Beyond Here Lies Nothing cg-3 Read online

  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?

  No; she wasn’t a dirty woman. Abby was damaged, she was almost crippled by her loss and her grief, but she wasn’t one of those women some of his nasty-minded friends prized as perverse trophies.

  Perhaps he was simply attracted to her pain. He was self-aware enough to realise that he’d done this before, forged a relationship with someone who had experienced a similar kind of loss to his own. But that had been years ago, when he was young and didn’t understand his own motivations. He was older now; he knew what he was doing and why he did it. These days he tended to deliberately forge bonds with people who were well balanced, emotionally centred… or not forge bonds at all. His own pain was enough. He no longer needed to mix it with someone else’s.

  Except now all that was changing… and he had developed this strange infatuation with a women which whom he’d only spent a single night. Was that really enough to justify this level of craving?

  Craving.

  It was an interesting word. It sounded the way it felt: hard, sharp, and dangerous.

  He finished his drink and stood up to get another. He’d left the bottle in the kitchen rather than bring it through into the main room. He didn’t want to get drunk. He knew that if he did, he might just get out the piece of paper with Abby’s number written on it and give her a call. Say hello. Beg her to let him go round there.

  The phone rang as he was entering the kitchen. He put down the glass and turned back into the living room, trying to remember where he’d put his mobile. His jacket; it was in his jacket pocket. He moved across the room, picked up his jacket from the arm of the sofa, and started prodding at the pockets. He felt the hard rectangle of the phone through the material, grabbed it, and answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hello… Marc? Is this Marc Price?”

  He recognised the voice but couldn’t place its owner. “Yes, this is Marc. What’s up?”

  “Marc, this is Vince… Vince Rose, from yesterday. I’m sorry to call like this… I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Marc remembered the old man, and how they’d promised to keep in touch. “Oh, yeah… Hi. How are you?”

  “Listen, Marc, I’m at my brother’s house. I’m at Harry’s place. I’ve found some stuff that you might like to see. Are you free at all any time today?”

  He looked at his watch. It wasn’t even noon. “Tell you what, offer me some lunch and a couple of c
ans of lager and I’ll be round in half an hour. How does that sound?”

  “Splendid,” said Rose. “That would be fine. I’ll pop out to the shop and get us some booze and sandwich makings. There’s tea and coffee here, but not much else.” He paused, as if he couldn’t quite select the right words he needed to continue. “I think it’s in your interest to see what I’ve found… there might be something useful here. Perhaps even something that’ll help you with your book. I’m not sure what most of this stuff is, but I think it’ll mean a lot more to you than it does to me.”

  The book: Marc had almost forgotten about the fucking book.

  The project had really started to come alive for him when he’d met Harry Rose, and he was afraid that it might die along with the old man if he didn’t make an effort to carry on with his research. But this phone call seemed promising; it might lead to the book actually being finished. He already had a publisher interested, and if he managed to show them something interesting the advance would pay his bills for a few more months of freedom while he weighed up his options.

  “I’ll see you soon, Vince. We’ll talk more then. I can’t wait to see what you’ve found there.” His lips were dry. He hung up the phone and headed back towards the kitchen.

  Just one more drink, he thought. It wouldn’t hurt. One more little drink for the road…

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE LIGHTS ARE off. The house is silent. A solemn gloom fills the empty rooms, making them seem occupied by something patient and unmoving; a thing that lies in wait.

  Abby Hansen is flat on her back, naked, in the bed that she once shared with Tessa’s father. Her eyes are open, but she does not see. Her legs are parted and her hands are cupped there, over her pudenda, in a protective gesture. The bedroom curtains are closed, filtering out the light, but the room is nowhere near dark at this time of day.

  The house creaks and settles. Other noises sound outside: car engines, yelling children, somebody calling loudly for a dog or a child named Socrates. Far off, a police helicopter prowls the skies, its unseen occupants looking for wrongdoers.

  Abby does not move. She hears none of these sounds. The only noises she registers are internal: trees and brushes rustling within the confines of her mind, the gentle thrumming of a tiny bird’s wings, a small animal padding through undergrowth, and a light breeze stirring close to the ground.

  She sits up jerkily and stares at the wall — through the wall, to whatever it is that dwells in the places nobody else can see, the gaps in the world that only a few people can discern. She stays that way for several minutes, not moving, barely even breathing, just staring blindly through the solid brickwork. She does not even blink.

  Abby Hansen has one foot in this world and one in another, far stranger place.

  She is conscious but she is not awake; nor is she asleep, not really.

  Whatever she does during this fugue-like state, she will remember nothing of it later. She will simply assume that she took a nap; that the previous night’s exertions tired her out and she’s been catching up on her rest. After all, a woman like Abby needs all the rest she can get these days.

  A car radio booms outside the house; tinny dance music fills the street. Somebody starts to shout and swear; another voice joins in, but softer, less aggressive. Laughter. A car wheel-spinning away along the road, churning up loose stones. The music fades into the distance, becoming an imitation of itself, just another sad piece of aural flotsam cast adrift on the currents of life.

  Still Abby Hansen does not blink. She does not move. She grips herself between the legs, as if she needs to urinate, or masturbate — perhaps she’s caught between the two acts, unsure of which is the more appropriate response.

  After a short while, she twitches. It is just a slight jerk of the head, which she then tilts to the side, like a dog listening to its master’s call. She removes her hands from between her thighs. Her fingers are wet; her pubic hair glistens. The muscles in her thighs are twitching rhythmically, as if a weak electrical current is passing through them.

  She slides her legs across the duvet, placing her feet on the floor and twisting to face the door. She sits like that for quite some time, as if waiting to be summoned into another room. Her face is blank, expressionless; her hands are open at her sides, as if she is balancing an invisible item in each palm. She rubs her still damp fingers together, then raises her hands and licks away the residue.

  She freezes, her head still tilted to one side.

  Finally, she moves again. In one smooth, clean motion, she stands and turns to face the door. Her movements are much more graceful than usual, like those of a dancer. She steps lightly across the room, her bare feet making little sound on the carpet. She walks slowly and softly, barely making an impact on the world — either this world or the other, the one contained within her. As her reflection passes across the glass of the long mirror on her dressing table, she does not even glance that way. She walks through the door and out onto the landing, not noticing that her reflection is fuzzy, faded, as if she is barely there at all.

  She knows who she is — she is aware of her name — but that is all. She has no past, no future; all that exists is the present, this moment. Nothing else matters; it isn’t there, doesn’t touch her at all.

  She reaches the stairs and descends them silently, heading down and towards the kitchen. She walks across the kitchen floor, to the cupboard under the sink. Bending her legs in a fluid motion, lunging so deeply that her bare buttocks almost brush against the floor tiles, she opens the cupboard door. Her head does not move; she keeps it fixed straight ahead. The muscles in her neck are tensed and bunched, standing out like cables beneath the skin.

  She takes a small plastic bag filled with candles out of the cupboard, closes the door, and stands up straight. The candles are the type used for decorating cakes. These are all she has in the house. She turns around and goes into the living room, where she picks up a photograph of Tessa. The one she took in the park, a few days before the girl disappeared. In the photo, Tessa is wearing her bright red quilted gilet over a grey long-sleeved fleecy top, and her favourite dark jeans and running shoes. It is the same outfit she was wearing the day she vanished.

  Abby moves across the room, not caring that she is naked. Her thighs are soaked; she’s been secreting sweat from her skin and fluid from her vagina, as if her waters are breaking prior to giving birth.

  The curtains are open but nobody is passing by in the street outside. She opens the bureau beside the bookcase and takes out a brown package. She unfolds the paper package and removes the old pair of Tessa’s pyjamas, the ones the girl was wearing the night before she went away. They are still stained with her urine. She wet the bed that night for the first time in years, as if she was afraid of something or experienced a premonition of what was to come.

  She returns to the stairs and ascends, holding tightly onto these items. She turns right at the top of the stairs and stands outside Tessa’s room, gazing at — no, through — the door with her thousand-yard stare. If she is aware of anything around her, she does not betray this on her face. Her eyes are still open, but they are like the eyes of the blind: wide, empty, unseeing. Glazed. For all she sees of her surroundings, they might as well be shut tight.

  She reaches out without looking and opens the bedroom door. She steps inside and closes the door behind her.

  The curtains are closed to ensure that the room is dim; she always keeps it this way, as a form of tribute. This room is not meant to see the sun again until her child returns.

  She approaches the shrine she’s made and kneels down beside it. She places the photograph on the floor, and then begins to arrange the candles around the base of the crude pyramid. Inside the bag where the candles were stored is also a box of kitchen matches. When she’s finished setting out the candles, she lights them one by one with a match. She does not look down, but she doesn’t burn her fingers. Her body knows exactly what to do. This is not the first time she has carrie
d out this homespun ritual, despite the fact that she has no memory of doing so before or afterwards. Like an athlete’s muscle memory, her body stores the information and carries out the task without even bothering her mind.

  Once the candles are lighted, she takes hold of the pyjamas and presses them against her face, inhaling the smell of her missing daughter’s dried piss. Still there is no expression on her face.

  She puts down the pyjamas and tucks her legs and feet beneath her bottom, drawing in her knees tight in front of her. Slowly, she begins to rock on her knees and calves, back and forth; a small, rhythmic movement. She smells wet grass and hears the rustling of tree branches. Somewhere beyond the grove of ancient oaks, a small figure is waiting. She cannot identify who this person is, but it seems familiar.

  More liquid leaks out from between her legs.

  She feels the wet grass under her legs. The wind blows against her skin, rising slowly. Branches creak; tiny animals move in the undergrowth. It is dark within the protective circle of the trees. She is outside, naked, but does not feel the cold. The light of the moon keeps her warm, even though it is a cold light, a dead light whose warmth can never reach her. Menstrual blood runs down the inside of her thighs; the animals hiding in the trees smell it and began to whine, like wolves scenting fresh meat. They are hungry. They need to feed.

  Abby opens her mouth and begins to chant:

  “Tessa, Tessa, Tessa… bless her, bless her, bless her… come back to me.”

  Her voice is dull, flat. There is no sing-song quality to the chant, but still it is a song of sorrow, a short chorus of mourning.

  “Tessa, Tessa, Tessa… bless her, bless her, bless her… come back to me.”

  She rocks faster on her knees, hearing footsteps crunching towards her on the fallen leaves. The quality of the air changes subtly; someone is approaching from out of the thickest trees. Somebody is coming. The rich blood she spilled has called whoever it is to the scene.