by Gary McMahon
The two eyelids blinked again. And then they closed.
Brendan was shaking. He had not felt so alive in years. There was fire in his belly, his blood was molten lava, and he felt as if he could take on anyone and win. “Do your fucking worst,” he whispered.
He filled the sink with cold water and washed his face, then dabbed at his back with a wet cloth. The infected skin looked the same as it had done before, before those weird eyes opening. Oddly, it seemed as if the acne was healing, the badness leaking out, draining off. He pressed his fingertips against the spots, but they did not burst; the skin didn’t break.
Bending down, he picked up his shirt. When he straightened up he looked again at his face in the mirror. This time his own eyes were like a goat’s, with dull yellow irises and slotted black pupils. He stepped backwards, stumbling, and fell sideways, almost into the bath, slamming his arm against the edge of the tub as he did so. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself upright, using the sink for leverage, and looked directly into the mirror.
His eyes were normal again.
“More cheap tricks,” he said, leaning forward, pressing his nose against the glass. “They won’t work now. We’re all grown up and we don’t scare easy.” He smiled. In the mirror, his face looked sweaty and manic. “We’re not little kids.”
Brendan threw the damp shirt in the direction of the washing basket and then took off his jeans, socks and underpants and sent them the same way. He walked naked along the landing and went into the bedroom, where he picked out some clean clothes. He also selected another outfit for later that evening – dark dress trousers, the black silk shirt Jane had bought him last Christmas, and his best pair of shoes.
He sat down on the bed and began to polish the shoes with a duster. The methodical task calmed his mind, helped him to relax.
Why am I no longer afraid? he thought. What’s happened to me? I should be terrified.
He buffed the black shoes with the soft yellow cloth, pausing occasionally to breathe onto the leather upper, misting it.
I’m not the strong one. I’m the weak member of the group, the one who would die first if this was a horror film.
He smiled.
Exhaled.
Buffed.
If this were a film, he would not be sitting naked on the bed, shining his shoes. He’d be buying some obscure book on demonology from a backstreet dealer, or hiring an exorcist. But real life wasn’t like the movies; reality was something you had to go through to fully understand the complexities, a series of obstacles that were meant to be endured. Sometimes passivity was the only option, and not everyone could be a hero. In real life, the monsters were often defeated by common sense and a blunt acceptance of the reality they presented. You didn’t always have to fight, to confront the thing in the closet, the leering face under the bed.
Some battles were fought in the mind. Some wars lasted forever.
He examined his shoes. They were as shiny as he would ever get them. He could almost see his face in the polished surface. As far as he could tell, his eyes were the same as always.
Brendan put away the cloth and set down his shoes at the side of the bed. He laid out the clothes he intended to wear to dinner and dressed in the others, tucking his T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. Jane hated that; she said it wasn’t trendy. But Brendan had never been a fashionable man. Sometimes – more often than not, if he were honest – he wondered what the hell she ever saw in him. He had never been her type. But maybe that was part of the appeal?
Simon had been her type, and he’d dumped her.
Crossing the room, he went to the wardrobe and stood on his tiptoes. He couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the box from under the bed, so he struggled on his tiptoes to reach the thing he was looking for. The acorn, when he brought it out, was dusty, its skin peeling back in thin, dry folds. It looked old, rotten and decayed: an empty husk, devoid even of terror. He held it between the palms of his hands and pushed the hands inwards. The acorn held at first, but as he pressed it began to burst, the sides caving in as he forced his palms together.
The acorn turned to dust in his hands.
The skin of his back twitched, just once.
Brendan clapped his hands together, rubbing and cleaning off the greyish dust. He splayed his fingers and stared at his palms. They were pale, bloodless. The lines looked faded, as if his hands were smoothing out, becoming babyish.
At last his fear began to show itself. He closed his eyes, closed his hands. His back crawled, as if a million tiny insects were marching from shoulder to shoulder.
Brendan wished he knew how he felt, or how he was supposed to feel. Perhaps if he could translate his emotions into words, he might stand a chance of surviving this season in hell. Or at least he’d die knowing what was happening to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SIMON APPROACHED THE Arcade with caution, wary that the kids who’d mugged him might be hanging around, laughing and still going through his wallet. He looked around, checking out the area, and moved slowly, like a man with something to hide. He was ashamed of his cowardice, but at the same time he knew that he’d been outnumbered. One on one, it would have been a different matter – he would have fought harder, better – but confronted by three young men, overpowered by the force of numbers, he hadn’t stood a chance.
He’d tried calling the mobile number Marty’s grandmother had given him, but it had led nowhere. All it did was ring out, an endless, monotonous tone. He’d even sent a text, identifying himself and asking Marty to get in touch, but had the feeling that any initial contact would need to be face-to-face, man-to-man. He got the impression that Marty was that kind of guy.
Shoppers slow-danced in and out of shop doorways. Middle-aged men in loose jogging bottoms hung around smoking and staring belligerently at passers-by. Simon sidled up to the front of the betting shop, trying to act as if he belonged here.
The large windows were covered with posters advertising races, fights and football matches, with betting odds listed in their alien language. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, feeling an oppressive atmosphere wrap its fingers around his body. He hated betting shops. His sports-obsessed father had spent a lot of time in this one, and others just like it, so Simon had a near-physical reaction whenever he was in the proximity of one of these places. He felt nauseous; his head began to pound.
Rows of flat-screen televisions lined the top of the walls near the ceiling, padlocked into metal frames. Other screens, smaller and lower down, showed a constant scroll of betting odds. Along the walls, between the lower television screens, were booths at which men stood writing out their bets on small slips of paper. Most of them looked deep in thought, a few of them looked wary, fewer still looked afraid.
Simon took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds. Then he moved to the back of the shop, towards the counter. There were three separate windows where people could place a bet, protected by bullet-proof glass screens. Behind the one on the left was a thin, pale-faced young man who kept biting his fingernails. The middle screen housed an obese old woman with frizzy brown hair, her spectacles too small for her swollen face. The final booth, on the right, was the one he needed. The woman behind the glass was young, slim, and rather beautiful. She looked out of place in these surroundings, like a pedigree dog stuck in a kennel for strays. Her black hair was held back in a loose ponytail, she wore too much make-up, and the skin of her face sported a familiar orangey fake tan... yet still, despite all of this, she was gorgeous. Scrape off that muck, allow the shop-bought tan to fade, and Simon had no doubt that she could pass for a model.
He walked to the window, taking the opportunity to approach her while everyone else inside the shop watched the numbers and horse names scroll down the screens.
She smiled.
“Hi.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“I... listen; I don’t want to put on a bet. I just want to talk to you.”
She smiled again. �
�I’m flattered, mate. Really I am. But do you know how many blokes ask me out every day, how many phone numbers get written on the back of spent betting slips, how many sad losers just come straight out and ask to see my tits?” Her face hardened; the smile slipped away. “I’m not interested.”
“No... no, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m a friend of Marty Rivers.”
Her entire attitude changed. Her posture straightened; the muscles in her face and neck tensed, making her look older, less attractive, and she leaned forward, towards the glass. “Marty? Did he send you?”
“Not exactly.”
She began to move away, her lips curling into a silent snarl. This wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d hoped for.
“But I have a message from him.” It was the first thing that came into his head. Simon knew that he was asking for trouble by lying to this woman, but what else could he do? “You are Melanie, aren’t you? Melanie Sallis?” He tried his final gambit: “Marty’s grandmother told me to come and see you. She said you were his girlfriend.”
She laughed softly. “That’s my name, yes. As for the other part... well, I’m not so sure. Maybe you should ask him.” Her eyes shone, with anger rather than sorrow.
“My name’s Simon Ridley. Could I speak with you, Melanie? Not here – somewhere else, where we can sit and have a proper talk. It’s important, I promise you. I won’t waste your time.”
She glanced over his shoulder, at the interior of the betting shop, and then her eyes took him in again. “Marty didn’t send you at all, did he?”
“No. No, he didn’t. But I really do need to talk to you, and it is about Marty. I promise.”
Her eyes flicked left, then right. She pursued her lips, and then opened them slightly. Her teeth were remarkably clean and white, unlike anyone’s he’d ever seen outside modelling or television. He wondered how much she’d paid for all that dental work.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’m due a break, anyway.” She looked right, at the obese woman. “I’m off for a fag break, Denise. I’ll be back shortly.”
Denise shrugged and turned away.
“Come on,” said Melanie. “I have the flat upstairs. We can talk in peace up there.” She grabbed a leather jacket from the back of her chair and opened the side door of the cubicle. There was a combination lock, and she spun the numbers without looking.
She walked past him, towards the betting shop door. Her waist was narrow, her hips thin; she had long legs, and the short skirt she was wearing showed them off. Simon followed her outside, and then along a narrow alley at the side of the betting shop. She stepped up onto a metal stairway, took a key out of her pocket, and opened the door there.
Simon waited to be invited up.
“Come on, then,” she said, shaking her head. “I haven’t got all day.”
He followed her inside.
They went up a stairwell, Melanie’s high heels echoing like gunshots in the enclosed concrete space. At the top of the stairs was another door, clearly the main door to a flat. She used another key and unlocked the door, and then pushed it open.
He climbed the last couple of concrete stairs and followed her into the flat, closing the door behind him. He was standing in a narrow hallway. There were two doors in the wall on each side. Up ahead, he could see Melanie moving around in a small living room, putting her coat down on the arm of a sofa, brushing something off the front of her skirt.
Simon walked along the hall. There were framed prints of Paris, Barcelona and New York on the walls. “You travel a lot?”
She turned as he entered the room. “No, but I wish I did. That’s what those pictures are – wishful thinking. One day, I might even get to see those places.” Her smile was small and sad. “Drink?”
“No thanks. I’m already full up with tea and if I have anything alcoholic I might collapse from exhaustion.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, sitting down heavily on the patterned sofa. She slid off her shoes and flexed her stockinged feet. “You now have ten minutes to explain yourself,” she said. “And if this isn’t as important as you claimed downstairs, I’ll fucking Mace you.” She smiled, but it was devoid of humour. She pointed at the small, cluttered coffee table under which she’d rested her feet. There was indeed a can of Mace on the tabletop.
“Really, I am a friend of Marty’s.” Simon kept his distance. “An old friend. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but I need to see him, to speak to him about something important.”
“You aren’t impressing me yet,” said Melanie, curling up her legs on the sofa. “Sit down. I was joking about the Mace. It isn’t even real – it’s a novelty cigarette lighter.” This time the smile was mellower, tinged with humour. “If I thought you were a threat, do you think I’d have invited you up here?”
Again, Simon felt obscurely insulted. Did he present a threat to nobody around here? Was he really so harmless?
“I’ve seen your photo,” she said. “I saw it at Marty’s place.”
Simon shook his head. “When we were kids, you mean? A school photo?”
“Nope. In his wallet – a clipping from a London newspaper. He showed me, bragged about how one of his old mates was a millionaire.” Her legs squirmed on the sofa.
“He keeps a photo of me in his wallet?”
“Weird, eh? But Marty Rivers is one strange dude.” She stretched out those long, slender legs, making herself comfortable. Simon wasn’t sure if this was the preamble to some sort of seduction. She certainly looked as if she were limbering up for something.
“I don’t understand.” He sat down on the chair opposite, sinking into the soft cushion.
“That makes two of us. He seems really proud of the fact that you got away from here, though. I mean, he doesn’t talk much about you – but that one time, when he showed me the photo, he was, like, beaming with pride.” She blinked slowly.
Simon could barely believe what he was being told. All this time, he’d thought that his old friends had forgotten about him, perhaps even hated him for managing to get away while they’d stayed behind. The truth was, at least one of them had wished him well, silently supporting his escape. A welter of emotions surged though him – pity, regret, hatred, despair, and even what he thought might be affection.
“So what do you want to talk to me about? Surely you can just call Marty on the phone?” She feigned disinterest, examining her nails. They were long, and painted deep red.
“No, I can’t. I was telling the truth when I said that we hadn’t seen each other. I got out of the Grove not long after leaving school, and we haven’t even spoken since then.” He breathed heavily, feeling tired all of a sudden, as if by taking a breather here, in the small, cramped flat, he had allowed everything to catch up with him.
“Oh. I see. So now you want to know where he is? Maybe get an address?”
Simon nodded. “His grandmother told us that he doesn’t answer his phone unless he knows who’s calling, so we struck out there. I tried calling him earlier, on the way here, but only got his voicemail.”
Melanie laughed. “Marty is a paranoid man – the most paranoid man I’ve ever known, to be honest. He doesn’t trust anyone. The circles he moves in, the people he knows... well, let’s just say that it pays him to be suspicious of people’s motives.”
Simon sat up straight and rested his hands on his knees. He felt awkward, displaced, as if he had no business being here, with this woman. “Yes, I’ve heard that he’s into some dodgy stuff. Criminal stuff. How deep is he involved?”
Melanie bent her legs at the knee and sat up; it was a graceful movement, like something a dancer might do. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He doesn’t talk to anyone, really. All I know is that he’s always out at night, and he often comes home with bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt. He’s a violent man, but only if you cross him.” Her face changed again, then, becoming cold and hard and bitter. “I suppose that’s the
attraction with a man like Marty Rivers – that sense of danger, and the fact that you know he’ll protect you. That counts for a lot in a place like this, doing a job like I do.” She tilted her head, indicating the betting shop downstairs, then shrugged, stood and walked across to the window. “He’s stopped calling me. I haven’t seen him for days. I guess he’s dumped me.” Her shoulders tensed as she looked out of the window, across the estate. “He doesn’t like to get too close to people.”
Sunlight flared, creating a soft halo around her head as she turned to face the room. Simon squinted against the glare, feeling as if, for a second, he had been transported elsewhere, to another place that existed alongside the reality he knew.
“I suppose I can give you his address,” she said, moving towards him, out of the light. “I don’t owe him anything, not now. He thinks he can pick people up, use them for a while, and then throw them away. What do I care if you know where he’s staying?” The light faded behind her. Simon felt the absurd urge to get up and run towards it, try to prevent it from going away.
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
Melanie picked up a pad and a pencil and started to write down the address. “It’s on the other side of the river – Gateshead. A penthouse flat on one of those nice new riverside developments that keep popping up along the quayside up these days.”
Simon smiled. “I remember when Gateshead was a shithole.”
Melanie looked up from the notebook. “It still is,” she said. “People just pretend that it’s changed. Isn’t that what we all do? We pretend that things aren’t what they really are?”
Simon wasn’t sure what she meant, but it sounded like her words had taken on a meaning that she had not intended, as if they were talking about something else.
She tore the page from the notebook and handed it to him. She looked pensive, as if this was the end of something that she was reluctant to finish. “Don’t tell him you saw me. I’ve had enough of his crap. He had his chance and now it’s gone. I want to get on with my life, and if that means leaving him behind, then I’m cool with that.”