Beyond Here Lies Nothing

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ROYLE USUALLY WENT over to Vanessa’s place once a fortnight for dinner. He wasn’t sure why they did this, or what she got out of the experience, but it meant that they could at least maintain regular face-to-face contact. It was part of the unspoken terms of their separation. Even though they were no longer officially together, neither of them could stand the thought of being apart, so they went through this stylised charade on a regular basis.

It had been her decision to temporarily separate — most of the major decisions in their lives were down to her — and although he’d never wanted it to happen, he could see the logic in her proposal. A bit of space; some time to contemplate what it was they both wanted; the distance he needed to pull himself together. His main fear — his only fear — regarding the situation was that she’d discover she didn’t want him back and that would be the end of them.

Vanessa still lived in the house they’d pushed their budget to the limit to buy, while he slept in that cramped little flat above the shops. He didn’t mind the arrangement, but he missed going home to her after a long, hard shift, missed pressing his body against hers in their double bed. But she’d never understood his anxiety as manifested in the Crawl, and his lasting obsession with the Gone Away Girls. His obsession with every case he’d ever worked on, if he was honest… it was this precise intensity that he failed to bring to their marriage, and it hurt her that he reserved it only for his work.

The car engine made a soft burring noise as he drove out into the Northumberland countryside, heading towards the small village where they’d set down roots. Royle had always been a city boy but Vanessa preferred to be out in the sticks, surrounded by trees and green fields and spaces that weren’t filled with the stench of motor vehicles and the sounds of a hemmed-in, overstimulated population.

It was dark now; the stars were out. The sky looked like a perforated black sheet backlit by a weak bulb. His hands ached as they gripped the steering wheel and his mind was filled with images whose collective meaning he found hard to define: a scarecrow with a missing girl’s face, a small crawling thing that remained out of sight, the mortally wounded body of a young man lying in a pool of blood.

These, among others, were the pictures he was forced to carry around with him, like unwanted family portraits of people he’d rather not be related to. He lived with these images; they were part of him now, central to who he was and what he had become. He wished that things were different, that he could have been a bus driver or a shopkeeper, or an internet millionaire… but he was a copper, and he always would be. Some things, it seemed, never changed, no matter how hard you wished they would.

When he pulled up outside the small detached house, he sat there for a little while, staring at the lighted windows and trying to define a shape beyond the glass. The Crawl was far behind him now; he could almost pretend that it didn’t exist, that it was something he’d once read about or seen in a film. This was real: the small, neat house in the country, his pregnant wife, the baby they’d made together, the untapped potential they had cherished before the darkness had come between them, driving a wedge between their feelings for one another.

Then, out of habit more than any sense of perceived menace, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see what was behind him. Darkness bulged along the street, like food caught in a giant throat. Something flickered; a sense of quick, nervous movement. Even here he wasn’t safe.

None of us are, he thought. Not ever.

The skin of his back and shoulders started to prickle; then it spread along his arms, reaching round to his chest, almost hugging him. The Crawl — it was here, even here, where he had mistakenly thought there might be safety. Somehow it had reached out, following him from the Grove, and managed to grasp hold of the rest of his life, tainting everything, polluting his thoughts and even his dreams.

He opened the door and got out of the car. A gust of wind blew along the street, buffeting him, almost knocking him off his feet. Then, a second later, the air was calm and still; there was not a trace of the wind he’d felt. Royle stared back along the street, in the direction he’d come. The darkness twisted, corkscrewing. He half expected to hear disembodied laughter.

Something’s coming, he thought, but he had no idea where the thought had come from or specifically what it meant. It’s on its way.

Someone crossed the street, turning their head to glance in his direction. It was a small girl. She was wearing a dress but no coat. It was much too late for children to be out, unless they were up to no good — and this one didn’t look like the kind of kid who hung out on street corners, smoking fags and drinking cider with her mates. She was too sensibly dressed, and there was a sense of innocence about her that he could make out even from this distance.

The girl stopped in the middle of the road and stared at him. She lifted her arms as if she were about to take flight. Darkness webbed in the space between her arms and her body; black gossamer wings unfolding. Royle took a step forward, and the girl’s image seemed to waver, like a faulty piece of film.

He shook his head, closed his eyes. Opened them again.

The girl was no longer there. Wind gusted but he could not feel it. A soft clicking sound, like someone running a stick along metal railings, moved away from him along the dark street, fading into the distance. It was a sound he’d heard before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. He never could; it was like some kind of primal echo, a memory from a time that was lost to him.

Royle turned away and headed towards the house, the lights, his wife and unborn child. He opened the gate and walked up the path, flanked on either side by tiny lawns, flower beds Vanessa kept looking neat and tidy, even during the winter months. He took a few panicked breaths, trying to calm down, and then knocked sharply on the front door. Waiting, he gazed through the glass panel in the door and saw a wide, blurred figure approaching along the hallway.

The door opened and she stood there, an engorged angel, on the threshold.

“Hi Craig.” She smiled.

“Hi.” He stared at her narrow, pretty face, the bright maternity dress, the bulge she was massaging softly with both hands.

“Come on in.” She turned and walked into the house; he followed her, close to tears, tottering on the edge of absurdity.

The house smelled of beef casserole and Vanessa’s coconut body lotion. He glanced up the tight staircase as they passed alongside it, wishing that he could stay the night, sleep in their bed, hold on tightly to the woman he loved, had always loved, would never stop loving. Like a shadow of the past (or the future?), he saw a faint image of himself walking across the upper landing, heading for the bedroom they’d once shared.

“How are you today?”

She sat on the sofa as he entered the living room, stretching out her legs and resting her feet on the leather pouffe. “I’m achy.” She smiled. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes were heavy-lidded, but still she was beautiful. “Had a few cramps, several hard kicks or punches in the stomach. I think this one’s going to be a kick-boxer.”

Royle sat down in the armchair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Anything I can do for you, or get you?”

She shook her head.

He tried not to look at the framed photographs on the mantelpiece, the pictures on the walls, the magazines in the rack. Each ornament reminded him that he no longer lived here; every new knick-knack on a shelf was another barb in his heart because she’d bought it alone, without him.

“What about you? What kind of day have you had?”

“Weird,” he said, without thinking.

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

He shook his head, scratched his right knee with his index finger. “Somebody’s playing silly games on the Grove estate, leaving scarecrows in people’s gardens. Nothing major, just stupid stuff. Some kind of wind-up.”

“I see,” she said, leaning back on the sofa, her interest having dried up and blown away. “I’ll serve up dinner shortly. It’s beef casserole… your favourite dish.” She narrowed her eyes when she said it, as if to make clear that she meant nothing by the gesture. It was just a meal, nothing more.

“That sounds good. Really good actually. I’m starving.” He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, or even what he’d eaten. Probably some kind of junk food: a burger, a TV dinner warmed up in the microwave. Had he even taken breakfast this morning? But why the hell was he thinking about food when he should be down on his knees begging Vanessa to take him back, to give it another go? It was an indication of how his life was unravelling. Nothing was straightforward, every road had too many bends and he always got caught up watching the scenery.

Vanessa stood and waddled across the room to the kitchen door.

“Need any help?” He began to follow, but she turned around.

“No, I’m fine. I can still serve a meal. You just sit down and I’ll call you in when it’s ready. I’d offer you a drink… but…”

He smiled. “I’ll be happy with a glass of water with the meal.”

She nodded. “I’m pleased to see you’re making an effort.” Before he could add anything more, she vanished into the kitchen.

Royle was too restless to sit, so he walked to the window, glancing out at the street. The old stone wall opposite the house held back a line of trees whose branches flapped and twitched in the breeze. The sky was black and distant. No traffic passed by; the road had always been quiet, hardly ever used except by the people of the village. He stared at the swaying tree branches, their leaves gone; they resembled spiny fingers grasping at the air, trying to gain purchase in the world. Some of those leaves had fallen to the ground, and they looked black in the darkness.

“Okay, you can come through now.”

He reached out and shut the window blind, then turned away from the window. He walked across the room and opened the kitchen door. Vanessa was already sitting at the big dining table, pouring water from a clear glass jug into two glasses. Large bowls of casserole sat steaming on the table.

“Looks good,” he said, sitting down opposite her.

“Thanks. You always say that.”

They started to eat and said nothing. There was a strange tension between them, as if they barely knew each other. Perhaps they didn’t; maybe that was the problem. They’d never known each other, not properly, and now the cracks were starting to show.

“So you’re keeping off the drink?”

Her question took him by surprise but not enough to faze him. “Yes,” he lied. “Well, as best I can, anyway.”

She stopped eating, put down her spoon. “What does that mean?” Her eyes were wide. In their depths, he saw everything: the life they’d had, the way things had been cut short because of his behaviour, the possible future they had together if only they could work things out. Behind this, pulsing in the darkness, were so many questions that had so far remained unasked.

“I keep slipping, a bit. I’ll go for days without even thinking of drink, but then I’ll suddenly find myself in a bar, or sitting at home with a glass in my hand. It’s nothing major. Not like it used to be…” He reached for his glass, gulped down the water, and refilled it. “Need a top-up?”

“No thanks.” Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

“I really am trying my best, you know. I want you back… I want us back together, with the baby. It’s the only life I see ahead of me, the only viable option. If I don’t have that, I have nothing.”

Her eyes gleamed beneath the kitchen lights. He wasn’t sure if she was crying or if the bulbs were too bright.

“I am trying.” It seemed pathetic that this was all he had: a promise, one that was only partially true. Words, empty reassurances, like pleading for forgiveness. He felt the Crawl upon his flesh, making him shudder. His skin prickled, his shoulders began to tense. He thought of those black leaves on the ground outside, a charred pathway to oblivion.

“Eat up,” she said, picking up her spoon. “It’ll go cold.”

Royle couldn’t help reading too much into her statement. Did she simply mean the casserole, or her love for him? Might that also go cold if he couldn’t pull himself together in time? Was she trying to say that there was a finite time span on this separation, and if they couldn’t get past these current obstacles he would lose her forever? Her and the baby…

He ate his casserole, but it was tasteless now.

After dinner he washed the dishes and she dried and put them away. They stood side by side at the sink, their hips occasionally touching, their hands moving in some kind of pattern designed to achieve a common goal.

“We could have used the dishwasher, you know.”

He glanced sideways, catching her profile. She was smiling.

“This is better,” he said. “This is much better.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

When the dishes had been put away, they went back into the living room and sat together on the sofa. He had a glass of orange juice and she was drinking herbal tea. The television was on; they stared at the screen without watching what was playing. Some old film: Paul Newman and Natalie Wood.

Royle wanted to reach out his hand and place it on her thigh, but it was too soon for such an intimate gesture. Instead he tried to be content with the minimal contact: thighs touching, breath mingling, feet resting side by side on the same low footstool.

“Oh…”

He turned, putting down his glass. “What’s wrong?”

Her face looked shiny, as if she were sweating. Her eyes were huge, glowing. “I think… I think baby’s kicking.” She grinned.

“You said it had been restless all day.”

“Yes, I did. Maybe excited about you coming…” She was still smiling, but he could tell that she was in pain.

“What can I do?” He swivelled his body on the sofa, ready to get up and fetch whatever it was she needed.

“Give me your hand.”

He wasn’t expecting that; he needed an errand to run, a task to perform. He always worked better if he had a specific job to do, a problem to solve.

“Come on.” She reached out and opened her fingers.

He slipped his hand into hers, shaking, feeling as if this was a pivotal moment, that it meant something in a way that no other moment in his life ever had.

“Gently…” She slowly pulled his hand towards her body. She placed the tips of his fingers against her belly. “Don’t be scared.” She’d never done this before. Here was progress, at last. She was warming to him again, forgetting about the pain he’d caused, remembering that they’d created this life together, out of the raw material of love.

He opened his hand and pressed the palm flat against her belly. Even through the thin cotton of the maternity dress, her body was hot, as if a fire burned somewhere under her skin. He waited for some movement, holding his breath, perched on the edge of a miracle.

The baby kicked. It happened once, a sharp little prod, as if it was trying to hit his hand.

“Did you feel it?”

He was unable to speak. He nodded, feeling the heat of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks.

“This is what you’re fighting for. Keep it up, stay off the drink, forget about the job and the stress… fight for us, Craig. For us: all three of us. We’re a family, and that’s how I want it to stay.”

“Can I… can I listen?”

She nodded. “Yes, if you like.”

He slid off the sofa and got down on his knees in front of her, a supplicant before this goddess, this carrier of immense power and promise. When she clasped his head in her hands and drew him in towards her, he remembered all the times she’d carried out the same movement before, but for a different reason. He tasted a ghost of the tang of her sex on his tongue, smelled the musk of her juices. He ached for her; every part of him, each single cell, wanted to be with this woman.

He placed the side of his head against her swollen belly, his hands going up, and his arms slipping around her widened waist. He closed his eyes and he listened; he listened for the heartbeat of his saviour, the answer to his pathetic secular prayers. At first he could hear nothing, and then he began to detect her heartbeat… and beneath that, or alongside it, he swore that he could hear a second frail rhythm. It was the heartbeat of his son or daughter; the only sound in the world that really mattered.

Then, he heard something else.

It began softly at first, and he thought it might be the droning of a distant motorbike disturbing the moment as it raced along the empty village streets. Then he realised that the sound was coming from inside Vanessa. It was originating from the same place as those two heartbeats.

A faint clicking sound, like castanets muffled by a pillow. It grew slightly louder, clearer, and then began to wane. The sound didn’t last long — just a couple of seconds — but as he listened, the Crawl seemed to answer its song. His entire body went cold; gooseflesh rose on his skin; he started to shake, to tremble like a frightened child.

He pulled away from Vanessa, stumbling across the floor and falling onto his backside.

“What’s wrong?” Her face went slack. Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to see the distrust in her face, not again, not now.

“Nothing.” He stood, running a hand through his hair. “I just… it was the emotion. I was overwhelmed. That was a heartbeat. I heard its fucking heart beating.”

Vanessa relaxed, reaching out to pat the sofa beside her. “Come and sit by me, Craig.”

He moved to the sofa and sat down. He was cold. He tried not to shiver.

She clasped his hand, squeezing his fingers. Her skin was warm; it took away the chill.

“I’d like you to stay the night,” she said.

He turned to face her but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the television, her face serious. Paul Newman was standing in the street, looking up at the sky.

“I don’t want you to go, not tonight.”

“I…”

“No, wait. Just hear me out.” Finally she looked at him, and her eyes were hard, like chips of ice. “I’ve had this feeling all day… a feeling that something’s on its way and it won’t be good for you. For us. I’m scared. It’s probably just hormones, but the fact is… the fact is, I’m scared. I want you to stay. I want you to sleep beside me, in our bed. I don’t know what this means in terms of us, but I think it says a lot that I want you close to me, I want you holding me in the night.”

His lips were dry, but he was no longer cold.

“You can say something now.” A flicker of humour crossed her face.

“Of course I’ll stay. There’s nothing I’d like better.”

She looked down at her knees. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper.

She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, desperate not to break the fragile connection.

They stayed that way for a little while longer, holding on to each other yet still maintaining a short distance between their questioning bodies; intimate strangers waiting for some kind of sign or signal. Then, when the film ended, they went wordlessly upstairs to bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THIS TIME ABBY is aware of sitting up in bed and turning to face the door. The room is dark; the shapes of the furniture are somehow threatening, as if they are poised to pounce. She feels as if she might be in danger, but she isn’t sure what form it will take.

She walks across the room, shedding her nightgown. She is hot; her skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat. She opens the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. The door to her daughter’s room is already open and light spills out across the carpet. Shadows caper across the walls. Abby is holding her breath. If she lets it out, she might disturb whoever is in there.

She moves slowly towards the room, her arms hanging down by her sides, hands open. Her skin prickles, excitement makes her blood run faster.

She enters the room and there is no one there. The homemade totem, the stack of Tessa’s things, looks larger, taller; its tip is now almost touching the ceiling. She cannot remember adding anything new to the pile. She has not touched it for quite some time, as if some residue of fear has kept her away.

She walks across the room and stands before the conical mound of her daughter’s belongings. Things have been rearranged. The photo of Tessa’s face is no longer there, and toys she does not recognise have been added to the construction.

She kneels down and closes her eyes.

“Tessa, Tessa, Tessa… bless her, bless her, bless her… come back to me.” She recites the familiar prayer without even thinking about it. She does not hear the words as they pass her lips.

She hears the creaking, rustling sound of the totem shifting. She does not open her eyes. If she sees what is happening, it might break the spell. Something touches her face, brushing softly across her cheek. It feels like a tiny hand, but one that is not fully formed. The fingers are fused together and the skin feels soft and inchoate.

Whatever it is pulls away, making a louder rustling sound this time as it is sucked back into the mass of the totem.

Abby opens her eyes.

She is no longer inside the room, or even in the house.

She is kneeling at the centre of a grove of oak trees. It is dark. The sky is black and starless. There is no moon. The ground is covered with leaves.

Figures are hiding in the undergrowth, standing silently, watching her. The figures are small, slight, like malnourished children.

“Hello…”

The figures do not move. Their eyes sparkle behind a screen of foliage. White teeth are bared in either smiles or snarls. There are three of them, and slowly she begins to realise that they are waiting for her. In unison, they raise their hands above their heads, open their fists, and each of them drops a handful of black leaves onto the ground.

She stands and walks towards a clear spot between two trees, where the overhanging bushes have been forced apart to form an archway. She passes through the archway, feeling leaves brush eagerly against her skin, and makes her way along a narrow, ill-defined pathway. The trees and bushes on either side of her sway, as if dancing. Her bare feet sink into the soft loamy ground.

Before she has time to be afraid, she emerges from the grove and is standing in a clearing. The figures are standing up ahead, at the top of a slight rise. She can see them clearly now, despite the lack of natural light — still there is neither moon nor stars to light her way. There are, as she suspected, three of them, and they are little girls. The girls are wearing tattered clothing — torn coats and dresses, shoes that are falling apart on their small feet. Their bodies are painfully thin, which makes their heads look oversized. They look half starved, as if they have not eaten in months. Abby is put in mind of video footage from African trouble spots: big eyes, dark, sunken cheeks, pot bellies filled with air not sustenance.

As one, the three girls turn away and start to walk down the opposite side of the hill, black leaves falling from their palms to scatter on the earth. Abby follows them, unconcerned at her nakedness, just desperate to make sure that she does not lose sight of the children.

The grass stretches on for as far as she can see, broken here and there by solitary stands of trees, ruined stone buildings, flapping tent-like hides or dwellings inside which small fires burn. Smoke rises from holes in the roofs of these flimsy structures, grey against the black, starless sky.

She can see the dark leafy path they are following, make out small animals running alongside her as she trails the girls. She knows exactly who they are, these three children: they are the Gone Away Girls, all but one; all but her daughter, Tessa.

They’re taking me to see her…

But she has no idea if this is the truth. For all she knows, they could be leading her to certain death, or straight off the edge of a cliff. If they were leading her into the mouth of some hideous monster, she would have no clue until she got there, and stared directly into its fiery eyes.

But at least I’ll know… at least I’ll know what happened to her.

And isn’t that what’s been killing her all along, the lack of knowledge? Long ago, she told herself that knowing Tessa was dead would be at least better than not knowing anything at all. Her life has been on hold, her soul has withered; she is barely even human. The loss stalled her in time, made it so that she ceased to develop as a person. All she was, all she is, is a thing that waits.

She follows the small, thin forms of the three girls, watching their dark backs, terrified that they might bolt or — even worse — simply fade into the darkness, leaving her there alone on the pathway of black leaves. She is walking quickly to keep up but she does not feel out of breath. It is as if she is standing in one place and the landscape itself is moving, rolling past her like a set dressing on castors.

Hills loom out of the darkness up ahead. They form the foothills of a high rock face. There are caves: dark, jagged holes cut into the hillside. The girls pause, look back, wave. Then they bend over and enter one of the caves.

Abby increases her pace. She feels a light chill against the side of her face, and it is pleasant, keeping her cool. When she reaches the cave, she looks up at the sky — wishing that she could see some stars — and then follows them inside.

Darkness swallows her up. She feels like turning back, following the black leaves to the safety of the grove of trees, but realises that she has no choice but to carry on into this uncertain darkness. She hears water dripping down the cave walls; the hard ground is cold and wet underfoot. She can see nothing, only blackness. She holds out her hands, feeling her way deeper inside, and even though she expects to come up against granite walls, she feels nothing… she might be walking a path with a sheer drop on each side.

But that’s okay. She doesn’t fear death, not now. She has not been afraid of dying for a long time. In fact, she’s often flirted with death, taking too many drugs and sleeping with strange men in the hope that they might be killers. But nothing bad ever happened. She has led a charmed life since her daughter went missing, as if the forces of the universe have conspired to keep her alive, as a form of punishment for losing the only person she ever loved, the only human being who ever loved her as much as she never deserved.

Vague light up ahead.

She moves towards it, quickening her pace. Soon the backs of the heads of the girls resolve out of the darkness. She is closer than she thought; only a few feet behind them. She has the feeling that they have deliberately slowed their pace.

Tiny electric bulbs — like fairy lights — hang from wires along the cave walls. The light they shed is meagre, barely illuminating the space, but it is so much better than darkness.

Abby begins to glimpse markings on the cave walls: crude paintings of animals, buildings and people. She pauses before a representation of a grove of trees, and then, farther along the tunnel through which she is passing, she sees the ragged outline of what looks like the tower block at the centre of the Concrete Grove, the Needle.

But how can this be? These drawings are primitive, like the ones she’s seen on documentaries on television. Primitive Man, using inks made out of berries, would decorate the walls of his cave with illustrations much like these.

She stands and stares, unable to take it all in. How could shambling cavemen, dressed in the hides of wild beasts, even know about a place that has yet to exist — a housing estate tens of thousands of years in their future? None of this makes sense. She fights against the sight, trying to force it out of her mind.

She looks up ahead, along the tunnel, and sees the girls watching her. Their eyes glow in the weak light, but there is nothing behind them. In unison, they beckon to her. Then she hears the noise — a soft, slow humming sound. She tilts her head and stares over the girls’ shoulders, trying to catch sight of what is busy behind them. The darkness moves as if composed of a million smaller parts, each one spinning and twirling and making a pattern in the air.

“Tessa?”

No… it isn’t Tessa. It is not her daughter.

The girls steps aside, allowing her access to the back of the cave. Beyond them, the tunnel opens up into yet another cave, and then there is only darkness. She steps forward, moving past the girls, and is only dimly aware of the girls blending into the rock walls, becoming part of the cold, damp stone. There are no electric bulbs here, just the cold air, the constant dripping, and a strange, barely perceptible luminescence which emanates from the rock itself.

She walks across the uneven ground, over a small, natural walkway that spans an underground stream. She looks down, into the rushing water, and sees faces staring up at her through the churning white foam. She does not recognise any of the features, but she feels a connection to their pain. They are trapped here, in the endlessly running stream, but they are not unhappy. Their pain has brought them here, just as her own pain has allowed her to access this strange, desolate place. It is a pain that has no place in the real world, the world she’s left behind; but here, underground, and even in the greater world beyond, through which she’s passed, it is welcomed.

Those faces belong to dreamers, and they are dreaming of themselves.

At the end of the walkway is a low stone plinth, a pedestal carved out of the solid rock. As she draws closer, Abby sees that there are two tiny hummingbirds hovering above this plinth, facing each other. When she reaches them, she goes down on her knees. It feels right to show respect to the wonder before her. It isn’t prayer, exactly, but it is a subtle form of worship, a willing act of subjugation.

One of the birds is black, the other is white. No other colours mar their purity. Their wings move in a blur; the beating of those wings equal, the sound they make a single endless note. Not one of the two birds is stronger than the other. It is unclear whether they are mates or enemies. They simply hover there, balancing what at first she thinks is a diamond between the tips of their beaks.

She shuffles forward, not caring that the skin of her knees is torn by the rough stone. Bending forward, she inspects the scene more closely. The black hummingbird is pure black. The effect of looking at it is hallucinatory. She feels as if she is staring at a hummingbird-shaped hole in reality, and glimpsing the utter blackness beneath. The white hummingbird is so bright that it almost blinds her to stare directly at it, so she is forced to look askew. Yet, curiously, it sheds no actual light. These are not colours: they are an absence of colour. And they are locked into a battle that can never have a victor.

The thing she initially thought was a diamond is shaped like a teardrop. It is tiny, but it draws her gaze, growing massive at the centre of her vision, like a black hole sucking towards it all of time and space.

“It is a teardrop. It’s a frozen tear…”

She has no idea who has shed the tear, whose sorrow has given birth to such a magical thing, but there is no doubt in her mind that it is here, underground, in this dark cave, protected by — or perhaps imprisoned between — the twin hummingbirds, one black, the other white. Everything is focused on this scenario; this is the pivot around which everything else turns, and she’s been given a glimpse of the mechanics behind the universe.

Behind her, the three girls giggle softly.

She stares deep into the frozen teardrop and sees it all: tectonic plates shift, carving up the planet; icebergs collide; caverns fill with seething magma; above the surface, dinosaurs roam, then die, take flight to live in the trees; monkeys come down out of trees and begin to dream the dreams of humanity; and this place is born, it comes into being on the strength of those first fleeting dreams; the first tear that is shed in this place is encapsulated, frozen into a solid gemstone, and it becomes the centre. Balance is achieved; eternal, everlasting, a fulcrum upon which nothing will ever turn, because the energy will never tip one way or the other.

“Is this place the dream the world has when it’s sleeping, or was the world dreamt into being by that grove of trees out there?” She is talking to herself and doesn’t expect an answer.

The teardrop shimmers; the opposing hummingbirds are unchanging, infinite.

The girls giggle again. The sound is eerie yet strangely comforting. It reminds her of her daughter.

When she turns around to confront the girls, to chastise them for sullying the purity of this subterranean grotto, she is back inside her daughter’s room. Shards of fractured moonlight shine through the window, their brightness making her wince. The sky is overcrowded with silly stars, each one of them a dead world, a place where life will never be possible.

ABBY STOOD AND walked out of the room, pausing outside the door. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

The three girls giggled again… but, no, this time it was only one.

She turned back and entered the room.

“Tessa, is that you?”

She felt the beating of her heart like a tiny fist within her chest. The tears rolled freely down her face, dripping off her chin, smearing against her naked throat and chest.

The top of the shrine had slipped, toppled at an odd angle. The point of the cone, so carefully modelled, had sheared away. She walked over to the mound and was forced to struggle onto her tiptoes to inspect the damage. She peered inside the gap, straining to see down inside the pyramidal mound.

There was someone inside there, crouched low, arms up and wrapped around their head. It was a small figure, barely formed, yet recognisably human. Like a new-born child, it looked wet, slimy.

“Tessa?”

The arms moved, snaking downwards across the slick, bald scalp. They made a sound like liquefied flesh sliding off bone — or at least how Abby imagined that might sound. The figure was breathing. She could hear the gentle, regular rhythm of its inhalations and exhalations. Its shoulders rose and fell fractionally. More movement: small, silver branches erupting from the slick head, reaching upwards, towards the top of the totem, quivering as they climbed.

Abby fell backwards, stumbling across the floor until her back hit the wall. She raised her hands, but had no idea what to do with them. She lowered her hands, feeling foolish.

The pointed tip of a silver branch emerged from the hole, waved around for a second, and then vanished back inside, dislodging a doll’s arm from the pile.

What was it, human or flora? When she’d been looking down inside the totem, she could have sworn that she’d seen arms cradling the top of a head… but now there was only a knot of branches, like those of a budding sapling.

Mind racing, blood pumping, heartbeat doing double time, she did the only thing that seemed sensible in her distressed state. She went into the bathroom to get some water for her new plant.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE CAT BOX was resting on the back seat as Erik drove out to the old country house. He hadn’t wanted to put it in the front, beside him, didn’t feel comfortable having it in such close proximity. He knew this was unreasonable, but it didn’t make him change his mind.

He kept his eyes on the road, not wanting to have an accident or draw attention to his presence from any passing police vehicles, but he was acutely aware of what had become of Monty Bright curled up in the box behind him. He’d realised, of course, that there was far more different about Monty than just his appearance. The twisted remnant of the man was somehow reaching inside Erik’s mind, grabbing hold of his will, and gently coercing him. It felt like soft waves of energy, caressing his brain, massaging the lobes and releasing chemicals that softened all the hard edges.

Erik wasn’t exactly doing things that were out of character, or that he wouldn’t have done anyway. No, it was more down to the fact that he was doing them without thinking, and not even questioning his motives. He was like Erik Best turned up to eleven; a rock n’ roll version of himself with no holds barred and lacking an off switch.

He realised that he was on his way to meet a man he was planning to kill — he wasn’t befogged enough to blank out that particular piece of information. But somehow it didn’t matter. He felt… well, he felt nothing. That was the thing. His emotional responses were empty, as if the emotions themselves had been drained away, leaving behind only a faint residue, an echo.

It was like rushing on strong drugs, but better: easier to relinquish control.

The big old house reared over the horizon to his right, a familiar face with dark eyes and a tightly shut mouth. The Barn — a separate building on the same plot of land — looked dark and foreboding, as if it had sloped quietly away from the side of the house, up to no good. He’d never before noticed that the Barn was this spooky, not until he’d shut it up after the bout that had ended in Marty’s stabbing. There would be fights there again, one day, but he was in no hurry to organise anything, not even a dog fight. He’d gone off the kind of people those events attracted. He liked their money, and had always ignored the bloodlust because of it, but something inside him had changed. He could no longer stomach being around people who were so cowardly that they would rather pay to watch two men fight on a roped-off section of dirt until only one was left standing than face their own battles.

He pulled up at the side of the narrow road, the wheels spitting gravel. There were no streetlights out here. He glanced up at the sky and could see few stars. The moon was a ghost; its outline was barely visible against the blackness, as if it were afraid to take a good look at what was going on below.

Erik opened the gate to his property and got back inside the car. He drove in slowly, leaving the gate open so that Hacky could enter freely, and continued slowly towards the Barn. He parked behind the old wooden structure, so that his vehicle wasn’t visible from the road. There was no reason to get out yet, so he sat there, behind the wheel, and listened to the night.

He wound down the window to let in some air. Night birds sang; it was an eerie, mournful sound. It made him feel lonely, bereft of things he didn’t even realise he’d lost. He thought about his missing daughter, and how everything had started to go wrong around that time. When Tessa vanished, the rest of his world had begun to crumble, bit by bit: his relationship with Abby, the business ventures, even his uneasy partnership with Monty Bright. His hold on the world had loosened, and even then he’d realised that he either had to tighten his grip or let go for good.

He looked behind him, at the cat box. Its occupant was silent. There was no movement.

“What the fuck am I getting into here?”

There was no reply. He wasn’t expecting one, anyway, and was glad that none was forthcoming. The inhabitant of the box had shut up after being fed. It had not uttered a word since, other than inside Erik’s head.

He turned back to the front, stared through the windscreen. Saw headlights on the road as a small, battered Ford Corsa made its way along the fence line towards the gate.

Hacky.

Erik climbed out of the car, opened the back door, and carried the cat box to the Barn. He unlocked the main double doors, opened one of them with his foot, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He set down the cat box on the ground and opened the flap. Monty rolled out, his appendages scrabbling like rat’s claws in the dirt. The small, damaged figure didn’t look strong, but it moved fast now that it had fed. He watched in silence as it scurried over the ground to wait in the dense, syrupy shadows at the rear of the Barn.

He switched on an electric light that hung from a loop of wire nearby, but it flickered and barely illuminated the space around him.

Erik sighed and walked over to the old ring, where the fights had taken place. The ground inside the roped-off quadrant was scuffed, disturbed by combatants’ footprints. So many men had bled and screamed on that hard patch of earth; and how many men had suffered trauma that would then go on to ruin their lives? He didn’t know; didn’t care. The only time he had cared was when his friend Marty had been stabbed by a pissed-off Polish corner man. Erik had never told Marty, but at one time he’d loved him like a son. He’d let the younger man off the hook so many times, allowed him to get away with things that would have ensured anyone else had their legs broken.

But he’d not once told Marty how he felt. He wasn’t the kind of man to show his feelings, to allow anyone to sneak inside his guard. He didn’t regret the omission. There was still time — even though he hadn’t had a proper, in-depth conversation with Marty for a while. He had his number. When all this was over — whatever the hell this was — he could always ring him and confess how he felt.

“Erik?”

He turned to face the doors. One of them was open and Hacky stood there, trapped in the frame. He looked tiny, vulnerable… so damned easy to kill.

“Did you shut the gate?”

“Yeah. No worries.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I parked it next to yours, well out of sight.”

Erik nodded. “Good lad. You catch on quick — did I ever tell you that? A hell of a lot quicker than the rest of those stupid twats.”

Hacky smiled. He was so fucking easy to please. “No… not ever. I didn’t even think you’d noticed me.”

“Come on inside, marra. Shut the door behind you. We have things to discuss.”

The scruffy, wide-shouldered kid made his way across the Barn. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He was wearing his usual baseball cap — the one with the badge on the front: Scooby Doo, smoking a spliff.

Why did that seem so important right now, after he’d been thinking of Marty? It set off vague sparks at the back of his head, but Monty’s grip was too tight. He couldn’t quite place the thoughts.

Erik didn’t know anything right now; he couldn’t think. Monty’s fingers were crawling around inside his head, prodding the soft spots and burrowing into the exposed matter. All he could think of was to wonder how he was going to do this. It wasn’t quite clear yet, but he trusted that he’d know when the time came, when the opportunity for slaughter presented itself. Only then would Monty relax his grip and let Erik do what he needed to do…

“What’s all this about, then, Erik? You mentioned… you mentioned a job. Are you moving me up?” Under the circumstances, the combination of hope and expectation on the kid’s face was obscene. He’d do anything Erik asked; he might even kill someone he loved, if it meant worming his way into the boss’s favour.

Despite the grim situation, Erik almost laughed at the thought.

“First I have a few more questions.” He stood over the boy, his physique dwarfing Hacky’s slighter build to make him resemble a small child in the gloom.

“Yeah. Cool.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and waited, his posture loose, resting most of his weight on one leg.

“That thing you found. You definitely didn’t tell anyone about it, even after you left me?” Erik moved into a fighting stance. He didn’t even have to think; it was an instinctive physical response whenever he stood this close to another man.

Hacky shook his head. “We told nobody. We ain’t stupid, man.” He grinned. His teeth were yellowed.

“What about tonight? Does anyone know you’re here? Lie to me and I’ll find out… and then I’ll have to hurt you to make an example.”

The grin dropped. He licked his lips. “No. Didn’t tell anyone. Everyone thinks I’m off shagging some bird, innit.”

“Good.” He moved closer and put one arm around the kid’s shoulder, turning them both so that they faced the rear of the Barn. “This place has seen a lot of bloodshed. So much combat that the violence has been absorbed into the wooden beams and uprights.” He walked towards the rear of the building, moving slowly, not wanting to spook Hacky, to put him on his guard.

He was aware of Monty’s presence inside his mind. Not pushing… not controlling. Simply guiding.

“I know.”

“Men have fought, men have fallen, and men have bled out into the dirt. I’ve learned a lot of lessons in my time, and above all else I’ve come to know that we all must look after ourselves. You can’t trust your friends, women come and go, and money gets spent all too quickly. All we have is these.” He held out both hands and made them into fists. “These are my gods, marra. I worship them, I make them offerings. These beauties will never let me down. I’ve tested them, to the limit.” He stared at his scarred knuckles, feeling a sense of awe. He was confused to discover that he had an erection.

There was a subtle movement in the shadows up ahead. Hacky didn’t notice; he was still staring at Erik’s fists, wide-eyed and hopeful. But Erik heard clearly the slithering sound of something moving briskly towards them, like a snake moving through tall grass.

“Listen to me.” He grabbed Hacky’s shoulders and spun him around so that his back was facing the rear wall. “I’ve been watching you for a while now, and what I’ve seen has pleased me.” He stared over Hacky’s shoulder. The darkness near the ground was shifting.

He closed his eyes.

“I have something for you. I have a role for you to play, and I think it’s very important. I don’t know why yet, or how, but I’m sure it’s vital to the outcome of some game none of us can see. Like moving a chess piece, sacrificing a pawn.” He lifted his hands, pulled them swiftly apart, and then slammed them together, with Hacky’s neck caught between them.

Hacky’s knees buckled immediately.

Erik pulled back his right arm and slammed it straight right into the kid’s face. He felt the bones break, the warmth of the blood as it splashed his hands. Hacky went down like a dead weight. He had no fight in him; he was weak, a puny specimen. Erik grabbed him by the collar with one hand and hit him again with the other… again, and again, and again. His cheekbones turned to chalk; his right eye bulged obscenely from its socket; a few of those yellowish teeth, stained red now, spilled amid a thick wash of bloody saliva from his mouth and onto the ground. He twitched a few times, and then was still. Erik laid him gently on the ground at his feet and stepped away.

Monty came darting out of the shadows and clamped onto the side of Hacky’s face, suckling. The kid opened his mouth and tried to scream, but a long, fat appendage slipped between his shattered teeth, filling his ruptured throat, and choking him. Hacky thrashed around on the ground, but Monty gripped tight, eating away at his face, demolishing the already ruined flesh. The baseball cap fell to the ground and rolled a foot or so away. Erik bent down and picked it up, stuffed it into his back pocket; a small memento of this strange night.

Then he took a few more steps back, away from the scene. He didn’t want to see this. The further he moved away, the looser Monty’s grip on his mind became and he began to forget the details of what he’d done. There was blood on his hands. He wiped it off on his jacket. The sounds Hacky made as the life was choked out of him were difficult to ignore, but he turned his head and stared at the old, makeshift boxing ring.

After several minutes, the struggling sounds ceased. They were replaced by sucking, slurping, smacking noises: all the sounds of feeding.

Erik tried to feel something but it wouldn’t come. The more he was exposed to whatever forces had warped Monty Bright’s body into this small, stunted monster, the less human he became. He knew it was happening, and this knowledge somehow made things worse. But still he could not experience any kind of genuine emotion.

It’s like watching a film, he thought. Or reading a book. I’m here… but I’m not here. I’m standing off to the side, not really part of what’s going on.

He turned around and made for the doors, shutting them behind him as he left the Barn. The night air was warm; in the sky, clouds were gathering, forming little clumps and clusters. The moon had finally reappeared, a partial face in the darkness, and the stars were coming out to see the show.

Better late than never…

The thought, when it came, felt like so much more than it meant on the surface. Things were shifting, breaking free. Somewhere, doors were opening — or had already been open for some time — and something was trying to come through, from another place entirely. He stared out over the landscape, the familiar fields and the dark hills beyond, and was sure that there were trees he’d not noticed before. Their branches moved, clutching like hands. They were black silhouettes huddled against the blacker sky, strange growths that had shot up while he’d been inside the Barn, allowing himself to be used as a weapon.

To Erik, standing alone there under a weird, vivid night sky, this felt like the end of something he’d not even realised had begun. For years now, he’d been blind. He had orbited this great black hole, taking from it what he could, and now the black hole was claiming everything, including him, turning it all into cosmic debris, blasting it all into black flame. If he could open up his chest, exposing his innards, he’d find bits of charcoal, a charred ruin. He was a shell; no longer a real man.

His whole existence, his perception of what it meant to be alive, had changed now that he’d met a monster.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“HI.” HE WAS standing on the doorstep like an unwelcome visitor — and perhaps that’s exactly what he was, despite what she’d said earlier on the phone. He was beginning to get used to the fact that she always made him feel uncomfortable, and he could never be sure if he was welcome or not.

“I suppose you’d better come in.” Abby stepped back, turned and walked slowly down the hallway, her bare feet soundless on the worn carpet. Her feet were dirty, as if she’d been walking in mud. He wondered what on earth she’d been up to.

Marc followed her inside, trailing her into the living room. The lamp was on but the main lights were off. The curtains were open, letting in the light from the streetlamps.

“How about a drink?”

He could see that she’d already been drinking: a wine bottle, half empty, was resting on the table.

“Yeah, cheers.”

She left the room and returned with another wine glass and a new bottle, the belt on her dressing gown hanging loose, a flash of grubby thigh exposed under the flap. She topped up her own glass and then filled his, killing the first bottle. She sat down without tightening the belt.

“So how come you couldn’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

He nodded. “I can sympathise. What about?”

“My daughter.” She sipped her wine. Her face was so pale that it looked bloodless. Her long fingers seemed to lack meat; they were all bone.

“I’m sorry… it’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” she said, standing. “Fancy some music?” She moved over to the stereo without waiting for a response and switched it on. Classical music came through speakers that were set high up on the wall, mounted on brackets in the corners of the room.

“I wasn’t expecting that.” He smiled.

“We’re not all hopeless fucking chavs, you know. I realise that people like you — journalists, the middle class, all you wankers — like to cast us in a set role, but a few of us have experienced culture.” She sat back down, drank from her glass.

He ignored the remark about class. He didn’t want to get into that now. “Shit… that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t realise you were into classical music.”

“I like to read, too. Dickens, Emily Bronte, Mary Shelley, George Orwell… surprised, aren’t you, that a fuckwit like me even knows who Orwell is?” Colour rose back into her cheeks, her eyes flared, challenging him.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m a dick. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Just because I live on a shitty estate, drink too much and sleep around, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

He was unable to tell now if she was rattling his chain or being serious. She was a mystery, this woman. Perhaps that was part of the reason he was so drawn to her, why he found her so damned irresistible. Why he wanted to fuck her, even when he didn’t want to be near her.

“Sit down. You’re cluttering up the room.” She patted the sofa next to her, those long fingers twitching like the limbs of a pale mantis.

He sat down, took a mouthful of wine, wincing at a slight bitterness. She was much more animated than the last time he’d seen her, and he liked this version of her better. There was passion here, the type of which he had not even been aware of before. A fire burned deep inside her, but obviously she rarely let it out on show.

“I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you.”

She turned to face him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t get too cocky. Yours was the first number I could think of to call. All the other guys I know, they’d read too much into this. I was lonely. I got scared because of the nightmare. I just want some company, okay?”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Just don’t fall in love with me. They fucking all do that, and I hate it.”

He stared at her profile, once again wondering what on earth it was that he saw in this hard-faced bitch. “Don’t worry. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. Company sounds good to me… just the right deal. I promise not to get too clingy.”

She shook her head, her mood softening. “So what kept you up late tonight?”

“I was going through some of Harry Rose’s things. I’m staying there. His brother gave me the key.”

“I thought you managed to get here quickly. That explains it. What kind of stuff? Like, his will?”

“No, it was nothing like that. Just some old records… books and files, notebooks he’d kept about the Northumberland Poltergeist and something called Captain Clickety.”

Abby giggled. Then, softly, she began to chant a rhyme.

“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.”

“What’s that?”

“Just an old skipping song. We used to sing it when we were at school.”

“The Pollack children called their ghost Captain Clickety.”

She laughed, quietly, humourlessly. “He’s like a catch-all around here, our own little bogeyman. Everything gets blamed on good old Captain Clickety.”

Marc took another drink of wine, leaned his head back against the sofa. “I’m starting to think that Captain Clickety might be a lot more than some colourful local urban legend.”

“What do you mean?” her hand strayed to his thigh, rested there, gripping him lightly.

“I think he really existed. In Harry’s notes, I found a name. Terryn Mowbray. He was a plague doctor, back during the time of the Black Death.”

“Really?” She sounded drowsy. The wine was affecting her.

“Yeah. Not a very nice man, by all accounts, and he went missing in the grove of oak trees that used to be where the Needle was built. Two hundred years later, someone by that name also turned up at a colony of settlers in America. They went missing, leaving behind strange words carved into trees. I think the trees were oaks and rowans… English trees, not native to America. The same name was mentioned, but I’m certain it wasn’t the same guy… I mean, it couldn’t be. That’s impossible.” His mind was racing again, struggling to put together a puzzle to which he only possessed a handful of pieces.

“Sounds like a fairy story to me,” said Abby, stretching her spine, like a tired cat.

“Yeah. Yes, it does.” He closed his eyes and saw a beak-faced man standing unmoving in the darkness behind the lids.

Abby set down her glass on the floor, turned, and lunged at him. Her dressing gown gaped, exposing her breasts. She rammed her tongue between his lips, bit at his mouth, grabbed at his cock. She smelled of loam and wood smoke: the aroma of autumn.

“Whoa,” he said, pulling back. “At least let me get warmed up first.”

Five minutes later they were upstairs, fucking like banshees.

Afterwards they lay side by side in bed, finishing off the wine. Abby rested her head on his chest and he stroked her dry, brittle hair. He ran his fingers along her long, smooth throat, and cupped one of her breasts.

She stirred, moaned, pulled up her head and kissed his chest. Then she turned her attention to the tattoo on his left bicep. She leaned on one elbow and traced the outline with her other hand.

“What is it?”

“A flower.”

“I can see that, you idiot. What kind of flower?”

“It’s a daisy, I think.”

“You think?” She kissed it, the tip of her tongue flicking lightly at his flesh.

“Yes… it’s a daisy.”

“Does it mean anything? Anything particular, like?”

He shook his head. “No, not really. It just means I was pissed when I got it. See the weird black lines around the petals? I liked the look of it. I had it done when I was eighteen, after an all-day drinking session with a few mates. Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit. In retrospect, I wish I’d got something more profound.”

“Like a British bulldog?”

“A Union Jack or a football badge… perhaps a scroll with the word ‘mother’ on it.”

She laughed softly. Pulling away from him, she lay on her back with her breasts exposed. The nipples were standing up like bullets. Her skin was corpse-white, apart from the few faint mucky smears he’d noticed earlier.

Marc shifted his position and lay on his side, so that he could watch her reaction to his question: “That bloke, the one who came to see you the morning I was here…”

“Erik? What about him?” Her face was impassive as she stared up at the ceiling.

“He was Tessa’s dad, wasn’t he?”

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

“He threatened me. Warned me off, told me he’d hurt me if I came around here again.”

“But here you are.”

It was his turn to nod. He stroked her arm and once again cupped her breast, unable to keep his hands off her.

She smiled. “Don’t worry.” She closed her eyes. “He does that all the time. He can’t stand to see me with someone else. It’s partly my fault, I suppose. I used to go with men right under his nose, rub it in his face. Just to hurt him, like.”

“Why would you want to do that — hurt him?”

She sighed and opened her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell, filling and then emptying the motionless palm of his hand. “Because he’s a reminder of the way things used to be, when Tessa was still here. I can’t stand to even look at him because whenever I do, I think of her. I see her, standing there, holding his hand and smiling. She loved her Dad… and he loved her, in his own way. He loved us both too much, and not enough.”

“I see.” But he didn’t; he didn’t see at all. She was making little sense, but he was too tired to go into it any deeper. Let her have her rants, her furies. Just as long as they could fuck: as long as she allowed him inside her, where it was cold and harsh and compelling.

Before long he heard the sound of her snoring. It caught hold of him, that sound, and he felt himself slipping away, entering a light sleep. He was still clasping her breast in one hand. The nipple was hard, but it started to soften as she slumbered. He tried to open his eyes but it was impossible. When finally he did open them, she was gone from the bed. Time had passed but he wasn’t sure how long. The bedroom door was open. There was a light on somewhere along the hall, coming from an open door.

Tessa’s room.

He got out of bed and put on his clothes, feeling drowsy and disorientated. He left the room, walked along the hall, and stood outside the room, looking in. Abby was there, naked, kneeling before the pile of clothes and toys and paper. Her left hand was thrust between her legs, working furiously. There was sweat on her brow. Her shoulders were hunched, her back arched. When she came, she did so silently. Then she stood, walked past him without noticing, and returned to bed. By the time he’d followed her back into the bedroom, she was once again sleeping. He stood there, listening to her snore, wondering exactly how fucked up she might be. Wondering if she was more fucked up than he was.

HE WALKED BACK to Harry Rose’s place. It wasn’t far, and by now he knew the way. The night air was warm, the moon and the stars were bright, and most of the streetlights were still working. Voices carried on the air; he heard the distant sound of a revving engine; an alarm started to blare, but it was too far away to bother him. Occasionally, he glanced back over his shoulder, certain that he was being followed, but there was never anyone there. One time he thought he glimpsed a shadow — not much, just a swiftly moving dark patch. It looked like it might be a dog, but its head was much too large, lolling on a thin, stalk-like neck. He only caught sight of it for a second, and then began to doubt that he’d seen anything at all.

Back at Harry’s place he locked the door and checked the ground floor windows were secure. Everything was good; he was sealed safely inside, where no one could get to him. He tried to shrug off these paranoid thoughts, but they wouldn’t let go. They clung to him like strands of silk, sticking wherever they touched.

The sex and the wine had exhausted him, but not enough that he’d wanted to stay at Abby’s place until morning. He’d left a note on the bedside cabinet, a hastily scribbled message telling her that he’d call her in a few days. He figured that it was enough. If she didn’t want commitment, it should be plenty.

He sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote control, switching on the television. Harry had only used the normal terrestrial channels: no cable, no satellite. There wasn’t much on at this late hour, just a re-run of some old black and white American sitcom, a documentary about insects, and news programmes. He left on the documentary, staring at images of mandibles and segmented exoskeletons. Before he knew it, he was dozing again, the world growing dark and empty.

He woke to the sound of movement. At least that’s what he thought. He couldn’t be sure, because he had been dreaming of movement, too: massive insects, crawling across the estate, scuttling through the darkness.

He sat up and felt the muscles in his neck tighten. He rubbed at the area, trying to ease the pain. “Fuck…”

The sound came again: this time he heard it properly, something shifting upstairs, like furniture being moved. The television was off but he couldn’t remember if he’d done it or not. Hadn’t he gone to sleep with it still on? The room was dark, with only a chink of streetlight leaking through gap in the blinds.

Marc was no longer alone. He could feel it, just as he could feel the sofa beneath him, the cushion pressing against his back. It was not some abstract emotional sensation, but a physical realisation that he was not the only one occupying the space between these walls. There was somebody else inside the house.

He thought about leaving but he would feel cowardly if he left without checking that his suspicion was true. His mobile was somewhere near by — perhaps even in his pocket — but he didn’t want to call the police. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but a burglary was not taking place. Whoever was in the house, they meant him no harm. He was afraid, but he felt in no danger. If they’d wanted to hurt him, they could have done so while he slept.

He remembered the man who’d threatened him, Erik Best. Abby’s ex. What if he’d been watching the house, and then had followed Marc back from her place?

No, if it was him, he’d have hurt Marc by now, probably battered him half to death as he dozed on the sofa. This was someone else, something different.

Calmly, he stood and walked to the living room doorway. None of the lights were on in the house. He considered reaching out to switch on the stair light but that would announce his presence in the stairwell and give whoever was up there fair warning that he was going up. So he left the light out, and slowly began to climb the stairs.

Halfway up, he paused. Fear had crept softly up the stairs alongside him, and now it had reached out to grab his hand. His palms were sweating. His knees felt soft, as if they might give way.

What if it was Erik, the crazy ex-boyfriend? What if he was playing a game, toying with Marc, luring him upstairs so that, once he reached the top, he could push him down and pretend that his death was an accident?

He got himself under control and finished climbing the stairs. At the top, he looked around at the door which led to the attic rooms. It was open. Faint light spilled down the attic stairs. There was somebody at the top of the house. He moved slowly along the landing, and when he reached the open door he peered around the frame. He couldn’t see anyone, but the door to the model room was open, and he saw shadows spill across the stair walls as someone or something moved and momentarily blocked out the lamplight. He could’ve sworn that he’d turned off the lamp and shut the door when he came down earlier that evening. Now the door was open, the lamp was on.

He climbed slowly, lifting his feet with great care and setting them down again as gently as possible. Boards creaked; the banister shuddered against the wall, the screws slightly loose. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, approaching potential danger — whenever he saw it in a film, he always mocked the character’s stupidity.

When he reached the top of the stairs he was unable to move. He was too afraid to do anything but stand there, poised for fight or flight, and stare at the door frame. He drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists and moved.

“Fuck!” He screamed the word at the top of his voice, planning to shock whoever might be in there into making an error. But the room was empty; there was nobody inside. He looked around the room, looking for signs of interference, but nothing had been moved. He walked over to the model table and stared at the miniature layout of the estate. It took him a while to see it — longer than he would have thought possible, when he thought about it later — but eventually his eyes picked up on the changes.

Someone had added certain details to the model.

Small trees had sprouted, breaking through the roads and pavements and thrusting upwards. Windows were broken, cars were overturned, and yet more trees had appeared inside some of the tiny houses. He could see their shapes through the intact windows; in other places, spindly leafless branches poked through the shattered panes.

Dotted throughout the model neighbourhood were small figures, half-bodied scarecrows dressed in rags and supported on thin wooden stakes. They lolled at angles, leant against walls, and a couple of them had fallen over and seemed to be frozen in the act of crawling along the street, dragging their supporting columns behind them like battered and exposed backbones.

The biggest change had been wrought upon the Needle. The base of the tower block was wrapped in thick, gnarled roots, as if it were in the process of transforming into a massive oak tree. Trunks and branches had penetrated the concrete walls, growing from the inside, and snaked around the building, forming a fibrous spiral along its length.

Marc’s mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. Was somebody playing tricks on him, having a laugh at his expense? It might even be Abby. She was certainly psychologically damaged enough to think that something like this would be amusing.

He reached out and touched the wide, serpentine trunk that had wound itself around a portion of the Needle. It was not made out of paper or card, or even rubber and plastic. What he felt beneath his fingers was real wood. Like some kind of freakish bonsai, the small tree had taken root, sprouted, and started to grow.

Then he noticed the figures. He was sure they hadn’t been there, in this position, when he’d first entered the model room. Tiny scarecrows, their upper bodies wrapped in raggedy clothing, their lower bodies consisting of nothing more than cocktail sticks pushed into the ground, anchoring the figures in place. They were standing on the Roundpath, the narrow road that circled the Needle, looking up at the central tower. Each of them was wearing a floppy hat; their arms were outstretched, in a Jesus Christ pose. Marc wasn’t sure if they were caught in an act of worship or surrender. He didn’t think it made much difference either way.

The lamplight began to flicker, creating a strobe effect. Between one second of light and the next, something appeared on the model table. It was a small notebook, like the ones he’d found in the attic library. A patch of darkness moved away from the table; a quick, snaking movement, like an arm being drawn back.

“Harry? Is it you, Harry?” He was too anxious to feel stupid, but somehow the very idea of talking to a ghost felt wrong, awkward. He didn’t believe in ghosts… Or did he? If that were true, then why was he researching the Northumberland Poltergeist? And now that he thought about it, wasn’t he holding back on that research, keeping it at arm’s length? It was as if he were attached to a heavy weight by an elastic belt. Whenever he moved forward, the elastic became taut and it held him back. He could feel his feet sliding across the floor, moving backwards.

He stepped over to the model table and picked up the book. The front cover was dusty. He opened it to the first page. There wasn’t much written down there, but it was enough.

He read the words and felt doors opening up inside him:

Apart from the Pollack twins, there was a third child in the flat. A baby.

He closed his eyes and things twitched back there in the reddish darkness. Those doors stood ajar; they would not open fully, but it was enough for light to leak through the gap. Shadows twirled and danced; a ballet of darkness. Marc struggled to grab hold of whatever it was that capered there, inside him, but it was too slippery to get a grip on.

There was something there but he couldn’t make out what it was. Like a body under a sheet, he could discern only the outline. No details were visible.

He left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. In his hand, he gripped the notebook.

On the small landing, he stood with his back pressed up against the door, trying to convince himself that he could not hear the sounds of scrabbling from behind him, somewhere inside the room. On the table that held the model of the estate. He wasn’t quite ready to accept that. Such an admission would indicate a state of mind that he wasn’t prepared to face.

In fact, admitting that those sounds were real would be akin to embracing madness.

Downstairs, he sat on the sofa and began to read the rest of the notebook.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SHE KNEW THAT she was dreaming, even though she was asleep, so when she woke up she was at first puzzled by her surroundings. The room was dim, with just a desk lamp to light it, and instead of trees and moonlight glinting between dried leaves, there were solid walls, a desk — upon which she’d been sleeping, with her head resting on her hands — and a variety of medical apparatus.

“Wha…?” She could barely speak. Her mind was fogged. She didn’t even know what day it was, let along what time. She could see the night sky through the tiny basement window.

“Wanda,” she said, remembering her name. Miss Wandaful, said a soft voice inside her head. She smiled, rubbed her short hair with her hand, then reached around and scratched the back of her neck.

She’d been working late, as usual. These days there was little to go home for, and the police station offered a solace that her tiny one-bedroom flat no longer seemed to supply. Not since Katherine had moved out, anyway.

She closed her eyes. Thought about Katherine’s naked body; her smile; her dark, shining eyes; the way she’d loved to sleep with the covers pulled up over her head.

She missed having Katherine around. The truth was, she missed having anyone around. Before Katherine had arrived on the scene, Wanda had grown accustomed to being alone. She’d stopped being lonely and learned to enjoy her own company. Then Katherine had moved into the flat, hitting her life like a storm, and everything changed. She was still — even now, eight months after the relationship had ended — waiting for things to return to normal.

Then again, if DS Craig Royle decided to step up and take Katherine’s place, she wouldn’t need anything to go back to normal. They could go ahead and change again, and she’d be happy to wake up with him every morning instead.

It had been Royle she’d dreamt about. They’d been standing at the centre of a grove of oak trees, moonlight dappling their naked bodies. His erection had prodded her in the thigh and she’d reached out for it, grasping him. He’d either hissed or taken a sharp intake of breath, and his cock had pulsed gently in her palm, thickening.

Then she’d woken up, head down on her desk, the lamplight making her wince when she opened her eyes.

She stood and stretched, feeling the tiredness thread through her muscles. She carried out a few calf and hamstring stretches, the ones she used to cool down after a long run. Then she reached behind her head, grasping for the centre of her back, one hand after the other. Muscles relaxed, she turned to look for her bag. She didn’t really have a spot where it belonged, so she tended to drop it in a different place every day. This meant that each time she left the lab, she went though the same performance of trying to find the damn thing.

“Where the hell are you…?” She peered under the desk, along the work benches, on the floor by the sink, but the rucksack wasn’t there. She’d jogged into work this morning and forgotten to leave her gear out to air. She remembered bunching up her lycra leggings and T-shirt and shoving them into the bag, with the intention of taking them back out later, when she got the chance.

“Christ, my fucking memory!” Frustrated, she stalked around the office, trying to locate the bag. Because of the distraction, it took her a little time to realise that there was something different about the room.

She stopped and stared at the gurney. It was empty.

“No way,” she said, turning to inspect the rest of the room. There were too many dark corners. She wished she’d switched on the main lights, but now she was clear across the other side of the room, far away from the switch. Reaching the lights would involve walking across the floor, in full view of whatever was hiding in there with her.

“Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing here.”

Her words were answered by a short, sharp tapping sound, like the tip of a broomstick hitting the tiled floor.

“Fuck.”

The sound came again, and this time she could make out where it was coming from. Behind her.

Slowly, she turned around. The lamp seemed to dim, but she knew it was just her mind creating the effect. There was nothing wrong with the lamp; the bulb was new, she’d changed it herself a couple of weeks ago. Fear was causing the illusion of increased dimness. It wasn’t real.

This time the tapping sound went on for a couple of seconds — tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap — and she was reminded of the sound Long John Silver’s wooden leg had made on the ship’s deck in an audio version of Treasure Island she’d listened to as a kid. She used to love that tape. It was scary and exciting at the same time. But this situation, right now, was simply scary.

“Who’s there?” The answer was another rapid succession of tapping sounds on the floor.

Wanda began to back away. She held out her hands in front of her, warding off whatever might come tap-tapping out of the shadows. The sound followed her, advancing towards her across the room, and soon she began to make out the form of her pursuer.

The scarecrow was hopping along on the tip of its wooden stake, moving in short, quick jerking motions. Its upper body twitched forward with each separate hopping motion, the hat wobbling but not falling from the wooden head. The black and white photo of little Connie Millstone was stuck firmly back in place, her drawn-on eyes staring out from the flattened sheet.

Wanda continued to move away from the scarecrow, raising her hands, opening her fingers, trying to ward off what was becoming increasingly inevitable. Where was her bag? Her phone was in there… she glanced over at the desk, where the landline was located. Too far away; she’d never make it, even if she ran. She might reach the phone, but there wouldn’t be enough time to actually make a call and get someone down here to help.

She looked back at the advancing figure. It was cloaked in shadow, as if the light from the lamp was insufficient to burn away the clinging darkness. It had brought that darkness with it from wherever it had come from.

She started looking for a weapon — anything with which she could defend herself. She grabbed a Bunsen burner, and then threw it to the floor. Her grasping hand caught hold of a rack of test tubes and she threw them at the hopping nightmare, but it just flung out its arm and batted them away. The sound of breaking glass was tiny, inconsequential. She was too deep inside the building for anyone to hear. It was pointless even screaming.

The door was miles away, on the other side of the room, with the light switch on the wall nearby. She’d been moving in the wrong direction. The scarecrow knew exactly what it was doing, herding her into a corner like a trapped rat. When she felt the work bench pressing against the small of her back, she almost fell to the floor in defeat. This was it: there was nowhere left to run. She had come up against the wall at the other side of her life, and now it was all over.

She thought again of Katherine’s face, and she smiled. Then she thought about how she’d never get the chance to tell Craig Royle how she felt about him. But that was probably a good thing. He wanted to get back with his wife. The last thing he needed was another complication, some lonely woman claiming that she was in love with him.

But she was, wasn’t she? She hadn’t been in love with Katherine — that had been a combination of lust and availability. Or was that all love really was, anyway?

She’d never know.

It was too late. It was all too late to matter…

The scarecrow’s wooden support scraped on the tiled floor, making a squeaking noise that broke up the horrible tap-tap-tapping.

Wanda was only aware that she was crying because she felt the moisture on her cheeks. She wiped it away with one hand, puzzled. She’d never been a particularly emotional woman, so it seemed odd that she should weep at the prospect of her own demise.

She reached behind her, trying to find something on the work bench that might help. A sharp blade sliced her fingers, and she closed them around the scalpel. She brought round her arm and brandished the tiny blade, almost driven to laughter because of how pathetic it looked in the face of the hopping figure.

The scarecrow halted a foot in front of her. It was immobile, as if it had never moved at all. The photograph rippled. But there was no breeze, no wind to cause the fluttering motion.

Wanda looked back at the blade, and then at her wrist. No, that would be too slow. And she didn’t have the will power to cut her own throat.

“Come and get me, then, fucker.” She waved the scalpel slowly in the air, tracing a pattern that she hoped would act as a magic charm. “Come on.” She was whispering now. Nobody could hear anyway, so why waste her breath on loud threats or screams? Better to saveit for the fight to come.

The scarecrow began to silently shake, as if it were rapidly shrugging its shoulders. It took a second for Wanda to realise that the damned thing was laughing at her.