by Gary McMahon
Beyond Here Lies Nothing
( Concrete Grove - 3 )
Gary Mcmahon
Ben arrives in the Concrete Grove to research a book about the Northumbrian Poltergeist, an infamous paranormal incident from the early 1970s. A set of twins were haunted by a spirit they nicknamed Captain Clickety, and the media of the time were split between derision and hysteria.
As Ben teases out the supressed details of the story, he finds himself drawn to an emotionally damaged woman whose young daughter went missing years ago during a period of similar child abductions.
Then the scarecrows appear, their heads plastered with photographs of the missing and the dead. House pets are found slaughtered, their bodies built into bloody totems. Hummingbirds flock to certain areas of the estate, as if awaiting the arrival of something…
A door has been opened and a presence is about to step through. The Hummingbird Twins, beset by strange visions, might know the secret, but they aren’t talking. It is up to Ben to put the ghosts to rest and unravel fact from fiction. He is about to discover that the story he seeks is in fact his own story, and only he can plot the ending.
Gary McMahon
BEYOND HERE LIES NOTHING
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.
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)
Map
Diary: One
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
IT 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
MARC 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.
He stood at the fence and stared through the trees. People were moving around in there, climbing out of their cars, milling around like geese in a field before the service began. He could see some of them shaking hands or speaking softly to one another, and others lit up cigarettes to smoke away the minutes before they were allowed to enter the small redbrick crematorium building. The weight of the dead was heavy here. Marc could feel it everywhere, even on the oft-trodden footpath outside the fence.
Marc wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He had not known Harry Rose for long, and he had not known him too well. Yes, the two men had forged a bond of sorts over the past few months, but it was based on Marc’s desire for information and the old man’s need for company in the long, dim days before he died. They had been convenient companions, nothing more.
Yes, Harry had once known Marc’s Uncle Mike well, many years ago, but Marc had known neither of the men beyond the superficial.
He reached inside his pocket and took out his mobile phone, checked it for messages, and then switched it off. He rarely received calls or texts. He led a deliberately friendless lifestyle, preferring to spend time on his own. He didn’t know why he chose to ostracise himself from others, but isolation agreed with him. That was all he needed to know, the only justification he required.
He started towards the main gates, reluctant to enter, yet knowing that it was the least he could do — to pay the man his respects,
say a final goodbye before the flames took him. He didn’t need to hang around afterwards, and the strangers here would not press him to do so.
Loose stones crunched under his feet as he walked along the path, between grubby monuments and grave markers. The air was chill, the sky bright and open. Traffic noise dimmed behind him, as if he were in the process of entering a sealed environment.
Marc stood at the edge of the small group of mourners, trying not to be noticed. He wished he hadn’t given up smoking; that would have given him something to do with his hands as he waited.
“Excuse me.”
Marc looked up, resisting the urge to sigh. He had been staring at his feet, so failed to notice the man’s approach. “Hello,” he said, holding out his hand in an instinctive gesture that he didn’t really mean.
The man shook his hand and smiled. “You must be Marc.” His face was lined, his hair was thin and grey; he looked as if he was in his early sixties. “I’m Vic. Victor Rose… Harry’s brother.”
Marc nodded. Of course; Harry had told him about his brother, and the falling out the two men had experienced several years ago — some family thing, a silly argument that had stretched and changed into a longstanding estrangement. “Ah, yes. I’m pleased to meet you.” When the man let go of his hand he didn’t know what to do with it, so he just let it hang at his side, the fingers clasping an imaginary cigarette.
“I suppose Harry told you about me. About what happened between us?”
“A little bit, yes. Not in any great detail, though.” He felt awkward, not really knowing what to say to this man. He hated small talk. It was meaningless.
“I wish we hadn’t been so stupid. If I knew what was going to happen… how ill he was… well, you know.” He smiled, sadly. His pale blue eyes were moist. His face was like parchment paper stamped with the signs of loss.
“I know. And I’m sure Harry felt the same.” He had no idea what Harry had thought about the matter. Even if he’d been told, he had not retained the information.
An awkward silence descended between the two men, pushing them apart. Again, Marc wished that he could smoke. He hadn’t felt the craving this strongly in a long time, perhaps for a couple of years.
“If he’d have told me how ill he was, I would’ve gone round, made up with him. He was my only brother… I loved the old bastard, even though I don’t think I ever told him how I felt.”
Marc was just about to say something — he didn’t know what; just anything to break the uncomfortable, candid moment — when people started to shuffle inside the building.
“Looks like we’re on now,” he said, smiling at Victor Rose. “Please, after you.”
Rose nodded and began to walk towards the entrance, hanging back enough that he didn’t get too far ahead of Marc. He doesn’t want to go in alone, thought Marc. He increased his speed and drew level with the older man. “Okay if I sit with you?” He was unsure why he’d made the offer, but once he did he felt better. Perhaps in this situation, a companion would help ease the tension.
Rose looked relieved. “Yes… yes, that would be fine.”
Marc placed a hand on Rose’s shoulder and guided him inside. He hoped that he would never get so lonely that he needed the company of a stranger at a family funeral — then he realised that he was already there. If he was called to the interment of some distant family member tomorrow, he’d have nobody to take with him.
Perhaps he’d ask Victor Rose.
They followed the other mourners inside and took their seats near the front of the narrow room. Marc looked around and concluded that there must be no other family members present. Not one person acknowledged Victor; no-one even looked in his direction. Either the trouble between the brothers had been worse than he imagined, or Victor had become so detached from his older sibling’s life that he did not know these people.
Whichever reason were true, it was a sad state of affairs.
They stood when the service began, sang half-heartedly along with the hymns, and listened to the vicar as he described someone Marc barely even recognised. After what felt like a very short time, the velvet-draped coffin began to move on its roller towards the furnace door.
Marc felt unmoved by the brief ceremony. He was unable to connect with anything that had happened, any of the words the man at the front of the room had said. It all seemed too generic, so homogenised, that it might have come out of a can. Instant funeral service: just add water.
Before long, the mourners started to file outside. Their faces were unchanged; nothing had penetrated the façade.
“Can I offer you a lift?” he asked Victor Rose, as they were standing outside, waiting for something that had already happened.
Rose nodded. “Thank you. I came here on the bus… it would be a rather depressing ride back to Harry’s patch on my own.”
Marc said nothing. He just led the way to the car, walking slowly to enable to other man to keep up.
Once the car was moving, he switched on the radio, keeping the volume low. The local news was reporting more job lay-offs and a story about yet another company going into liquidation. Times were hard; people were struggling. It was the same old story told in a different way, or a sequel in which every move could be predicted on the evidence of what had gone before.
“Back there in the crematorium.” He glanced to the side, at his passenger’s profile. “It didn’t seem like anyone knew you. I mean… not one of those people spoke to you.”
Rose sighed. “My brother and I led very different lives. To be honest, I very much doubt those other mourners even knew who I was. Even before we fell out, Harry and I were distant. We always have been — ever since we were children.”
Marc didn’t respond.
“I suppose you think that’s strange?”
Marc shook his head. “I really wouldn’t know. My own lifestyle isn’t exactly what you’d call conventional.” He thought of his ex-wife, who was now living with a female tattoo artist in Singapore, and his nomadic existence as a freelance reporter for a variety of newspapers and magazines; his self-imposed exile from the human race. He’d never settled down, never made a mark of any kind in the world. Even the stories he reported faded a day or two after they were told, impermanent, not mattering to anyone for longer than the minutes it took to read them.
“We were very different people, my brother and I. My friends don’t know he exists, and I daresay his friends never knew much about me. It’s how we worked. We didn’t need to be close in order to feel close. That probably doesn’t make much sense — I know it doesn’t to me — but it’s just how we were. Who we were…” He fell silent, as if tired of the sound of his own voice.
Marc followed the route from Near Grove to the Concrete Grove, feeling as if he were chasing a long, dark thread through the corridors of a familiar maze. He always became downbeat when he approached the area. It made him feel so low that sometimes he wished he’d never heard of the place. The closer he got to the heart of the area, the more dilapidated the buildings became, the more potholes appeared in the road, and the shabbier the people on the street began to seem. Part of this was psychological — his reaction to the location — but not all of it. This place was dark; it was well shadowed. Things had always been different here.
Marc had a theory that some places were always in shadow, no matter how hard the sun was shining. The Concrete Grove was a joyless estate. Apart from the poverty and the criminality that bred here, there was another layer of darkness that could be sensed rather than seen. He thought of a dark sea lapping against concrete pilings, the waves occasionally slopping up onto the land and breaking it away, slowly encroaching. But that wasn’t quite right. The analogy was close, but not precise enough to communicate exactly what it was he felt.
He drove the car along Beacon Grove Rise, following a couple of other vehicles that had left the crematorium just before them. As he drove, he was struck by the way things never changed around here. It was like a film set that had
not been taken down when the production company moved on, and people had moved in to set up home inside the two-dimensional backdrop. There was a sense of impermanence, yet also the belief that everything would remain as it was now, as it had been since the estate was built.
He parked the car on Grove Terrace, in a spot opposite the small row of shops. When he glanced over at the newsagents, a short Pakistani man with thinning grey hair raised a hand in an informal wave. Marc smiled and nodded. The man turned away and went inside his shop.
“I suppose we have to go in, don’t we?” Rose was staring along the street at the Unicorn pub. His eyes were narrow and his lips were pursed.
“We don’t have to. I could take you home if you like.” Suddenly Marc was afraid. He didn’t know what had caused the fear, but it was there, gnawing away at him and unsettling his emotions.
“Thank you, but no. It wouldn’t be right. I should at least show my face.” He turned towards Marc, a tentative smile now playing at his lips. “Could I buy you a drink?
“No,” said Marc. “But I’ll buy you one. Come on, let’s get in there and raise a glass to your brother, the miserable old bugger.” He smiled and patted Rose’s arm.
They got out of the car and walked slowly along the street, not saying anything, just content to be silent. A few people entered the pub ahead of them, and when the door opened Marc heard the sound of many voices speaking at once, competing for attention, before it swung shut again.
They reached the pub doorway. Marc glanced at Rose. The old man nodded and Marc opened the door and stepped into the Unicorn.
He’d been inside the Unicorn a few times before, with Harry Rose. The old man had enjoyed a drink, and this place was just a few doors along from his house so had served as his local. Those times, clientele had been thin on the ground — just a few old men sipping bitter and studying racing forms, or the occasional young wannabe gangster spending his drug money and trying to play the big man in an infamous watering hole. Marc knew of the Unicorn’s reputation. Even in Far Grove, where he’d been raised by Uncle Mike, the place was spoken of as a roughhouse bar filled with hard men and aging prostitutes who’d take you to a nearby side street and gobble you for the price of a pint.