beat the oncoming night. Simon had the strange thought that darkness always fell early on the estate. The lights always came on here before they did elsewhere. Maybe it was part of some plan by the council: they switched on the streetlights to try and fool the yobbos into thinking it was later that it really was, in an effort to send them home off the streets.
“Come on,” said Brendan, taking the lead again. “Let’s get this over with. I want to get back home to see my kids before I have to come back here and start my shift. I’ve barely seen them all day.”
“Sorry,” said Simon. “I didn’t realise...”
“Don’t worry about it.” Brendan approached the gates of the compound and took a set of keys from his pocket. He rattled the keys as he selected the correct one and then slid it into the main lock. “So that was you last night – in the four-wheel drive?”
Simon nodded, then realised that Brendan couldn’t see him because he had his back to him, and answered. “Yeah, that was me. I did a little drive-by.”
“You should’ve come over. I would have put the kettle on.”
Simon sensed more untruths, but he was unsure whether or not Brendan was simply being cautious, afraid to open up too much because of the dead weight of years that stood between them.
“Come on. Let’s get this done.” Brendan pushed open the gates and stepped inside.
Simon followed him into the enclosure, feeling as if he were walking into a prison – or perhaps a complex trap. He knew that he was being impulsive by coming here right now, but he also realised that he couldn’t put off this confrontation indefinitely. It had to be done; he needed to face the past if he stood even a chance of unlocking its secrets.