Silent Voices Page 27

  “Harry!”

  His face was pale. His lips were a light shade of blue. His eyelids did not flutter; the muscles in his face were loose, relaxed. She shook him, hard, trying to wake him. “Harry! Time to get up!” Her voice had become shrill, the tone rising as the panic set in. She fought hard to keep herself under control, to keep calm, but she recalled the hummingbird that had erupted from his throat, and the convulsions on the bedroom floor. Nobody seemed to want to talk about the hummingbird, at the hospital. They ignored it in the hope that it would go away, much like the bird itself had flown out of the room. The convulsions, though, fascinated them. They’d loved the fucking convulsions: they were normal, regular symptoms that could be studied and explained away. They were nothing at all like the insane image of a tiny American bird being expelled from a little boy’s throat.

  She picked up her son and ran for the door, cradling his head in the same way she’d done when he was a baby. She hurried downstairs – not too fast, just in case she fell and broke both of their necks – and made her way to the phone. She called an ambulance first, quietly amazed at how calmly she was able to handle the conversation.

  She hung up the phone and pressed her fingers against Harry’s neck. There was a pulse; it was strong, regular. He wasn’t dead. That was good. It was something she could hang on to, a rope to cling to in the darkness, which was rising slowly from the floor like a thick mist to consume her.

  Then she called Brendan, to tell him what was happening – even though she didn’t have a fucking clue what was happening. She needed him here, with her, not on some stupid wild goose chase with a couple of blokes who had never really been his friends, not since childhood, and perhaps not even then, because they’d all been too young and far too selfish to know what friendship really meant.

  She punched his number into the phone and listened to the ringtone, holding her boy against her breathless chest and wondering if she still had the strength to speak.

  It was only when she got the recorded message, saying that his phone could not be reached, that she began to cry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AS THEY APPROACHED the Needle, Marty couldn’t help but think of a scene from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Sergio Leone’s spaghetti western about three criminals in search of Civil War treasure. The familiar theme tune filled his head; voices chanted, the warbling score sent a thrill – somewhere between delight and dread – through the channels of his body.

  The Three Amigos were back in town, and this time they wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “What’s so funny?” Brendan stared at him, his brow creased and his eyebrows slanted.

  “Nothing,” said Marty. “Just a daft thought, that’s all.”

  What the hell am I doing here? he thought. How did they get me to agree to this? Two strangers in a bar, reminding me of old times I’d rather forget.

  He stared up at the tower block, feeling a strange sense of black-tinted nostalgia. The last time they’d all been here together, something monstrous had occurred. None of them could recall the details, but the act had spread a rancid shadow across the rest of their lives. It seemed melodramatic to think in those terms, but it was true. No other language could do the thought justice: there was nothing subtle about what had happened to them here, and he only wished that he could remember what it had been.

  Or did he?

  That was the big question, wasn’t it? Did he really want to know what had gone on inside those tall concrete walls? Was he so eager to find out what had been done to them, when the sturdy upright panels had been so readily shunted aside to reveal a dark grove of trees and whatever waited beyond them, its intentions darker still?

  Even now, standing before the building, he was unable to answer his own questions.

  The sides of the tower looked black in the odd afternoon light, as if they were covered in oil. The blackness had a metallic sheen, and it shimmered. The illusion did not last; it was gone in moments, but it was long enough for Marty to realise whatever they had come to confront knew they were here. His stomach lurched; the thing within him shifted slowly, deliberately, chafing up against his internal organs and rattling like a prisoner at the bars of his ribcage. He was convinced that he felt a tiny hand-foot clutching his liver, and his chest took another knock from the wrong side... the inside.

  He clutched at his side, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Whatever Doc said, he was convinced that he was carrying around inside him some kind of cartoon demon, a hand-drawn phantom from his childhood, a monster that had leapt from the pages of a book he should never have been allowed to read.

  “So,” said Simon. “Are we going to do this? Now, in broad daylight?”

  Brendan nodded, quiet again.

  “If this was a horror film, we’d wait till after dark before coming snooping around in a derelict tower block.”

  Brendan giggled, but it didn’t sound quite right, like a pressure valve, a release of pent-up tension.

  “Fuck it,” said Marty, tensing his body, trying to ignore the tenant inside his gut. “What have we got to lose?”

  “Everything,” said Brendan. Now he was deadly serious; there was no hint of humour in his voice.

  “Nothing,” said Simon, moving forward and fumbling with his keys as he approached the gate in the hoardings. “Nothing at all.” He waited a moment, looking up at the sky. Then he glanced back down at the ground, as if establishing his position in the universe. “This isn’t exactly going as I’d planned,” he said. “Not at all, if I’m honest.”

  Marty tried not to sigh. He was growing impatient, but he didn’t want to let the others see. “How do you mean?”

  Brendan placed his hands on the gate, as if trying to divine something of the atmosphere on the other side simply by touching it.

  “Well,” said Simon, “I thought we’d have a few drinks, catch up on each other’s lives, and then slowly work our way up to this point.”

  “Why waste time?” said Marty. “Now that we’re back together, it doesn’t feel like any time has passed. We agree on this, don’t we?”

  Simon nodded. Brendan said nothing; just kept his silent vigil by the gate.

  Marty rubbed his left cheek with his right hand. He felt the stubble rasping against his fingers. “It’s as if our lives got stuck in a groove when we were ten, and nothing really moved on. Yes, you have your wealth and businesses, and Brendan has his family, but despite these things, we were frozen inside. Our hearts stopped beating; the blood was stilled in our veins. I know I’m not exactly explaining this very well, but...”

  “Yeah.” Simon closed his eyes. “Frozen... that’s a good way of putting it. We moved on, lived our lives, but everything inside us was frozen in place. Speaking for myself, it’s held me back in every relationship I ever had, made it so that I can barely relate to anyone in my life.”

  “So why the fuck do we even need to mess about, to dance around this moment? Let’s just do it. We’re here now, anyway, so we’re all agreed. This is it; the time’s come to defrost.”

  Even as he spoke, Marty felt his insides stirring as whatever monster he now carried within him responded to his words. He gritted his teeth, trying not to scream, and waited it out. Soon the movement died down, and eventually stopped. He thought this must be what it was like to be pregnant: to feel the existence of another inside the fragile envelope of your body.

  “So we’re all agreed, then? We’re doing this now. Right now.” Brendan had turned around to face them. He looked ill. His eyes were bright and feverish.

  Simon stepped forward, brandishing the keys. He unlocked the gate with a steady hand and stepped aside to let the others through. When they were all on the other side of the barrier, he locked the gate behind him. Marty felt that there was something final about the action. He was unable to shake the feeling that all of them might not be coming back out, and those who did make it would be changed in more ways than he could imagine.

&nb
sp; The last time they’d all been here together, time itself had behaved strangely: they thought they’d been inside the Needle for only a short time, but when finally they emerged from its shadow an entire weekend had passed. He wished he’d taken the time to tell someone where he was going today, but then he remembered that he had no one to tell. His friends from the fight game were merely acquaintances, and the only other significant person in his life was Melanie, but he’d already cut his ties with her. He could never tell his grandmother; she would worry too much, even about something she did not understand.

  There was nobody. He was truly alone. It was a sad indictment of his life that the only two people who cared where he was right now were here with him, and he had not spoken to either of them in twenty years before this day.

  “So this is what it all comes down to,” said Brendan, suddenly, breaking into Marty’s thoughts as if he were attempting to echo them and add his own spin. “These last few days of tracking Marty down. It all comes down to this: three strangers standing outside an old, empty building.”

  “No,” said Simon. “Not the last few days, the last twenty years. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for, but didn’t even realise. This is where we face down our fears.”

  “You’re right,” said Marty. “Both of you. All we are is three strangers who were once, for a brief moment in another lifetime, friends. It’s taken us two decades to get back here, and we’ve had our own little adventures along the way. I’ve spent my time fighting. You, Simon, have spent yours in another kind of battle – but still fighting yourself, I’d guess, just the same as me. And Brendan. What about you?” He nodded towards Brendan, who was standing stiffly, as if awaiting some kind of verdict. “In many ways you were the best of us. You at least managed to have some kind of real life, and you’ve brought children into the world. You’re the part of us that worked; the part that matters. Simon and me, we represent all the other stuff: the shit that went bad.”

  There was nothing else to say, nothing to add. The three of them stood there, renewing old bonds, waiting for some kind of energy to throb through their veins and pull them closer together.

  Marty felt stronger than he ever had before in his life. But he also felt a weakness within him, a fracture that had always been there and that might yet prove to be his undoing. His hidden passenger – the fairytale nightmare hitching a ride in his belly – was reaching out, seeking that fissure, with the aim of making it wider and letting out whatever darkness it found there.

  “Let’s go,” said Simon, striding towards the main doors of the tower block and brandishing his keys like a weapon. “Let’s get this thing done.”

  The door opened onto blackness. Not a dim area or a room without light, but utter, perfect darkness. When they stepped inside, Marty felt like he was walking into water; it flowed over and around and into him, filling his lungs and making his eyes sting. Fathoms deep, he stood there blinking and trying to get his bearings. He heard the doors close behind them, and the breathing of his companions. Then, struggling against the tide of darkness, he shuffled his feet along the floor and tried to move forward, deeper into the building that now felt like a wide open space.

  Groping blindly at his side, he felt a small, cold hand grip his own.

  Whose hand is this? he thought, as it squeezed his fingers, the grip tight and unwilling to let go.

  “Keep hold of each other,” said Simon. “Somebody grab my hand. I’m moving it around, by my side. Try to grab it.”

  “Don’t I have hold of you?” Marty felt panic welling up inside him; he wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Every direction was just another pathway deeper into this pitch blackness.

  “No, that’s me,” said Brendan, close to his ear. “You have my hand.” The grip slackened; the fingers twitched.

  Thank God, thought Marty, feeling slightly more relaxed.

  “Okay, then. Do you have my hand, too?” Simon’s voice sounded slightly farther away, as if he’d moved along a passage of some sort.

  “No,” said Brendan.

  Voices: this was all they had in the dark.

  “Me neither.” Marty sounded hoarse; his throat was dry.

  “Fucking hell... then whose fucking hand am I holding?” Simon’s voice sounded weak, as if he were struggling to contain his terror.

  Then, in answer, there was a soft clicking noise in the darkness, and a short burst of childish laughter.

  “It’s gone,” said Simon. “It’s fucking gone... my hand... it had hold of my hand... and its fingers were hot.” Footsteps grated on the concrete floor, everyone’s breathing was heavy, laboured, as if they were climbing an incline.

  “Let’s just... move forward.” Simon again, sounding breathless.

  “But which way is forward?” said Marty.

  “This way.” Brendan was taking charge. “Just follow my voice, Simon. I have your hand, Marty. Come with me. I think I can see light up ahead. I know the layout of this place. I think I have my bearings.”

  The clicking sound was still audible, but only just. Marty couldn’t tell if it was behind them, up ahead, or off to the left or the right. Space had taken on alarming new qualities; the dimensions of this room were meaningless, a strange geometry had taken over. He could be inside a tiny room or lost in a vast, endless void. He wasn’t sure; it all felt the same, limited and limitless.

  This is how it feels to be lost, he thought. Truly lost. Cut off even from yourself. This must be how it feels all the time... that thing. The Underthing.

  He wasn’t quite sure where the word had sprung from, but with it came a suggestion of pity. He felt emotionally wrong-footed, shoved off centre. Was it even possible to feel sorry for a monster?

  Brendan tugged on his hand and Marty allowed himself to be pulled slowly in one direction, trusting that it was the right way to go. The air was thick and heavy, like damp towels laid across his face, and that clicking sound kept waxing and waning in and out of the range of audibility, as if it kept crossing a threshold of some kind and then rushing back, just to remind them that it was still there, keeping track of them. He smelled burnt rubber and Parma violet candies: aromas from childhood, which produced within him a longing for things lost or left behind. The sweet, harsh taste of the sweets – like perfumed soap – was on his tongue, making his mouth water.

  “This way,” said Brendan, tugging harder on his hand. “We’re almost there.”

  Almost where? The statement felt bigger than had been intended, as if it encompassed something beyond words: the time they’d spent wandering in their own darkness since the last time they’d been here together, the roads they had taken, the wrong turnings they’d made, the people they’d left behind.

  Almost there...

  They were almost somewhere, that was true enough. But was it somewhere they wanted to be? Whatever the answer to that question, Marty knew that it was probably where they needed to be, if any of them was to stand a chance of moving on from here and salvaging their lives.

  He became aware of a light source up ahead, glimmering softly, like an underwater lamp. The light was greenish, swamp-like, and it did not look comforting. It was, however, more promising than this massive darkness through which they were currently trawling, like deep-sea divers cut off from their rope tethers.

  They pushed on, and as the light became closer – that’s how it felt; like the light was drawing near to them, rather than the other way round – he felt Simon’s hand flailing at his own before grappling with his fingers and gripping him tightly.

  “It’s okay, mate,” he said, not feeling okay at all. “I’ve got you.” Yes, he had. Simon and Brendan had him... but who the hell had Brendan? Was he also holding somebody’s hand? Someone who was not one of them? Was he being dragged towards the green light, trusting in some spectre to lead them to safety?

  The three men stumbled into the green light, as if they’d entered a doorway and emerged from the sea onto dry land. Marty expected to be drippi
ng wet. He even ran a hand across his shaved head, as if he were drying his scalp.

  “Where are we?” Simon voiced the question for the three of them, much as he’d been the self-appointed mouthpiece of the gang in his youth.

  Around them, all they could see were trees. A thick, dense screen of leaves and interlocking branches, through which was filtered that odd green light. Marty glanced around him; the patch of concrete they were standing on was surrounded on all sides by mirrors, reflecting trees that were not there: ghost trees, a phantom forest, a wilderness of the imagination.

  “This can’t be real.” Brendan sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “It’s not... it’s a dream.”

  “I can’t speak for you two,” said Marty, “but I’m wide awake.”

  As Marty watched, a shape flitted through the trees. Or, more precisely, it moved quickly through the open space beyond the trees. He could not make out what it was, but the shape was small and agile. When he saw it again, he became convinced that it was standing upright, on two legs. Yet it did not seem entirely human.

  Almost there...

  “Jesus.” He was afraid, yes, but beneath the fear was a sort of relief: they’d come a long way for this, and if they had encountered something normal, something natural, it would have been anticlimactic. To confront the weird, the magical, made sense. This was what they’d all expected, after their nightmares had gradually worn away at their sense of reality over the past few days.

  “Where are we?” This time it was Brendan, and he sounded like a child, a little boy lost in the woods.

  The clicking sound had stopped as soon as they’d entered the green light, and it had not resumed. Perhaps this was a place of safety, somewhere they could regroup and think about what they should do next. The light shimmered, as if the branches shifted in a breeze, and despite the feeling of being shut in, and the mirrored screens, Marty felt certain that they were near a portal that would allow them to enter another place, a place that was outside.