Beyond Here Lies Nothing cg-3

by Gary McMahon

  He looked behind him, at the cat box. Its occupant was silent. There was no movement.

  “What the fuck am I getting into here?”

  There was no reply. He wasn’t expecting one, anyway, and was glad that none was forthcoming. The inhabitant of the box had shut up after being fed. It had not uttered a word since, other than inside Erik’s head.

  He turned back to the front, stared through the windscreen. Saw headlights on the road as a small, battered Ford Corsa made its way along the fence line towards the gate.

  Hacky.

  Erik climbed out of the car, opened the back door, and carried the cat box to the Barn. He unlocked the main double doors, opened one of them with his foot, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He set down the cat box on the ground and opened the flap. Monty rolled out, his appendages scrabbling like rat’s claws in the dirt. The small, damaged figure didn’t look strong, but it moved fast now that it had fed. He watched in silence as it scurried over the ground to wait in the dense, syrupy shadows at the rear of the Barn.

  He switched on an electric light that hung from a loop of wire nearby, but it flickered and barely illuminated the space around him.

  Erik sighed and walked over to the old ring, where the fights had taken place. The ground inside the roped-off quadrant was scuffed, disturbed by combatants’ footprints. So many men had bled and screamed on that hard patch of earth; and how many men had suffered trauma that would then go on to ruin their lives? He didn’t know; didn’t care. The only time he had cared was when his friend Marty had been stabbed by a pissed-off Polish corner man. Erik had never told Marty, but at one time he’d loved him like a son. He’d let the younger man off the hook so many times, allowed him to get away with things that would have ensured anyone else had their legs broken.

  But he’d not once told Marty how he felt. He wasn’t the kind of man to show his feelings, to allow anyone to sneak inside his guard. He didn’t regret the omission. There was still time — even though he hadn’t had a proper, in-depth conversation with Marty for a while. He had his number. When all this was over — whatever the hell this was — he could always ring him and confess how he felt.

  “Erik?”

  He turned to face the doors. One of them was open and Hacky stood there, trapped in the frame. He looked tiny, vulnerable… so damned easy to kill.

  “Did you shut the gate?”

  “Yeah. No worries.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I parked it next to yours, well out of sight.”

  Erik nodded. “Good lad. You catch on quick — did I ever tell you that? A hell of a lot quicker than the rest of those stupid twats.”

  Hacky smiled. He was so fucking easy to please. “No… not ever. I didn’t even think you’d noticed me.”

  “Come on inside, marra. Shut the door behind you. We have things to discuss.”

  The scruffy, wide-shouldered kid made his way across the Barn. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He was wearing his usual baseball cap — the one with the badge on the front: Scooby Doo, smoking a spliff.

  Why did that seem so important right now, after he’d been thinking of Marty? It set off vague sparks at the back of his head, but Monty’s grip was too tight. He couldn’t quite place the thoughts.

  Erik didn’t know anything right now; he couldn’t think. Monty’s fingers were crawling around inside his head, prodding the soft spots and burrowing into the exposed matter. All he could think of was to wonder how he was going to do this. It wasn’t quite clear yet, but he trusted that he’d know when the time came, when the opportunity for slaughter presented itself. Only then would Monty relax his grip and let Erik do what he needed to do…

  “What’s all this about, then, Erik? You mentioned… you mentioned a job. Are you moving me up?” Under the circumstances, the combination of hope and expectation on the kid’s face was obscene. He’d do anything Erik asked; he might even kill someone he loved, if it meant worming his way into the boss’s favour.

  Despite the grim situation, Erik almost laughed at the thought.

  “First I have a few more questions.” He stood over the boy, his physique dwarfing Hacky’s slighter build to make him resemble a small child in the gloom.

  “Yeah. Cool.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and waited, his posture loose, resting most of his weight on one leg.

  “That thing you found. You definitely didn’t tell anyone about it, even after you left me?” Erik moved into a fighting stance. He didn’t even have to think; it was an instinctive physical response whenever he stood this close to another man.

  Hacky shook his head. “We told nobody. We ain’t stupid, man.” He grinned. His teeth were yellowed.

  “What about tonight? Does anyone know you’re here? Lie to me and I’ll find out… and then I’ll have to hurt you to make an example.”

  The grin dropped. He licked his lips. “No. Didn’t tell anyone. Everyone thinks I’m off shagging some bird, innit.”

  “Good.” He moved closer and put one arm around the kid’s shoulder, turning them both so that they faced the rear of the Barn. “This place has seen a lot of bloodshed. So much combat that the violence has been absorbed into the wooden beams and uprights.” He walked towards the rear of the building, moving slowly, not wanting to spook Hacky, to put him on his guard.

  He was aware of Monty’s presence inside his mind. Not pushing… not controlling. Simply guiding.

  “I know.”

  “Men have fought, men have fallen, and men have bled out into the dirt. I’ve learned a lot of lessons in my time, and above all else I’ve come to know that we all must look after ourselves. You can’t trust your friends, women come and go, and money gets spent all too quickly. All we have is these.” He held out both hands and made them into fists. “These are my gods, marra. I worship them, I make them offerings. These beauties will never let me down. I’ve tested them, to the limit.” He stared at his scarred knuckles, feeling a sense of awe. He was confused to discover that he had an erection.

  There was a subtle movement in the shadows up ahead. Hacky didn’t notice; he was still staring at Erik’s fists, wide-eyed and hopeful. But Erik heard clearly the slithering sound of something moving briskly towards them, like a snake moving through tall grass.

  “Listen to me.” He grabbed Hacky’s shoulders and spun him around so that his back was facing the rear wall. “I’ve been watching you for a while now, and what I’ve seen has pleased me.” He stared over Hacky’s shoulder. The darkness near the ground was shifting.

  He closed his eyes.

  “I have something for you. I have a role for you to play, and I think it’s very important. I don’t know why yet, or how, but I’m sure it’s vital to the outcome of some game none of us can see. Like moving a chess piece, sacrificing a pawn.” He lifted his hands, pulled them swiftly apart, and then slammed them together, with Hacky’s neck caught between them.

  Hacky’s knees buckled immediately.

  Erik pulled back his right arm and slammed it straight right into the kid’s face. He felt the bones break, the warmth of the blood as it splashed his hands. Hacky went down like a dead weight. He had no fight in him; he was weak, a puny specimen. Erik grabbed him by the collar with one hand and hit him again with the other… again, and again, and again. His cheekbones turned to chalk; his right eye bulged obscenely from its socket; a few of those yellowish teeth, stained red now, spilled amid a thick wash of bloody saliva from his mouth and onto the ground. He twitched a few times, and then was still. Erik laid him gently on the ground at his feet and stepped away.

  Monty came darting out of the shadows and clamped onto the side of Hacky’s face, suckling. The kid opened his mouth and tried to scream, but a long, fat appendage slipped between his shattered teeth, filling his ruptured throat, and choking him. Hacky thrashed around on the ground, but Monty gripped tight, eating away at his face, demolishing the already ruined flesh. The baseball cap
fell to the ground and rolled a foot or so away. Erik bent down and picked it up, stuffed it into his back pocket; a small memento of this strange night.

  Then he took a few more steps back, away from the scene. He didn’t want to see this. The further he moved away, the looser Monty’s grip on his mind became and he began to forget the details of what he’d done. There was blood on his hands. He wiped it off on his jacket. The sounds Hacky made as the life was choked out of him were difficult to ignore, but he turned his head and stared at the old, makeshift boxing ring.

  After several minutes, the struggling sounds ceased. They were replaced by sucking, slurping, smacking noises: all the sounds of feeding.

  Erik tried to feel something but it wouldn’t come. The more he was exposed to whatever forces had warped Monty Bright’s body into this small, stunted monster, the less human he became. He knew it was happening, and this knowledge somehow made things worse. But still he could not experience any kind of genuine emotion.

  It’s like watching a film, he thought. Or reading a book. I’m here… but I’m not here. I’m standing off to the side, not really part of what’s going on.

  He turned around and made for the doors, shutting them behind him as he left the Barn. The night air was warm; in the sky, clouds were gathering, forming little clumps and clusters. The moon had finally reappeared, a partial face in the darkness, and the stars were coming out to see the show.

  Better late than never…

  The thought, when it came, felt like so much more than it meant on the surface. Things were shifting, breaking free. Somewhere, doors were opening — or had already been open for some time — and something was trying to come through, from another place entirely. He stared out over the landscape, the familiar fields and the dark hills beyond, and was sure that there were trees he’d not noticed before. Their branches moved, clutching like hands. They were black silhouettes huddled against the blacker sky, strange growths that had shot up while he’d been inside the Barn, allowing himself to be used as a weapon.

  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

  “HI.” HE 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 leg
end.”

  “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?”