Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) (8 page)

Marc pushed his chair a few inches away from the table, wincing as the legs screeched across the cheap laminated floor covering. He stood and turned towards the back door. “Maybe I should go.”

“No,” said Abby. “No, it’s okay. I’ll deal with this. You just sit down and have another cup of coffee.” She reached for the kettle and flicked the switch to set the water to boil again. “I won’t be a minute.” She moved quickly across the room, closing the door on her way out. The edge of the door bounced when it hit the frame, opening again, but just a couple of inches. He moved across the front of the table, positioning himself so that he could see through the gap. He watched Abby’s white-gowned figure as she approached the door. She smoothed the gown across her hips, flicked her head to shift the hair from out of her eyes, and opened the front door.

Marc couldn’t quite see the man clearly. The doorstep was set down lower than the hallway floor, and Abby’s thin body further obscured his view. They spoke quietly. The man must not be annoyed after all. Perhaps he was merely concerned. Abby glanced over her shoulder a couple of times, as if she were talking about him. The man attempted to manoeuvre his way past her and through the doorway, but she angled her body to block him.

“Come back later,” he heard her say. “I’m busy.”

“Who’s in there?” The man’s head, with his close-cropped hair, bobbed up and down, back and forth, trying to see past her and into the house. He had a thick neck. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad through the shoulders.

Marc jumped in shock when the kettle clicked off. He turned and watched the steam as it rose in a smooth line from the spout. He walked over and made himself another cup of instant. His hands were shaking. Behind him, the door slammed shut. Footsteps padded along the hallway, towards the kitchen door.

Let her be alone,
he thought.
I don’t want any trouble.

When he turned to face the door, she entered the room and sat down at the table. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, or fighting tears. Her face was white but there were pink streaks on her cheeks.

“Are you... are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She looked up, trying to smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”

“Who was that?” He wished he hadn’t asked, but the reporter’s instinct never let him down: he always, always asked the questions that came into his head, as if he did not possess a mental cut-off switch.

“Just an ex-boyfriend... He pesters me sometimes, wants me to have him back.”

“Oh.” He blew on his coffee. Suddenly he didn’t want the drink.

“Listen, I’m sorry but that bastard’s upset me. Can you go?”

He put the mug down on the work bench and stepped away. Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his empty hands. “Yes, I’ll go. Give you a bit of peace.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if she really meant it.

“Can I have your number?” Again, he wished he’d never asked.

She stared at him, her eyes boring into his, her lips parting slightly. “Are you sure? Are you really sure you want it?” She was challenging him, making him prove that he was man enough.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

She nodded. There was a fruit bowl in the centre of the table. As far as he could tell, it contained nothing but a couple of apples and several dried-out tangerines. She reached into it and withdrew a stubby little betting shop pen, then wrote down her number on a slip of paper she produced from her dressing gown pocket – as if she’d been carrying it around with her for this exact moment.

Marc stepped forward and held out his hand.

She placed the folded paper on his palm. “Give me a call,” she said. “But remember what I said.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t try to save you.” He could see by the look in her eyes that she didn’t believe him, but she was willing to give him a chance.

“I’ll call you a taxi,” she said, standing. Her dressing gown gaped below the waist, flashing her narrow thighs, the unkempt patch between her legs. Marc felt himself grow hard again.

He gritted his teeth. “No thanks. My car’s parked near the Unicorn. I can walk over and get it.”

“Whatever,” said Abby, and turned away.

They stood in the hallway, standing with their backs against opposing walls, facing each other, with a foot or two of carpet between them. Even in her bare feet, she stood a few inches taller than him. Marc wanted to reach out his hand and unbuckle her dressing gown. She didn’t say a word; she just watched him, her eyes examining every inch of his face, his eyes, his mouth, his throat... looking for his all-too-visible flaws.

Marc was lost in the moment, falling into her seedy little world and drowning in whatever it was he found there.

“Well,” he said, softly.

“Yeah,” she replied.

He left the house without saying anything more, and did not look back. He couldn’t. If he turned around and saw her there, standing on the doorstep in her short white dressing gown, he might just turn back and go inside. But he wasn’t ready for that; he needed to think things through, to decide if he really did want to use the number she’d given him.

He walked in the direction of the Unicorn and read the number. Abby had not written a message, only the digits. Finally he turned his head and looked back. She was still standing in the doorway, a tall, white figure with painfully thin legs.

She lifted her left hand, waved once, and then turned around and went inside, slamming the door behind her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

E
RIK
B
EST SAT
in his car and watched the man leave. He gripped the wheel with his scarred hands, staring through the windscreen. The man moved away slowly, as if there was all the time in the world. Erik knew otherwise; experience had taught him that time was a limited resource and had to be used sparingly.

Just before the man reached the end of the street, he turned back to look at Abby. She was standing on the doorstep waving, her free hand clutching her dressing gown at the throat. She turned and went inside. The door slammed shut.

He remembered when he used to love her, and wondered what those feelings had now changed into. What he felt for Abby these days wasn’t love; he had no idea what it was. He supposed it might even be described as a form of hate. He couldn’t stand seeing her but he always went back; he hated the way she looked these days but he kept dreaming about making love to her, lying with her beneath clean satin sheets. Nothing made any sense. His emotions were like the colours in a kaleidoscope, constantly changing and blending and making new patterns.

“Bitch,” he said, starting the car. He pulled out from the kerb and slowly followed the man around the corner, staying far enough back that the bastard would not guess that he was being followed.

He reached out and switched on the radio – a local station discussing the big Premiership match in a few days. Erik shook his head and changed the channel. He’d stopped caring about football when the game changed so much that it was barely a contact sport, and all the players became prancing millionaires. He preferred boxing, or martial arts. Sports in which real men challenged for dominance, not overpaid prima donnas with overactive libidos.

Erik watched the man climb into a boxy little Nissan and drive away. He followed the Nissan off the estate and towards the A1. He had no idea where it was heading, but he was going to follow until it got there. He’d grown up in this area, knew its roads and highways by heart. Wherever this car stopped, he would be familiar with the location in some way. He’d probably done business nearby. Erik Best had done some kind of business everywhere in the northeast.

The Nissan eventually headed into Gosforth, along the High Street towards the Gosforth Hotel pub, where it turned right and continued up the slight hill. Erik had a couple of mates who drank regularly in the pub, and he’d enjoyed some good nights there, getting pissed and picking up women, often getting into a fight after last orders was called at the bar and they were forced to relocate to some other late-night drinking establishment.

The Nissan pulled in at the kerb outside a small terraced house with dingy curtains. The tiny patch of garden outside the front door was overgrown with weeds. The door itself was dirty and weathered. There was a To Let sign stuck in the tiny patch of soil underneath the front window, as if nobody had bothered to take it down because these properties went up and down for rental so often.

Erik stopped the car a little further along the street and waited, watching in the rear-view mirror as the man got out and started fumbling in his pocket for his house keys. He was about medium height, but skinny. Erik would have no trouble with this one. He gripped the wheel with his hands and emptied his mind of distractions. This was it: he needed to be turned on, tuned in, and ready to dance. This was his comfort zone; he only ever felt at home when he was about to do violence.

He got out of the car and walked briskly towards the man. He’d done this so many times before, and his timing was always immaculate. Just as the man inserted his key into the lock, Erik glanced behind him, just to check on the surroundings. The street was clear. Nobody was standing outside their house or at their front door, watching the street. There was a sense of quiet abandonment, as often there was in suburban streets in the early morning.

The man opened the door; Erik increased his pace and went right up behind him, pushing him against and then through the opening door and into a cramped hallway beyond. He reached behind him and shut the door, forcing the man right inside. He said nothing. He let his muscles do the talking.

The man staggered, regained his footing, and turned to face Erik. He looked shocked but still under control. He had no idea who he was looking at.

“Hello,” said Erik, smiling. He’d practised the smile for hours in front of the mirror when he was younger, and knew that it made an impression. The smile made him look slightly insane, but just about sane enough to make whoever it was turned upon do whatever he said. At least until the shock wore off.

It was the smile of a killer, and he was proud of being able to summon it to order.

“Go inside. I’m right behind you.” He made the smile wider. “Don’t try anything silly.”

The man did as he was told, walking slowly but tensely along the hallway and through a door on the left.

Erik entered the small living room behind the fucker, stopping in front of the door, blocking the exit. Behind the man – who had turned to face Erik as he entered – there was another doorway that led into a sunken galley kitchen. There would be a back door in there, one that led out into the yard, but it would be locked. Even if this dude bolted, he wouldn’t get the door open in time.

“Who are you? What the fuck do you want?” The man was regaining his composure. He clearly felt embarrassed about obeying a stranger’s orders in his own home. Bravado was beginning to take hold.

“My name is Erik Best. Now shut the fuck up and tell me your name, and what you’re doing with Abby Hansen.” He waited, staring at the man. Still smiling, his hands open but ready for action.

“I don’t have to tell you anything. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

Erik sighed theatrically and looked over at the phone. “Go on,” he said. “Try it. I reckon that phone’s about ten yards from where you’re standing. I’m five yards away from you. If you think you can make it across the room, pick up the phone, and tell them what’s going on before I get to you... well, you’re welcome to try it. I could do with the workout.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was done for effect, but it also made him feel ready to pounce, like an animal in the wild. His leather shoes creaked. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

The man shifted his gaze away from the phone and looked back at Erik. “My name’s Marc Price. Now, would you please just leave?”

Erik shook his head. “I’m not planning to hurt you, Marc. Not this time, anyway. All I want is information. Understood?”

Price nodded. He backed away; just a step, but it betrayed his intense fear. “I don’t know what you’re after, but I have no money. Look at this house – it’s a shithole. I don’t even own it. There’s nothing of value here.”

“Right, let’s just relax. Now tell me what you’re doing hanging around Abby Hansen’s place, marra. Can you do that?”

“We... she... we’re friends.” He looked down, at the top of his shoes. His cheeks flushed. He’d been caught out and he knew it.

“So you picked her up last night, went back to her place and had a good shag?”

Price nodded. He didn’t look up.

“It’s okay. Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you. This is simply a warning. Okay, marra?”

Silence; the slow
tick-tock
sound of the clock on the wall; the gentle creak of leather as Erik took a soft step towards the other man, his feet moving lightly across the carpeted floor.

Price looked up. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open, the lips slightly apart. Those lips were trembling.

“Leave her alone, marra. She’s had enough trouble over the years and doesn’t need any more. You don’t know her. You have no idea what she’s been through. She doesn’t need fly-by-night fuckers like you stuffing one up her and taking the piss out of her grief.”