by Gary McMahon
“What about Terryn Mowbray?”
She didn’t reply.
“Captain Clickety.”
She nodded. “Oh, him.”
“Yeah, him.”
Abby sighed. “As far as I can tell, he’s a… what’s the word? A tulpa?”
“Yeah, that word would fit.”
“You think about him, and he comes. It’s like opening a door for him. Last year three men spent a lot of time thinking about him. He got his claws in. He broke through. They dealt with him, I think, and what we’ve seen is the leftovers… the remains. Not much, but enough to try and cling on, to use my pain and my memories of Tessa to try and stay there, in the Concrete Grove.”
Marc turned to face her, finding it difficult to take his eyes off the birds. “So what are we supposed to do about all this?”
“The girls were brought here to watch over this cave, and what’s inside it. They came to bear witness to the struggle for balance. Because that’s all that’s ever required, for somebody to see what’s happening. Our world forgot about this place, absorbed it into our myths and our legends. The first dreams mankind ever had ended up here, strands of power. The last dreams we ever have will come here, too. This place… it’s just concentrated Creation. But you’d be surprised how easy it is for creation to become destruction, when the balance isn’t right.”
“What about the girls?”
She shook her head. “They’re tired. They were too weak for the task. They were inadequate replacements. You were promised and prepared a long time ago, to act as a permanent witness, but your parents reneged on the deal and that’s when the balance really began to tip. You were always meant to be here. You were born to be here. I’m sorry… Clickety knew that. He tried to repair the damage. If the balance tips, he fades. He is a product of the status quo.”
“So he isn’t a monster?”
She nodded. “Yes, he’s a monster. But one who knows what’s good for him.”
He thought of the life he was being asked to leave behind, and how it had always seemed hollow and insubstantial. He’d always felt that he was destined for something else, something better or more important, but he’d never been able to discover what it was he was meant to do. And now here it was: his purpose. He was nothing more than a witness.
“What happens if I say no?”
Abby smiled, but sadly. “Who knows? There are no rules here. It’s just another form of chaos.”
“What’s in those other caves?” He motioned to the cave mouths beyond the plinth and its birds.
“They lead to other places. Maybe even other worlds or other times… probably both. This place we’re in is just a way station. I have no idea what other routes might be available, but there are hundreds of them scattered throughout these caves and tunnels. All those hummingbirds originally belonged somewhere in there. Now they’re lost in Loculus, just like the rest of us.”
Without another thought, Marc nodded, stepped forward and knelt down at the foot of the plinth. It seemed natural, as if long ago — perhaps in another lifetime — he’d been trained to do exactly this. He wasn’t sure, but the two birds seemed to respond to his approach. Their wings beat harder, their beaks looked stronger, and their colours were far brighter than they had been only seconds before. The shattered stone plinth began to mend itself.
He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, and then another as it enclosed the first. Five hands clutched him, thanking him and saying goodbye. He did not turn around. There was no need. This was his station — he belonged here, in this little place. He always had.
For the first time in his life, Marc felt useful. He was glad.
He’d hate to have made another mistake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ROYLE FELT IMMENSE pressure in his lower back as he held onto the small, soft hand. When Abby Hansen had dropped into the hole, he’d bent over and reached out instinctively, trying to save her. His flailing grasping fingers had come into contact with something, so he’d tightened his grip. But the hand he held did not feel right… there was something wrong with it.
When he looked down now, braced above the opening with one foot on either side of the hole, he wasn’t sure whose hand he had hold of. He shifted his position, gripped tightly with both hands, and pulled. A small, dark shape began to rise up from the depths of the hole, covered in black leaves. The leaves formed a layer — a skin. They coated the figure, making it seem even smaller, compressed.
He tugged as hard as he could and the figure emerged, popping out like something being born. He thought of Vanessa, and the unborn child they had made together… he felt sick, wasted. His energy dipped dramatically.
He stepped away from the hole, hauling the body out and shoving it aside. It was damp, slimy. Unclean.
He looked at his hands. They were covered in those mulch-like black leaves. He wiped them on his trouser legs. The body stirred. Leaves came away, falling to the floor and making a soft, slippery sound. Royle went down onto his knees and stared at the figure. It was inchoate, not quite complete: a stunted child’s body with an oversized, beaked head. The limbs were thin and wasted; the hands were three-fingered claws. He reached out and grabbed the mask, tearing it away… there was nothing beneath: just a shapeless mush of black leaves and a lot of tiny, fragile bones, as if a flock of birds had died in that mess.
The figure began to shred, parts of it slithering away and liquefying. Royle sat down and watched as it was reduced to a thick, black slime on the carpet. The last thing it did was reach out and hold his hand.
“You didn’t make it,” he said. “You couldn’t get through. We stopped you… somehow they stopped you.”
He stood and turned away, then, as an afterthought more than a calculated act, he turned back and kicked at the remains of the mound at the centre of the room, destroying the structure that Abby Hansen had so painstakingly made in honour of her missing child. There was no longer a hole in the floor. He could see no evidence of the route by which Abby Hansen had travelled… she was gone; her point of access had closed up, like a wound scabbing over. He wondered if she would ever return, if he would ever see her again.
Erik Best’s body lay a few feet away, its ruined face turned away from him. He shook his head. “You stupid bastard…” He walked away, left the room, and went downstairs.
Outside, Royle stood in the street and surveyed the damage. It was chaos out there. Sirens were going off, emergency vehicles were entering the estate from all angles; alarms blared, creating more panic. People were running, standing in groups, or cowering in gardens and doorways. A well-known local drunk was standing in his doorway, waving an empty bottle and ranting about sea cows.
All around, huge, thick-bodied trees had burst through the earth, houses and buildings had tumbled, walls had shattered, exploded out into the street, and cars were overturned and ablaze. Water sluiced across the road, discharging from a burst water main. He spotted a few dead bodies: in the gutters, in gardens, even one slumped over the bonnet of a car.
It would take a long time — perhaps years — to figure out exactly what had happened here, but whatever had occurred, it was over. It was done. Something had tried to come through, and it had failed.
Uniformed officers were running around in a panic; they were not trained to deal with something like this. The news crew was trying to film everything and nothing. The whole place resembled a battlefield immediately after the fighting had ceased, or the site of some terrorist atrocity. He’d missed it all, but in some ways he’d witnessed more than anyone else. He just wished that he understood the things he had seen.
He glanced up at the ever-present shape of the Needle. The sky was clear; the birds had flown. A few of them had gathered around the tip of the tower block, as if they were waiting for something to happen. The outline of the building seemed to tremble for a moment, as if a detonation had occurred inside.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a quick, dark shape scurry across the road
, but when he looked directly at it there was nothing there but what seemed like a dusty shadow. Nearby, a scarecrow lay in the gutter, its torso shredded, the stick that had supported it snapped in two. It was crawling slowly along the side of the road, heading towards him. Royle stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, wishing that he had a gun. Everything out here was like a medieval nightmare, an image from a biblical painting of demons and monstrosities, of impossible things.
The scarecrow was close now. He couldn’t move. He felt like kneeling down and waiting for it to take him. His legs began to shake. Tears filled his eyes.
The black shape he’d glimpsed earlier shot across the road and hit the scarecrow, rolling it on the road surface. He couldn’t make out what it was, despite the fact that it was only a few feet away from him. The creature’s form was not solid, as if it were made of thought rather than matter. He thought of dusty rooms, empty larders, and buildings where old people went to die, lining up patiently to see the Reaper…
The scarecrow was torn apart as he watched. Then, as he turned away, he caught sight of the thing that had killed it — the thing was visible only at the edge of his vision, not head-on. It resembled old, ancient, papyrus tatters invested with a form of energy. Then, all too soon, it was gone, vanished into the air like a memory. People ran and screamed. The drunken sea cow man — now sitting on his doorstep — started to laugh hysterically.
Whatever that thing was, it had saved him.
Detective Superintendent Sillitoe ran up to Royle. He was hatless, with a shocked expression on his face. “What happened here?” He looked to Royle for some form of explanation, but it was futile. Nobody knew anything.
“I don’t know,” he said, as his superior officer moved away, running towards a squad car with its roof punched in and short, sharp tree branches poking out through the rips in the bodywork, waving around like monstrous spidery limbs.
Royle turned again to stare at the Needle. It drew his gaze, calling to him. He knew that he should be heading back to the hospital, to be at Vanessa’s side, but there was something else he had to do first. There was unfinished business; the final act of this messy epic.
He started to jog in the direction of the centre of the estate, passing injured people, while others walked around in a daze. He couldn’t stop to help. There was something more important to do. Ambulance men and paramedics tended to the fallen, soothing them, bandaging their wounds, trying to impose a sense of organisation onto the scene.
He heard the noise when he reached the Roundpath, and it grew louder as he approached the hoarding that ran around the Needle. A single soft note, as if hundreds of people were humming under their breath.
The fence around the building was torn and pulled away in places, so he had no difficulty accessing the site. He stood and stared up at the tower, and in that instant he knew that it was about to fall. He could feel it in the trembling ground beneath his feet; insistent tremors that travelled up through his legs and into his belly, making his innards sing. The loud humming noise was meant as a warning.
He looked at the ground, closed his eyes, and prayed that he wasn’t too late — but too late for what? He had no idea. All he knew was that he’d been summoned here. He opened his eyes again and looked at the Needle, challenging it to show him why he’d been called. Thick tree roots were wound around its base. The walls were cracked, and leaves and branches showed through the widening fissures.
The main doors flew open. A figure staggered out, almost falling to the ground. It was Abby Hansen. Black leaves clung to her arms, her legs, and her body. More of them formed a narrow pathway ahead of her, out of the building. Her hair was wet. Behind her, four other figures — these ones much smaller, and dressed in rags — moved in a sombre line, exiting the tower and standing around her, reaching out to help her.
When he started to move towards the group, he realised who the other figures were. He recognised their clothes first — despite being torn and dirty, they were the same outfits they’d been wearing when they disappeared.
He knew these girls as well as he knew his own wife, despite the fact that he’d never met them:
Connie Millstone, aged seven.
Alice Jacobs, aged eight.
Fiona Warren, aged nine.
Tessa Hansen, aged ten.
The Gone Away Girls.
They were the same ages as when they’d vanished. This did not seem as insane as it should, and Royle simply accepted that it was true. Of all the things he’d witnessed today, this was probably the easiest to understand. They’d been gone for years, but hardly any time at all had passed since they’d gone away.
“Abby…” He grabbed her arm and helped her away from the building. “This way. We have to get out of here before it falls.”
She blinked, her battered face showing comprehension. “It’s going to fall?”
He nodded. “Don’t ask me how I know, but yes it is.”
They made it over to the fence line before it happened. Royle sat Abby down on the ground, and then he gathered the girls together. They said nothing; their faces were dirty and blank. Their eyes seemed to stare inward. He wondered if they had any idea what was going on, or if, like him, they were simply spectators to some greater event.
“You were shot… are you okay?”
She nodded, and smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. “Just a flesh wound.”
He turned to take another look at the Needle, and it began to fall.
The lower floors sheared away, as if a great explosion had shunted them to the side. The floors above fell straight downwards. He was reminded of the World Trade Centre towers back in 2001, September the 11th. It was a date imprinted on the memory of the Western world, when terrorists had shaken the foundations of society. This tower fell in a similar manner, and its destruction was just as symbolic.
It seemed to take a matter of seconds, and when the billowing dust cloud began to clear, all that remained was the rubble. For an instant, Royle glimpsed a vision of a grove of massive oak trees, shimmering brightly, as if they were on fire. But the image lasted only a fraction of a second, and he could not be sure if he’d really seen it at all. All he was left with was a retinal burn; a visual tattoo, which soon faded to a small black spot — shaped not unlike a single leaf — in his vision. He’d stared directly into the sun, and it had not blinded him. He could still see, but the sights were much less beautiful than before. The falling of the tower had signified the end of something. Perhaps it was also the start of something else.
“What’ll happen here now?”
He looked down at Abby. She was sitting on the ground with her legs tucked up under her body. She was shaking.
“I’m not sure.” He reached down and stroked her head, ran his fingers across her battered cheek. “The people will have to move out of the estate. Or maybe they’ll stay, living like savages among those trees and wrecked buildings. Who knows? Who even cares?”
Abby nodded. The Gone Away Girls stood staring at the ruins of the Needle, as if watching a miracle. Each of them was weeping, but silently. He had a feeling they would never say anything again.
“Let’s go,” he said, reaching down to help Abby to her feet. “There’s a lot to be done. And a lot of other people to help.”
“Your wife…” She stood shakily, grabbing hold of him for support. “I think she’s okay. The baby, too. They’re both fine.”
Royle didn’t question this wisdom; he simply accepted it, just as he knew he must accept everything else that had happened over the past few weeks — and even longer, because hadn’t this been going on for centuries? If he doubted any of this for even a moment, he was afraid that he might lose his mind.
He held Abby’s hand as they left the Needle, heading towards the sound of sirens. Around them, new shoots began to grow. Saplings took root in the ruins; they rose towards the sky, growing quicker and stronger than any natural tree. By the time they had reached the way out, the entire area was knee-high in ne
w trees. They walked away from this struggling new life. They did not look back.
The Gone Away Girls followed close behind them, a tight little bunch of lost souls that had somehow been found.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
SOMETIMES WHEN SHE won’t sleep, Royle puts his tiny fretting daughter in the car and drives out here. It’s a short journey, and one that causes him to experience mixed emotions. At one time he used to feel his skin crawling at the very thought of coming to this place, but now he embraces the darkness that waits for him here. As he drives through the empty streets at the outskirts of the Concrete Grove, past the crumbling buildings wrapped up in the calcified remains of trees, over the road surfaces cracked and treacherous, he remembers a time when this estate was filled with life… and when it was occupied by the Crawl, the horrible sensation that has not plagued him since the birth of his daughter.
He nods as he passes each checkpoint, flashing his official ID. The faces he sees here are impassive. The eyes are cold and hard, focused on nothing, and understand little of the strange environment over which they stand guard. There is a solemnity here, a sense of respectful awe.
He drives to the massive, circular concrete wall erected around what is now known as the ‘Green Zone’ and parks his car near the twenty-four-hour security station. The wall guards know him well; he was recently promoted to the newly created role of Green Zone Task Force Commander. The title makes the role sound far grander than it actually is. He is simply an attaché. But he has a good relationship with most of the guards, and sometimes he plays a game of cards or just sits for a cup of tea and a chat.
The baby always falls asleep during the drive. He wonders if it is the movement of the car or some other, deeper feeling that sends the baby into a slumber.
The security lights are bright. It feels right that light is shone constantly onto the estate. Beyond the high walls and the razor wire, beyond even the reach of those arc lights, a vast darkness deeper than any other he has ever known lies in wait. Nobody is sure if the security guards are protecting this area from the outside or protecting the outside from its influence. The official stance is that they are just “keeping an eye on things”.