Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) Read online

  Praise for Gary McMahon

  “McMahon writes gritty, ultra-realistic horror – a welcome antidote to the effete horror romance currently flooding the market – about the angst of urban existence in the 21st century.”

  – The Guardian

  “Gary McMahon is a spellbinding storyteller. The Concrete Grove is as feverish and unnerving as it is gripping: a black orchard of humanity where you hardly dare look at what dark things hang gleaming and winking in the branches of the trees.”

  – Graham Joyce on The Concrete Grove

  “Gary McMahon is one of the finest of a new breed of horror writers. His work combines spare, elegant writing with an acute sense of the growing desperation felt by those having to deal with the crime and crumbling infrastructure of our urban centers. Illuminating these with a visionary’s sense of the supernatural makes The Concrete Grove one exciting read.”

  – Steve Rasnic Tem on The Concrete Grove

  “If you’re a fan of slow-burn horror told in a strong and compelling way... McMahon is one to watch.”

  – Starburst

  BEYOND

  HERE LIES

  NOTHING

  Gary McMahon

  First published 2012 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-444-8

  ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-445-5

  Copyright © Gary McMahon 2012

  Cover Art by Vincent Chong

  Map by Gary McMahon and Pye Parr

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Also by Gary McMahon

  The Concrete Grove Trilogy

  The Concrete Grove

  Silent Voices

  Hungry Hearts

  Pretty Little Dead Things

  Dead Bad Things

  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.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wrote this novel more or less in isolation, so there aren’t many acknowledgements to make. But a huge note of thanks must go, as always, to Emily and Charlie, my beloved little family. You keep me going. Thanks also to the usual suspects – mainly Mark West, Sharon Ring, Simon Bestwick, Jim Mcleod, Michael Wilson and Ross Warren – for their constant and gratifying support. Cheers to the writer chums who invited me to a terrific working weekend in Matlock: it really helped me get started on this book. A special doff of the cap must go to Steve Volk, Tim Lebbon, Adam Nevill, Joe D’Lacey and my good mate Mark Morris for being so bloody inspirational. Finally, thanks again to Jon Oliver and the brilliant team at Solaris. I literally couldn’t have done all this without you.

  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)

  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 lock
ed 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.