Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) Page 8
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 carried 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.
She chants the rhyme over and over, a litany, a calling.
In front of her, the trees part; in front of her, the makeshift shrine shifts, one of the objects that form it moving slightly to create a small opening.
“Tessa, Tessa, Tessa... bless her, bless her, bless her... come back to me.”
The cold, dead moon shines down its pale light, making her milky skin shimmer.
Something moves in the opening, emerging from inside the shrine. It is a short, scrawny tree branch – not much more than a sapling. It moves sinuously, curling and twisting as it quests forth, tasting the air of two worlds that have momentarily become one.
Abby keeps chanting. She continues to rock back and forth on her knees. Her bladder fails and urine pools around her legs, soaking along with the blood and other fluids into the weave of the carpet. The smell is sharp, pungent, as it finally reaches her nostrils, like a spilled chemical.
The scrawny sapling reaches out further, towards her face. Like a small arm, its tip spreads out into four spiky wooden fingers and a thumb, and it makes to caress her cheek. Then, quickly, it changes direction and whips briskly against her flesh, making a minuscule nick and drawing a spot of blood below her right eye. Abby does not even wince; she does not pause in her lament.
“Tessa, Tessa, Tessa... bless her, bless her, bless her... come back to me.”
She rocks and chants, chants and rocks. The two worlds begin to merge more fully, and then to separate before the culmination of these events can take place. The grove of oak trees dims, becoming shadow and silhouette, and then the harsh light of the world outside the house seeps gradually back into the room. She stops speaking. She becomes still. Her eyes – although already open – snap into focus as if she is opening them for the first time.
SHE LOOKED DOWN, at the candles, and then threw down onto the floor the pyjamas she was clutching. The carpet was wet with blood and piss and ejaculate. The room smelled like a hospital toilet. She started to cry, silently but deeply. Her entire body shook with grief as it remembered giving birth to her child, her Tessa.
Once she managed to stop the tears, Abby reached out and snuffed out each of the candles with her forefinger and thumb, like a vicar putting out the votive candles in a church after prayer.
She put the candles and the matches back inside the plastic bag, gathered up the rest of her things, and left the room. She didn’t bother getting dressed. She went back downstairs and put the stuff away, then filled a plastic bucket with hot water from the tap, squirted washing up liquid into the water and stirred it with her hand. She returned upstairs, to Tessa’s room, knelt down once again, and scrubbed the carpet clean. She did not weep again. When she was finished, she rinsed out the bucket in the upstairs bathroom and left it on the floor. She took a long, hot shower to clean her body and dried herself with the oldest, toughest towel she could find in the airing cupboard. Like a hair shirt, it punished her, making her skin turn red.
She returned to her room, to her bed, and sat there, staring at the wall.
She was unsure what had just happened, but something inside her felt broken. It was a familiar feeling, one that had kept her connected to her emotions for such a long time; she remembered experiencing a sensation just like it when she lost her virginity at the age of fifteen to a family friend, and then again, when she pushed out Tessa into the world.
She picked up her cigarettes off the bedside table and lit one, drawing deeply from the smoke. She opened a drawer and took out the small whisky bottle she kept there; it was half full. She drank the whisky straight from the bottle and smoked the cigarette down to a stub.
Only when the whisky bottle was empty did she allow herself to lie back down on the bed, on top of the cheap duvet.
She thought about the guy she brought home last night and ran her hands slowly along her thighs, feeling strangely aroused. He had touched her there, too, but he did not touch her inside. Nobody could, not now. Not ever again. Other forces were at work inside her womb. She was sure of it. The desire passed, like a cloud crossing the sun.
She closed her eyes and thought about a grove of ancient oak trees, a high, cold moon, and the sound of approaching footsteps in the undergrowth. In the darkness behind her eyes, she saw a small, skinny arm with four claw-like fingers, and wondered if it was real or just a dream she’d once experienced.
She reached up and felt the small nick below her right eye. It had stopped bleeding but it was still sore. The slight pain was a comfort; it meant that all the things she struggled to remember might just be real after all.
Daisy like a flower got bad sleep. we hear noises in teh nite. bad nioses. bashing on walls. laffing. crying. I don’t now what happnin anymore. she cried lots and I hugged her. mummy and daddy didn come. clickety sound under my bed and I want it to stop. bird face man stand besides my bed. in the walls an under the floor. he there. he evawhere. captain clickety he evawhere. he even in places we hide. under the bed and in the cubod. I seen him. he see me. he smilez with his birdy mask. I write in this dairy cos I donno what else to do. words mite make him go away.
– From the diary of Jack Pollack, April 1974
PART TWO
The Crawl
“Always ask for me.”
– DS Craig Royle
CHAPTER TEN
&n
bsp; ROYLE WAS MAKING a coffee when the call came in.
His office at the Far Grove police station was small and cramped, filled with loose files and notebooks, but the one thing he could not do without was a decent coffee machine. He didn’t let anyone touch his machine – his machine; it was his personal property and he made sure everyone knew it – and often found himself the butt of station jokes because of his possessive attitude towards the appliance.
But Royle didn’t care. He liked his coffee, and that was all. He needed it to get through the day, and a few cups of Nescafe just wouldn’t cut it. His coffee had to be freshly ground, freeze-packed, and preferably from deepest Columbia.
He answered the phone, glancing at the machine as it dripped evil-looking black fluid from the filter into the misted glass jug. His mouth was watering. “This is DS Royle speaking. Can I help you?”
“Sir, it’s Sergeant Barnes here. We’ve had one of those calls.”
Royle focused completely on Barnes’ voice. “Okay, I’m all ears. Tell me what you’ve got.” It might be something; it was probably nothing. They usually turned out to be nothing.
“Mrs Millstone. She rang in five minutes ago. I’m not quite sure what the problem is, but she was scared. Upset. Something about a scarecrow... that’s all I managed to get out of her, I’m sorry. She wasn’t making much sense. She asked for you by name. Demanded I get you, actually.”
Royle thanked Barnes and hung up the phone. His coffee would have to wait. He was needed elsewhere. He rubbed at his cheek with his hand and felt the stubble rasping against his fingertips. He was tired, strung out, and needed some rest. The coffee was no longer enough. He was craving whisky. This was a first; he usually suffered these cravings later in the day, when he was weary and irritated. It was way too early to want a drink.
But there was a reason for his response: it had been one of those calls... that’s what everyone called them, on the rare occasions that they came in. One of those calls.
Basically, Royle had let it be known that he was to be informed if anyone with even the slightest connection with the Gone Away Girls case called in, no matter what the reason might be for the call. He realised that everyone on the force thought he was obsessed, and on his darker days he would agree with them. But this was both more and less than mere obsession. He’d promised each of the families that he wouldn’t rest until he found out what had happened to their girls, and he intended to make good on that promise.
He realised that this kind of honour was outdated, that it only ever seemed to feature in fiction – crime novels and Hollywood movies, stories about broken down cops trying to solve one last case before they retired. He also knew that it was a mistake to make such an impossible promise to a victim’s family. Yet still, it was what drove him. That promise – the fact that he’d made it in good faith and it had been accepted like some kind of lifeline – made it real. He wouldn’t stop until he found out what had happened to those girls. It simply was not in his nature to forget about them. Somebody needed to remember, to act as a witness, and the task had fallen to him.
Like a festering wound, the knowledge that they had been taken and nobody knew – or even cared – why or by whom burned inside him night and day.
He left the office and cut through the operations room, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. A few people nodded; one or two even said hello. Royle knew that he wasn’t well liked, and that he was only hanging on here because of his longevity and connections higher up the chain of command, but he didn’t really care. He’d stopped caring about things like friendship and career-building a long time ago. The only person who meant anything to him now refused to live with him, and that summed up how much of a mess he was in.
Outside, he climbed into his car. Reversing out of his space in the car park, he looked at his face in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were streaked with red; black smudges circled them. He looked like he hadn’t slept for weeks. In truth, he had not. The only time he ever managed to close his eyes and slip into unconsciousness was with the aid of alcohol. He was drink-dependent, maybe even an alcoholic, but the drink was what helped him at least get some form of rest. That was the real reason he was afraid to do something about the addiction: if he didn’t have the drink, he might never sleep again.
He drove north, through Far Grove and towards the Concrete Grove. His skin prickled with the Crawl as he crossed the invisible geographical border between the two districts, as if his blood were answering some strange call. He knew the sensation was psychological rather than physical, but still it didn’t mean it wasn’t real. This place, it had became a part of him. He knew that he could never leave, even if he wanted to.
The truth was he didn’t want to leave the Grove.
Vanessa had tried to convince him to apply for a transfer on several occasions, but he’d never taken her seriously. Even when she left him, six months pregnant and not really wanting to go, he had dug in his heels and told her that he would never turn his back on this place – these people, the parents and siblings of the Gone Away girls. Even a transfer to nearby Newcastle was out of the question. It was only a few miles south, but Royle felt that it was too far away from the locus of whatever strange things had been happening round here for years.
He’d never discussed his suspicions in public, but he knew that there was something deeply wrong with the fabric of the Grove. Too many bad things happened; there was a lot of darkness under the skin of the estate. Royle didn’t believe in ghosts, or magic, but he did believe that a place could be wrong. Some places attract darkness, and this was one of them. Some places are seething with the Crawl.
The Concrete Grove, Royle knew deep inside his heart, was a Bad Place.
He slowed as he drove along Grove End, past the old primary school. He watched as school kids laughed and played, remembering that those poor girls had once done the same, oblivious to the darkness that was coming for them. But nobody would ever hear their laughter again; their innocent games would forever go unseen.
He parked on Grove Crescent, outside the Millstones' tiny two-bed semi-detached house. He didn’t get out of the car immediately. Instead he sat there for a few seconds, trying to centre his energy, to focus on what was important. He recalled the disturbance in the park the night before, and wondered what he’d almost seen there, moving through the bushes like a living embodiment of the sensation that he felt right now.
It had been yet another example of the badness that festered here, growing like a malignant tumour. He was certain of it; there was no doubt at all.
“Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing.” But he knew that he was lying to himself, just the way he lied to everyone. He could not speak aloud about his feelings, even to himself. Something was gestating here, and had been for a long time: something that wanted to be born.
He thought about Vanessa’s stomach and the life that was growing inside her. They didn’t know what she was having; Vanessa had wanted it to be a surprise. Royle was too scared to even imagine which gender the baby might be. He feared that if he thought too much about it, the baby might not come out right. It might be deformed. Or dead. What if the badness here had infected Vanessa, tainting the foetus? What if his seed had been bad, even before the baby was conceived?
What if the baby Crawled out instead of being pushed?
“Jesus...” He shook his head, closed his eyes. Why did he always have to be so dark? His thoughts were never optimistic. Perhaps that was the fault of the Grove, too. Vanessa had often said that the place – along with the job he did – had eaten away his insides, leaving behind an emptiness that he could never quite fill, no matter how hard he tried. Was she right? Was that what had happened to him? Were all of his strange thoughts about the estate nothing but the imaginings of a twisted mind, a brain attuned to darkness?
He got out of the car and approached the front gate. A figure was standing in the window, watching him. The curtain fell back into place and the figure glided away. Seconds later, the fro
nt door opened.
“Good day, DS Royle.” Tony Millstone was a ruined man. Before his daughter had vanished, he’d been something of a long-distance runner, competing in local road races and even in a few marathons. Now he was old, withered, and decrepit well before his time. He was only forty-seven but he looked at least a decade older. He dressed old, too, favouring dull, colourless cardigans and creased slacks over the jeans and colourful shirts he used to wear. His running shoes gathered dust in a cupboard somewhere, his dreams mothballed up with them.
“Tony.” Royle walked up the path and shook the man’s hand. His bones felt brittle, like bread sticks.
“Come inside. Margaret’s put the kettle on... she needed something to do with her hands.” He shrugged, smiled, and led the way inside.
It wasn’t just Tony Millstone who looked worse for wear. The house itself seemed stuck in a time warp; it hadn’t been decorated since Connie’s disappearance and judging by the dust in the corners and the cobwebs up near the ceiling, it was barely even kept clean anymore. Royle imagined that the inside of the Millstones' hearts must also look like this: dry, empty, filled with dust and cobwebs and silence.
Margaret Millstone was standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing washed-out, shapeless jogging pants and a sweatshirt that had once fit her previously statuesque figure perfectly but now hung on her scrawny, malnourished body like an old potato sack. Her hair was thin and dirty, greying at the temples. She wore no makeup. Her eyes, he thought, were like piss-holes in the snow.
“Hello, Craig.” It was always first name terms with the mothers. The fathers all seemed to prefer to address him by his official title, as if that afforded them some distance from what had happened to bring him here. He’d often wondered why it worked that way and not the other way around, but had never been able to come up with a satisfactory answer.