Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) (9 page)

Price tried to inflate his chest. He took a deep breath. “Listen, mate, I’m sure Abby can make her own decisions. She’s a big girl. She doesn’t need someone like you looking after her. Let me guess... are you the ex-boyfriend that came round there earlier? Maybe one of those sad bastards she told me about, the ones who won’t take no for an answer.” There was sweat on his brow and his upper lip. “The kind of bloke who follows her around like a lost puppy, trying to catch a sniff of her so he can wank about it later.”

Erik sighed; he shook his head.

Was he going to have to use violence after all, simply to get his point across to this idiot?

He planned the moves in his head: a brisk step inside, throw a quick, short uppercut to the chin; step back out again, deliver a hard right hook to the side of the head. Easy, so fucking easy... The kid wouldn’t get back up for a long time.

He smiled. “This is a friendly warning, marra. Next time I won’t be as gentle.” He clenched his hands into fists, raised them to stomach level. It would be good to knock the fucker out, but that wasn’t his purpose today, not if he could help it. “Next time I won’t come to your house. I’ll wait somewhere else for you, the place you’d least expect to see me. In fact, you
won’t
see me. You won’t even feel it when it comes.”

“I don’t want any hassle.” Price’s posture was loose now; he’d finally lost his nerve. He wanted to run; it was obvious in the way he was carrying himself. No violence was required, after all. “We just fucked, mate. That was all. It was a one-night stand. I believe she’s had a few others in the past... that’s what she told me. I’m not the first... no way will I be the last.”

Erik winced, and he hated himself for showing his emotions to this stranger.

Abby was so easy; she always gave herself away so damned cheaply, and to men who didn’t even realise how special she was. He clenched the muscles in his jaw, ground his teeth together. “Just let that one fuck be the last, and then we won’t have any problems, you and me. Got that, marra?”

Price’s gaze flickered back and forth, as if he were looking for a weapon. Part of Erik hoped that he spotted one and tried to use it. He didn’t like the way the bastard was talking about Abby; he showed no respect for her, as if his night in her bed had meant nothing.

“Yeah...” Price’s shoulders relaxed. He deflated fully; his shoulders slumped, his chest shifted inward. The bravado was fading; the fight was leaving him quicker than it had arrived. “Yeah, okay. I don’t need this shit. Not for the sake of an opportunist fuck.”

“Now, tell me what you’re doing sniffing around the Grove.”

Price ran a hand through his hair. He was a good-looking guy. This made Erik dislike him even more. “Listen, I’m a freelance reporter. I’ve been researching a book. That’s all. Nothing suspicious about that, is there?”

Erik laughed. “You’re writing a book about the Concrete Grove?” His anger dissipated; there’d be no blood spilled today. He wasn’t even in the mood. “Jesus Christ, marra, that’s a good one.”

“No, no... Not exactly. I’m writing a book about the Northumberland Poltergeist. Ghosts are back in fashion – I’m just trying to jump on the bandwagon and make some quick cash.” He shrugged, still afraid but calming down a little, realising that he was not going to be beaten up.

Erik shook his head. “Man, that’s fucking priceless... The Northumberland Poltergeist. I haven’t heard that name in years.”

“Now,” said Price, raising his open hands, pointing at the door. “Would you mind getting the fuck out of my house? You’ve done what you came here to do: I’m scared. I’m terrified, actually, if it makes you feel any better. I won’t be messing around with Abby again. Now, just leave me alone.”

Erik paused, and then he turned and walked out of the room. When he reached the door he opened it, turned around, and said “Remember what I said. Oh, and don’t even think about doing anything daft, like phoning the police.” He took the silence as an affirmative response and shut the door behind him as he left the house.

Walking back towards his car, he looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark, troubled. He knew how they felt. His entire life was nothing but trouble – one long succession of bad things, queuing up to make their mark. Situations like this one happened to him all the time. It often felt as if he was dogged by bad things, like stray cats following him in a line along the street.

Erik unlocked the car and got inside. He turned on the engine and killed the radio, and then just sat there, staring at the sky, at those grumbling clouds, waiting for more trouble to come for him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
ARC TOOK A
bottle of whisky from the cupboard in the kitchen and opened it. His hands were shaking; his mouth was dry. He didn’t like violence, never had. Before the accident, his old man had been quick with his fists, especially on points of honour. He’d even hit Marc a few times when he was a small boy, but he was certain it didn’t run in the family.

Some people thought of Marc as a coward, but that wasn’t quite true. Hadn’t he just stood up to that psycho who’d forced his way inside the house? Well... sort of. Until his nerve had gone.

No, he wasn’t a coward. He just hated physical violence. He was terrified of it. He’d seen the results of true violence a lot in his job, particularly when he’d worked on the crime pages. Beatings, murders, suicides... he’d reported all kinds of messy situations. He knew what a gunshot wound looked like, and had examined stab wounds at close range. Once he’d even stood there while a young woman who’d thrown herself in front of a truck on a busy motorway was scraped up off the road by policemen armed with snow shovels.

He poured an inch of whisky into a glass, and then added another inch because he knew the first wouldn’t last long. He took a swallow and felt the pleasing burn in his throat. It felt good, purifying. He’d always liked the taste of good malt whisky, and right now it tasted even better than ever. The drink was good medicine for whatever ailed him.

He thought about Abby Hansen, and asked himself if she was really worth this kind of hassle. The answer, he was sad to discover, was yes. He tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, but it was no use: he was becoming mildly obsessed with her.

But what was it about her that drew him? Why could he not stop thinking about the woman? She wasn’t his usual type – he liked hefty, athletic brunettes with big thighs and even bigger chests – and she could hardly be described as a great beauty. Her hair was badly dyed and in terrible condition; her skin was dry; her body was wracked by alcohol and the effects of borderline malnutrition.

So why the hell was he so keen to go back there, to see her, to fuck her again – no matter what Erik Best had told him? Why did he want to climb back into her bed and spend another night with her, clinging to her slender form in the darkness of her grotty little house?

He drifted from the kitchen to the living room, running a hand across the dust on the top of the television. There was a photo on there, held in an expensive frame. It showed Marc aged six; and there were his parents, flanking him and smiling at the camera. His dad looked stocky and aggressive, even when he grinned. His mother just looked tired. She’d always looked that way, right up to the day that they both died. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t looked exhausted.

He recalled the day he’d lost his parents as if it were only yesterday: the memory was imprinted on his brain, too perfect, as if it had been put there by someone else.

He’d been in the car with them, strapped into the back seat and reading a comic –
Superman
, of all things. The car had skidded on the wet road. It had been nobody’s fault, just one of those fluke accidents that happen every now and then, as if God was getting a bit bored and needed some entertainment, so he decided to wipe out somebody’s folks in the rain.

His mother had been driving, and when the wheels locked she didn’t know what to do. The car had moved slowly, as if it was on a conveyor belt, edging sideways towards the edge of the road and the sheer drop into a farmer’s field below. He remembered looking out of the side window and watching the drop approach, and then glancing into the front to see his parents holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. Again, this memory was more like a movie than something that had actually happened. It was simultaneously distant and up-close, as if he were separated from the image by a sheet of glass.

Still, they could have survived the crash. That’s what everyone told him, even now. It was a fluke, a crazy accident. The car had tilted and the outcropping branch of a tree had smashed through the passenger side window, almost taking off his mother’s head, tearing away her chin and smashing her teeth, causing her to choke to death on fragments of her own skull. His father had been turned to face her at the time, and the branch had slowly sheared off his face as he screamed his life away.

Marc’s mother had died comparatively quickly – the collapsed red ruin of her head was proof of that. But it had taken his father a long time to go because the car was falling so slowly... Marc had seen it all, and he still saw it now, whenever he dreamed. His mother’s sunken, partially crushed head, his father’s red-screaming skull... another film; a succession of images that played out on a mental screen whenever he closed his eyes.

At first he didn’t like to dream. For a long time, he’d taken drugs to stop the dreams from coming. Then, when they stopped working, he simply accepted them, imagining them his penance for surviving the accident. He almost welcomed them now, and it scared him that he did this so willingly.

They hadn’t been very good parents, not particularly. But they’d been the only ones he had, and after that he had none. He was left with no one, except a distant uncle who at first had treated him like a lodger who rented a room in his home rather than an orphaned family member. After a while – as he developed into a young man – Uncle Mike’s attitude had softened. He’d started to show affection. They became a small, weird family unit for a short while, at least until Marc was old enough to leave and go to University. After that, he’d lost touch with Uncle Mike, until he’d received a call one Saturday afternoon telling him that the man was dead.

He took another drink and sat down on the sofa, trying to clear his mind. Images of his dead parents mingled with those of Abby’s naked body, and the effect made him feel dirty and ashamed. Her bony body; his father’s fists; her tiny breasts; his mother’s smile; blood and semen; love and hate; sex and death. He blinked, rubbed at his temples, and leaned back against the sofa, allowing the cushions to grasp him. He leaned forward again to pick up his glass and then back again to try and relax. He felt like he was being pushed and pulled in every direction but the one he wanted to move in. He always felt like that; his life was a series of manoeuvres designed to shove him one way and then the next, without taking into consideration his desires. He was always dodging something – the past, the present, or simply himself – rather than moving with any clear direction in mind.

“Fucking hell...” He reached out and grabbed the remote control, flicked on the television to distract his thoughts. He picked a music channel and turned up the volume. Some ragtag indie band he’d never heard of capered across the screen, playing toy instruments and wailing about lost love. He let the music wash over him. It wasn’t bad; he’d heard worse. He even started to hum along with the chorus, once he picked up on the tune.

Who the hell had that guy been, the one who’d invaded his home? Erik Best. The name meant nothing to him. He wasn’t the biggest man Marc had ever encountered, but he was certainly the scariest. Not too tall, but broad through the shoulder, his hair buzzed down to a skinhead cut. He exuded a sense of menace like no one else Marc had ever met.

Marc had come across dangerous people before, and had even interviewed a few gangster types when he was working on stories for the cheaper red-top papers. He remembered speaking to convicted murderers, rapists, drug addicts... but none of them had possessed the sense of barely repressed violence that his visitor had sweated from his very pores. The man was terrifying. He didn’t even have to do anything to generate fear; all he needed was a few words, a simple gesture, a calmly worded warning... that was more than enough to get his point across.

“You idiot...” He knew that he was going to see Abby Hansen again, despite what the man had said. He kept picturing her naked, or on all fours on the mattress, pressing lazily against him as he thrust into her. She’d made love the same way she acted outside of the bed: unbothered, nonchalant, she couldn’t give a damn.

Jesus, was that it, just because she didn’t seem to care? Was that why he wanted to see her again – to try and force her to care, or even to pretend? Was he really so shallow? Or so desperate to make her like him, want him?

None of this made any sense. He’d acted strangely in the past, often embarking upon relationships with unsuitable partners, or starting situations that he knew would end badly. But this was another dimension entirely. He didn’t even like the woman. Nor was he attracted to her, not really. But he wanted to fuck her so much that he felt the desire as a constant ache in the pit of his stomach.

He’d heard stories from some of his wilder drinking buddies about affairs with what they called “dirty women” – back street slappers, rough trade, even full-blown whores – but not once had he been tempted to follow their lead and go after someone he deemed that kind of person. And was Abby really like that? Was that how he saw her?