Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) Page 5

  He opened the door and left the room, closing it gently behind him. He padded across the landing and paused at the top of the stairs. There were two other rooms up here – one must be the bathroom. He moved further along the landing and tried the first door. It opened onto the second bedroom. This must have been where Tessa had slept. There were posters of ponies and fairy tale characters on the walls. The bed was covered in a pink duvet. There was a small TV, a stereo, an Xbox, and all the books on the shelf above the headboard were storybooks about princes and princesses and faraway lands.

  Abby must have kept the room exactly how it had been when her daughter went missing. He was again reminded of the small table-top shrine in the living room. At the centre of the bedroom there was a large, roughly triangular pile of what at first he took as random objects. Then, when he moved further into the room to take a closer look, he realised what the objects were. Broken toys, the pages from what might have been her favourite books, stuffed animals that were missing an arm or a leg, and in one case even a head. There were doll parts, oversized jigsaw pieces, fractured board games, foreign dolls in national dress, and the remnants of a destructed playroom: all the sad parts from the broken toys that nobody ever got around to fixing.

  The pile of discarded playthings formed a small pyramid, the apex of which was level with Marc’s mid-thigh. He stood before it and wondered how long it had taken to build. Had Abby created it all in one go, or had she added to the mound gradually, forming a kind of homemade monument to her memory over the past five years since her daughter had disappeared?

  He put out his hand and let it hover above the totem. That was how he’d begun to think of the weird construction: with each layer of toys representing a period in the girl’s life. The older toys were nearer the bottom – baby things, the mobile from above her crib, perhaps even her first stuffed toy – and the newer stuff was at the top.

  As he stepped around the mound, he noticed a photograph attached to the top of the pyramid. A small monochrome portrait of the girl, possibly taken not long before she’d gone away: her last school photograph, or maybe one taken by Abby on their final family holiday? The background was a greyish blur, so he couldn’t make out where the picture had been taken. It wasn’t even clear if the girl had been indoors or outside in the open air.

  When he looked closer he realised that her eyes were shut. What he’d at first assumed were the girl’s eyes were in fact drawn on; somebody had sketched false eyes onto her eyelids. He bent down to inspect the photograph closer, to try and understand what it was he was looking at.

  Was it an image of a dead girl, like Victorian post-mortem photography? Or was she simply asleep, and whoever had drawn the eyes had been playing a joke? There wasn’t enough detail to be sure, but the image disturbed him. Perhaps if the photograph had been in colour, he might have been able to discern more detail. As it was, this was just a girl with eyes drawn onto her closed lids.

  He backed out of the room slowly, trying not to make a sound. He could not turn away from the grim totem, and now that he’d seen the photograph he was unable to think of anything else. Even when he closed his eyes, he saw that face: the drawn-on eyes stared at him from the red-tinted darkness.

  He shut the door on the dreadful image and went to the next door along the landing. It was the bathroom. He locked the door and sat down on the toilet, trying to clear his mind. But all he could think of – and all he could see, like a flash against his retina – was the girl’s small, white face and those crudely drawn eyes.

  He stood and lifted the toilet lid, took a piss and stared at the clean white tiles above the cistern. As he washed his hands, he tried not to meet his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. He knew that they would look haunted, just as this house was haunted by something that was not immediately apparent – a quiet spectre, a ghost of sadness and decay. He wasn’t afraid, he was mournful. The death of this child – if she even was dead, and not simply being held somewhere by another haunted and tormented soul – permeated the bricks and the mortar, the very fabric of the building in which he stood. Her absence was like a physical thing, taking up space that it did not own.

  He dried his hands on a frayed towel and left the room, shutting the door and walking back to Abby’s room. He paused outside the door and listened, trying to make out if she had woken or if she was still sleeping. There was no sound from behind the door, so he opened it and went inside.

  Abby was in the same position she’d been in when he left the room. She hadn’t moved, not even a fraction, as far as he could tell.

  “Abby?”

  There was no answer. Either she was fast asleep or faking it. He wasn’t sure which of these options he preferred.

  He walked over to the bed and slipped beneath the covers, pulling them down to his waist. He was still warm, despite the chilling sight he’d stumbled across in the second bedroom. He turned over onto his side and stared at the base of Abby’s neck, where the bone was most prominent. She had a small tattoo on her right shoulder; her daughter’s name in a fine, looping script. He moved closer and kissed the opposite shoulder softly, just allowing his lips to rest there for a moment. Her skin was warm and clammy. The thin layer of sweat there tasted of smoke and Chardonnay.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARC WOKE LATE the following morning. His head was aching and his hands felt numb, as if he’d been punching walls in the night. He sat up in bed, resting his head against the pillows, and was glad that Abby was not lying next to him. He tried to clear his head. A patch of sunlight moved across the floor towards the bed, as if hunting him. He glanced at the window, and saw that it was bright outside. The day looked new, as if it might turn into something glorious.

  He smelled frying bacon and his stomach began to twist and grumble. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. They’d not got around to ordering takeaway last night and he’d consumed a lot more alcohol than he was used to.

  He rubbed his head, clawed at his cheek with his bitten fingernails, feeling the stubble there.

  Sounds drifted up the stairs and into the room, through the open door. The radio was playing and Abby was humming along to the tune.

  Marc got out of bed and slipped into his clothes. He didn’t want to have a shower; it would be best if he just ate and ran, leaving the woman downstairs to come to her own conclusions about last night. He remembered the ferocity of their lovemaking, as if the act of sex had stripped away her grief for as long as it took her to come. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Abby, and even less sure regarding how she might feel about him. She gave little away; her defences were impressive.

  He left the room and walked towards the bathroom, glancing over at the other door – the one that led to the absent child’s room, where that bizarre structure was hidden. He tried not to think about it and went into the bathroom. He opened the cupboard door and found a spare toothbrush still in its wrapper. Next to it, on the shelf, there was a packet of cheap men’s razors, a half-used bottle of aftershave, and some shaving foam. He wondered who they belonged to, or if in fact they were there for anyone who needed them. For some reason, Abby didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who said no often. He recalled the comment he’d heard in the pub yesterday, when that pissed-up bloke had told him that she’d sleep with anyone who bought her a drink.

  He stared at his face in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were red, the skin around them swollen. His lips were dry and his teeth looked yellow.

  “Morning, handsome,” he said, tilting his head and grinning.

  He brushed his teeth, took a piss that seemed to last forever, and left the room. This time he’d managed not to look over at the other bedroom door. He went straight for the stairs and walked down them silently, as if afraid to be heard.

  He turned at the bottom and saw her through the kitchen doorway. She was bending over the table, setting out a couple of plates and some cutlery. Her short dressing gown had hitched up over her thighs. There were old, faded
scars there that he’d failed to notice the night before and faint marks like old bruises that had never healed.

  Marc felt like running, but he told himself not to be stupid, not to judge this woman before he even knew her.

  She turned around and saw him, a smile appearing briefly on her face before it was swallowed by some other expression, one that he could not read. Was it regret? Dread? Terror?

  “Morning.” He walked towards the kitchen doorway.

  “Hi,” she said, turning away. “I made bacon and eggs. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Cheers,” he said, sitting down at the table. “That would be great.”

  “Coffee?” She didn’t turn to look at him when she asked the question.

  “Black, thanks. One sugar.”

  She nodded, but still didn’t turn.

  He watched her as she poured hot water into two mugs Her shoulders were narrow, her arms were thin. She was tiny, breakable. Like a porcelain doll. Last night she’d seemed more like a warrior.

  “Here.” She turned and set down one of the mugs on the table. The handle of the spoon stuck up above the rim. He grabbed it and began to stir, slowly. “Food’s nearly ready.”

  “Thanks.” He stopped stirring. “How do you feel this morning?”

  She tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “Well...” He wished he hadn’t started this; he should have just kept his mouth shut, or maybe talked about the weather. “You know. After we... what happened between us.”

  “After we fucked, you mean?”

  He was shocked, but what stunned him more was his reaction to her words. He’d expected her to be like this, so why did it have such an impact? “Yes,” he said. He took a sip of coffee.

  “I feel fine. I’m used to it. You’ll probably hear this anyway, so I’ll tell you now.” She turned to face him. Her eyes were large, glaring. Her cheeks were tensed. “I’m a slag. I’ll fuck anyone, me. It’s what I do, just so I don’t feel so alone. It doesn’t make you anything special.”

  Marc wasn’t sure what he was meant to say, so he went with a joke: “You say the nicest things.”

  There was a pause, and then she smiled. Even her eyes lit up. “Thanks.” She turned back to the cooker and started serving up the bacon and scrambled egg. She’d made too much, but she piled it onto the plates anyway.

  “This looks good.” He stared at the plate of food. He wasn’t lying. It looked fantastic. The bacon was well done, just the way he liked it, and the eggs weren’t too soft.

  “Eat up, then,” she said.

  He took one mouthful and his stomach began to ache. He answered this by shovelling in more food, unashamed at how ill-mannered he was coming across. He was starving. Ravenous. He’d never felt so hungry in his life.

  “I like to see a man with a big appetite,” she said. She hadn’t touched her own food. Clearly she preferred to watch him eat.

  Marc took a break halfway through, gasping for breath. He swigged his coffee like a navvy on a tea-break, enjoying the way he almost choked on the now lukewarm liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, almost slobbering. “Jesus... you must think I’m a pig.”

  Abby shook her head. “I worked you hard last night.” Beneath the table, he felt her bare foot touch his leg, rubbing along his shin bone. “You need to replace that energy.”

  “About last night...” He shook his head when the cliché came out of his mouth. “Fuck, that sounds crap. I’m sorry. I’m trying to be original, I really am.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ve been here before, too many times. I know the script by heart. It was a one-night stand. You don’t want to see me again. Don’t even want my number.”

  “No, wait...”

  “It’s fine. Really, it is. I don’t want to give you my number anyway. I’m not after a boyfriend, or even a fuck buddy. I don’t need anybody permanent in my life.”

  “Listen, that’s not what I meant.”

  She stopped talking, started pushing the eggs around her plate with a fork.

  “I meant the opposite, actually. I... I would like to see you again. I do want your number.”

  She raised her eyes and stared directly into his face, as if examining him for facial scars. Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared.

  “My daughter wasn’t the first one to go missing. She was the fourth. The final one.”

  Marc said nothing. He didn’t want to break the spell. That’s exactly how it felt; as if some kind of magic was being weaved, some form of urban witchcraft.

  “The Press called them the Gone Away Girls. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Like poetry, or a song lyric. They loved that fucking name, the reporters. They used it all the time...I think they were gutted when my Tessa was the last and they didn’t get to use it again, except whenever they resurrected the case to sell some extra copies.” She was rubbing her hands, as if soaping them at the sink, trying to scrub off the dirt.

  Marc put down his knife and fork. “You don’t have to tell me any of this. It’s okay. I understand. It’s personal.”

  She stood, carried her plate to the sink, and left it there. Then she sat back down at the table. “Tess’s father is still around. He lived in the area. Not in the Grove, not anymore, but nearby. He comes round here sometimes. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he always wants to have sex. He cries when he comes. He weeps like a baby into my shoulder.”

  Marc sat and stared as she spoke, unable to focus his thoughts. Was this a brush-off, or something else? The woman was maddening. She always made him feel as if he’d not quite understood what she’d said, or had missed the crucial point of the conversation.

  “I think he wants to save me,” said Abby, looking down at the table, still wringing her hands. “But that’s the last thing I need. They always, always want to save me, and not once do they stop to even think that I might not want to be fucking saved.” Her eyes were shining. She blinked several times before continuing. “Just promise me one thing, Marc. Promise me that you won’t try to save me.”

  He could not fight her. The will was too strong.

  “I... I promise,” he said, not entirely sure what kind of promise he was making. It felt so much wider, deeper, than what she’d asked.

  She nodded her head. “That’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you, and if you break that promise I’ll ask you to leave and never come back again.” She stood and went to a cupboard, opened the door and took out a cardboard box file. “Every man I’ve ever met seems to think I want to be saved, when all I want is a nice fuck and a warm body next to me at night.”

  She dropped the box file onto the table and stepped back, folding her arms across her tiny chest. “There they are. The Gone Away Girls.”

  Marc reached out and opened the file. Inside was a sheaf of newspaper clippings, each one reporting the disappearance of a young girl. By the second one – Alice Jacobs – they were already using the collective title Gone Away Girls. Abby was right; they’d been in love with their own invention.

  He flipped through the clippings, not reading them but skimming, noting the similar details of each case: a young girl, taken from a place that was considered safe, never seen again. He wondered why he’d never heard of this, especially since he was a journalist. But he’d been working freelance at the time of these abductions, and living in Birmingham for much of the time. Five years ago... where exactly had he been then? It was difficult to pinpoint because he’d moved around so much, chasing stories, looking for the big score that never came. Maybe he’d even been in London, on one of his regular trips to the city? He could never quite settle there, but he always stayed at least a month, sleeping in friends’ spare rooms or on their floors. But he always returned to the north; he always failed to find the big story, the one that would set him up for life...

  He wished he’d been the one to coin the term Gone Away Girls. It was a classic, the kind of epithet that lasted, sank deep into the consciousness of everyone interested
in the case. He didn’t even feel bad about his envy. He was used to having thoughts like these, and so familiar with the mercenary thought processes of journalism that he’d moved far beyond any vestigial sense of shame years ago.

  He put away the clippings and closed the file. Abby was still staring at him. Her eyes were flat; her mouth was a tight little line. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  Abby unfolded her arms. She reached down and took the file, clutching it tightly against her chest. “Just remember my little girl’s face, and appreciate that I don’t need saving.” She turned back to the cupboard and put away the file, pushing it right to the back. When she straightened up again, she turned around and leaned the small of her back against the work bench.

  They stared at each other in silence.

  Somebody began to knock on the front door, quietly at first but with increasing vigour.

  Abby glanced over towards the open kitchen door, and the hallway beyond. The knocking continued. Marc looked along the hallway. At the front door, he could see the fuzzy outline of a head beyond the frosted glass.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  She shrugged. Her fingers were fidgeting with the buttons on her dressing gown. She crossed her legs at the ankle, one over the other.

  Marc finished his coffee.

  The knocking grew louder. Then a man’s voice said, “Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

  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.