Silent Voices

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRENDAN WOKE UP feeling as if he hadn’t even been asleep. The blackout curtains — God bless Jane for buying them when he’d first started working nights — were still shut tight across the windows, barring all light, but his damned body clock knew that it was morning and had decided that it didn’t want to shut down for any longer. He couldn’t remember finishing his shift this morning, and regretted going in half-drunk. If he’d been sober, perhaps he would have taken the phone call from his boss in a more dignified manner.

Jane shifted in bed beside him, stretching out across the mattress and making a small whining sound.

“You awake?”

She didn’t reply, but she threw one arm across his chest and bent her knees so they pressed up hard against his left thigh. She was sleeping naked again. She got hot while she slept, and even if she wore a nightdress to bed she would often take it off during the night. Her skin was soft and smooth, and her hair tickled the side of his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Brendan had always loved the way his wife smelled, especially after a night in bed.

He lay there in the darkness, his vision sketching shapes in the air, and waited for Jane to wake up, or for her alarm to go off and rouse her. He didn’t want to wake her, but nor did he want to be alone with his thoughts. He felt… aggressive. The kind of anger that had not touched him for a long time; the drink helped keep it at bay. So did the bondage DVDs and the specialist magazines.

He felt his erection twitching into life and reached down, beneath the covers, to cup his balls. His libido was weak these days, as far as Jane was concerned, but still he was prone to the occasional morning glory. He smiled, and then remembered that he was angry. He scratched the hard shaft of his penis, enjoying the sweet, sharp pain caused by his fingernails, and then Jane stirred again at his side. He took away his hand, bringing it back up from under the bed sheets, and turned his head to face her.

“Morning,” she said, her voice slow with sleep. “What’re you doing awake?”

“Rough night,” he said, wishing that he could make out her face in the darkness.

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. He could feel her staring at the side of his face. “Did somebody try to break into the site?” Her voice was normal now; she was wide awake.

“No, no… nothing like that. Don’t worry. I just had a phone call that I didn’t enjoy.”

“Who was it from?” She slid out of bed and crossed the room to the window. Brendan could make out the vague lines of her body as she walked past the foot of the bed, like a shadow moving within the shadows. A vertical line of light appeared as she opened the blackout curtains just enough to illuminate that part of the room. The light spread, throwing items into relief — the chair by the window, the wardrobes, the dressing table, his wife’s naked body, heavier around the middle now that she was getting older but still a wonderful sight to behold.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sorry.” She moved away from the window. “Should I close them again?”

“No, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I meant that. Thanks. It’s nice to see you like this… you know, with nothing on.”

She smiled. “Oh, shut up.” She made a show of trying to cover up, and then gave up and opened her arms, her hands shaking in a dancer’s jazz-hands motion. She wriggled her hips. Her meaty thighs jiggled, but it was a sensual movement, something real and earthy and essential. “So,” she said, walking back around to her side of the bed, still smiling. “Tell me about this nasty phone call.”

He adjusted his position on the bed, turning his body so that he could look right at her. Jane’s mouth was slightly open, the lips showing blackness instead of teeth in the dim light. It was a disconcerting image. He reached out and ran his hand along the side of her waist, and then on down to her thigh.

Jane giggled. “Come on then, mister. What’s up?”

“Oh, it’s probably a lot less than I’m making out, but it kind of pissed me off at the time.” He stared into her blue eyes.

Jane raised her eyebrows but said nothing as she slid back into bed beside him.

Brendan sighed. His back started to itch, the acne flaring up again. It had been fine since that short outbreak last night, but now — as if following some kind of cue — it was starting to bother him again. “I got a call from my boss.”

Jane nodded. “Lenny Campbell? Okay… what’s so weird about that? Or do you not like him checking up on you?”

“He wasn’t checking up on me.” Brendan left his hand resting on the curve of Jane’s thigh. He opened his fingers and pressed his palm flat against her hot skin. “He rang me to tell me not to come in tonight.” He blinked, glanced at his hand, and then looked back at his wife’s face.

“Oh, shit. You’ve been fired?” The smile vanished. Her eyes clouded over. She pulled the bedclothes upwards, covering her nakedness, as if in some kind of punishment.

Brendan moved his hand away. “No… no, I haven’t been fired, or made redundant, or had my hours cut. He told me that I was still on the payroll but that somebody else was paying my salary. I’ve been hired as private security.”

Jane shook her head. “I’m not following this. What did he mean, ‘private security’? What’s that all about?”

“It’s him.” Brendan looked away, his gaze roaming the walls and taking in the framed school photographs of the twins, a wedding photo on the dresser, and the cluttered surfaces in the bedroom. “It’s Simon fucking Ridley, isn’t it? He rang Campbell and brokered some kind of deal. I’m working directly for him now. That arrogant bastard is paying my wages, paying for the food I put on the table, the roof over our heads. He can’t leave well alone; he has to interfere.” He felt the rage building again inside him. Sitting up, he pressed his lower back against the headboard. His upper back was burning; a strip of lava spilled across his shoulders. The pustules were signalling to him, responding to his wayward emotions.

“Calm down, pet. Maybe it’s not what you think. Perhaps he has a good reason — like, he’s trying to help? He always was a clumsy, inappropriate shithead, and this is probably just another example of that. I bet he thinks he’s helping us out.”

“My shoulders hurt.” Brendan had closed his eyes. He saw red fire behind the lids. It was like staring down into an active volcano. “My back’s stinging.”

“Take deep breaths.” Jane sat up, the covers falling away to expose her breasts and her belly. Small pink rolls of flesh around her waist; she always called them her ‘mummy-tummy’. “It’s okay. Don’t get yourself so worked up.” She rubbed his arm with her hand, and then started to massage the back of his neck, just above the infected area.

“I hate this,” he said, not opening his eyes. “I hate me.”

“I love you,” said Jane, still applying pressure to the nape of his neck. “So I guess you’re screwed, aren’t you?” The pressure increased; it was blissful. Nobody could calm him down quite like Jane.

“Thank you,” he said, and opened his eyes.

“Listen, I have to get the twins up, get them ready and take them to school. Are you going to be okay?”

He nodded. “Aye, aye… Of course I am. Just a bit stressed, that’s all. That idiot coming back here and trying to track down Marty… it’s freaking me out. He wants to get the three of us back together, like the old days.”

“The good old bad old days…” Jane’s voice held not a trace of humour.

“Yeah.” He reached up and grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “That’s exactly what they were.” Her fingers were hot, as if she’d been handling hot coals. “I’ll be fine. You go and sort the twins out and I’ll try to get some more sleep. If I don’t, I’ll be a nightmare later on.”

Brendan yawned. Dimness shimmered at the edges of his vision.

Jane curled up her nose, an expression she sometimes made when she was thinking. “Invite Simon over for dinner. Tonight. We can talk like adults, get some stuff out into the open for a change.”

“Aye,” he said, not fully registering what she’d said. “Okay.”

Jane left the bed and approached the window, where she shut the blackout curtains. Her body was diminished by the retreating light, like an oil painting being slowly erased by chemicals. She left the room without saying a word, grabbing her dressing gown from the back of the door. When he was on nights, she always kept the following day’s clothes in the bathroom, so that she could get dressed without bothering him. She was good like that: thoughtful.

Brendan lay down on his belly. His back was causing him too much irritation to put any weight onto the affected area. The acne was no longer hurting, just making its presence felt. He kept the covers down around his waist just to let the air circulate across the broken flesh. He closed his eyes. He didn’t even realise he was sleeping…

(…UNTIL HE WALKED across the room and opened the curtains, where he looked out of the window and down to the street. But the street was gone. In its place there stood a vast forest, a wall of trees whose trunks and branches reached up to form a canopy above the roof of the house, the roofs of all the houses. He could not see through the thick gathering of tree trunks; it was dark in there, the air black and dense and unwelcoming.

Even from here, this compromised vantage point, he could see that there were bulky things moving within the dense trees, flitting from trunk to trunk, hiding in the gloom. The sunlight did not reach them through the thick canopy; they were creatures of the dark, inhabiting the shadows.

He stared down at the bases of the trees, trying to pick out a pathway. The foliage there was bunched together, as if it had been left to grow for many years. There were no proper paths, no hacked trails through this undergrowth, and the trees were untouched by human hands.

All that lived there was whatever had always been there, hiding among the trees and the bushes and burrowing into the rich, loamy earth.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the trees began to shudder, silencing his voice before he could make a sound. A strong wind gusted through the forest, snaking between the tree trunks, and brought with it the stench of carrion. He could smell it even through the closed window. As he watched, the window glass began to stain, to darken, as if slowly tainted by smog. Just before he lost sight of the trees, he glimpsed something vast and ageless and shapeless surging towards him, causing the branches to quake and the trunks themselves to lean apart and uproot to make room for the gargantuan interloper…)

…HE DIDN’T REALISE he was sleeping until he woke up, still lying on his front, his mouth tasting like yesterday’s stale beer. His eyes were sticky. He struggled to open them fully, and settled instead on peering through slits.

The house was silent. Jane must have taken the kids to school, and then she’d probably gone for her morning gym session — or did she have a class, dancing or spinning or circuit training, something like that? He couldn’t remember. Everything was so hazy; his brain felt as heavy as a bowling ball as it shifted clumsily inside his skull.

He did remember her suggesting that he invite Simon to dinner, though, and right now it sounded like it might be a good idea. Meet on home turf; talk things through like adults. She was good like that, Jane. She always knew what he needed, even before he did.

He pulled his arms under him and straightened them, forcing his stomach off the bed. But there was something wrong — the action wasn’t as smooth and easy as it should be. He felt heavier than he ever had before in his life, as if… as if there was someone sitting on his shoulders… his acne-ridden, pus-weeping shoulders.

“What?” He could say no more; it was too much of a strain to even attempt it. He blinked his crusty eyes.

Whatever was perched upon his shoulders shifted its weight, scratching at the already ravaged skin. He winced, holding back a scream, and then flopped back down onto his belly. Panicking now, he reached up and around and tried to grab whatever it was, to throw it off his body. The thing — small and hard and slippery — scuttled across his shoulder blades, dodging his anxious fingers and adjusting its riding position.

“Come here,” he whispered. “Bastard.” He grabbed for the shape, trying to get a grip on its elusive form, but the thing moved further down his back, tracing the line of his spine. In the unnatural darkness, lying flat on his belly, Brendan began to suspect that he was going to die. Nobody would ever know what happened here, in this room, and he became convinced that this was an attack by a sliver of whatever power they had confronted that day twenty years ago, when they were held captive inside the Needle.

Something about this situation felt so familiar, as if he had been here before. Not here, in this room, but in this position, with something crawling across his back and tearing at his flesh. Infecting him… polluting the skin of his back and shoulders with a poison that would harm him for the rest of his life. Driving its fingers beneath his skin, probing his orifices, his most private parts.

Acting out of desperation now, he flipped over onto his back, ignoring the pain as his acne burst against the sheets, and let out the scream he had been holding on to since waking, hoping that it might break the spell.

Something small and fast darted across the mattress, dropped onto the floor at the foot of the bed, and scurried into a corner of the room. Brendan struggled to his feet and made his way to the window, pulling back the heavy blackout curtains to let in the light. He was blinded for a moment, bright sunlight taking away his vision. When he was able to open his eyes, he spun around and inspected the room. Nothing was out of place. Everything looked as it should: the books on the shelves, the photos, the pictures on the walls, the furniture. It was all so depressingly normal.

Had he still been dreaming? It was possible; it had happened before. If he was honest, it happened all the time. He would wake up, unsure if he was still trapped inside a dream or a nightmare, and everything around him would take on a sinister slant. Sometimes he would even see things, strange visions that he could not explain.

But no, that couldn’t be right. He knew that this time he had been awake, and there had been something inside the room with him, pestering him, harassing him.

He walked across to the wardrobe, reached up and opened the door at the top, near the ceiling. Fumbling through the DVD cases and the curled pages of magazines, he grabbed hold of what he thought was the acorn but it felt too big… much bigger than before. He used both hands to bring it down, and when he looked at the thing in his hands he was shocked to see how much it had grown.

The acorn was now the size of an Easter egg and covered in faint cracks, some were beginning to open up and give a glimpse of something fibrous, like dense webbing, inside. He turned the acorn around in his hands, and at the back, where he’d been unable to see, there was one crack that was much larger than the others. It was big enough, in fact, for something to have crawled out. An insect, perhaps, or a small mammal — something like a field mouse…

He held the acorn in his hands, peering into the crack. From what he could make out, the acorn was hollow, and it was empty. Whatever had emerged from this cocoon was still out there, in the world. Like a living bad dream hatched from inside a human skull, released to create mischief.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SIMON WAS DOING push-ups on the floor when his phone rang. He jumped up and grabbed the handset; it was Brendan���s home number, rather than Natasha trying to track him down again. For reasons he couldn’t even begin to think about, not until he had everything else squared away, he still did not want to speak to his girlfriend — no matter how badly she wanted to speak to him.

He knew that Brendan would have been told by now about the new arrangement he’d made with his boss at Nightjar Security Services, and he had the feeling he might have pushed things too far by taking control in such a way. Pushing, he was always pushing. It was like he was unable to resist forcing people’s hands.

“Hi Brendan. How’s tricks?”

There was a slight pause, and then Brendan’s voice filled the airspace. “Yeah, okay. Actually, no, I’m tired and pissed off.”

Simon blew air out of his mouth, making his lips flap. “Listen, I’m assuming you had a call from your boss last night.”

“Aye.” Brendan said nothing more.

“I know I should’ve spoken to you first, but I did it on the spur of the moment. I thought it might help us both out. I mean, you can hardly help me track down Marty while you’re working nights, can you? Also, it frees up your evenings to spend with your family. I thought it was a win-win situation… you know?” His reasons sounded feeble, but he wasn’t lying. He had not been completely selfish in organising the situation with the maudlin supervisor at Nightjar… only a little.

“Jesus, Simon. You always used to do this. Take control. I was fucking raging at you last night, but now that I’ve slept on it — well, for a couple of hours, anyway — I’ve calmed down. I’m still pissed off at you; I just don’t want to hit you right now.”

Simon smiled. “Thank Christ for that. I always suspected you might be able to take me in a fight and don’t really fancy finding out.”

“Fuck off,” said Brendan. “Listen; let me get this out of the way before we continue. Jane’s invited you over to dinner this evening. It was nothing to do with me — her idea. She thought it might be good for us to sit down over a civilised meal and talk.”

Simon wasn’t sure about this. It felt like somebody else was doing the pushing. “Oh… okay. Maybe that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe. And maybe not,” said Brendan. “But it’s done now. She’s expecting you over — come for around seven-thirty. Dress fucking casual.”

Simon found himself laughing again, softly, as if the years were falling away like layers of dead skin. “Don’t worry; I left my good tux at home. I’ll just throw on my Armani suit and be done with it.”

“And again, I say fuck you, matey.”

This brief exchange made Simon feel a lot better about interfering with Brendan’s job, and with his life. He wasn’t sure that he’d be so calm about the situation if the roles were reversed, but then he remembered that Brendan was having trouble sleeping. He was probably glad that he’d be able to rest his head on his own pillow at night, next to the woman he loved — a woman both of them had shared time with, at certain points in their lives.

Shit. Why did he keep thinking about that? He had a beautiful girlfriend, an emotional safety net in case everything else failed… so why did he keep thinking about a relationship that had ended before it had even had the time to begin? It was harmful, almost a form of self-abuse. Was he using the memory to punish himself, for leaving them all here to face the things he could not?

“Remember I told you about Marty’s grandmother? How she still lives here on the estate?”

He had no idea. He could remember no such conversation. “Yeah, of course.” He had to regain focus, to concentrate on the moment rather than all the moments he had lost, discarded like empty food wrappers. “What about her?”

“Well, I’ve had a strange morning, so I spoke to her about ten minutes ago, just before I called you. She’s willing to see us. She’s old, but her mind’s still more or less intact. She remembers who we were — when we were boys. She said she always liked us, and wondered what had happened to make us go away.”

Simon said nothing. He couldn’t work out if the comment was some kind of rebuke, or even if it was aimed at him. He kept thinking about Jane, and the time they’d spent together. Her soft lips, the curve of her thighs in her skin-tight jeans, the way she’d worn her hair — long and dyed white-blonde — and the sweet words she’d used to try and convince him to stay.

“Okay,” he said, shaking it off. “What time?”

“She said to go round for midday. She’s going to make a pot of tea.”

“God,” said Simon. “Old women around the country, they’re all the bloody same. Tea, biscuits, and a nice bit of gossip.”

“I’ll come for you at quarter to. Be ready.” Then Brendan hung up the phone.

Simon got back down on the floor and finished his push-up routine — it was helping to clear his hangover. Then he did some abdominal work — crunches, scissors, and a few minutes of trunk twists — before a feeling of nausea stopped him.

He always tried to keep himself in shape. Natasha didn’t like it when he got porky, and he had always put on weight easily, even as a child. He’d been carrying an extra few pounds that summer, when it happened… when they went into the Needle and gained access to another world.

“Like Narnia,” he said, staring at a patch of peeling wallpaper and studying the plaster beneath. “Through the back of the fucking wardrobe…”

He picked up his phone and re-read the last few text messages Natasha had sent him.

Luv u

call me

somethin rong?

Jesus, sometimes she acted like a lovesick teenager. He couldn’t handle that kind of (badly spelled) emotional clinginess. It scared him and made him instinctively back away — that was why he was reluctant to call her, to speak to her. She was being needy and that was scaring him off, just like it always did.

He relented and replied to her last message:

I’m fine. Very busy. Will call you when I can. x.

He switched off the phone in case she responded by calling him back immediately. The kind of mood she seemed to be in, that was entirely possible, and then he’d be forced to talk to her. In his current state of mind, that would be a bad thing.

A very bad thing.

He took a shower, got dressed, and left the flat, stepping out into flat, bright sunlight. Looking up at the sky, the clouds seemed frighteningly distant, as if the lid was peeling off the top of the world. He did not want to see what lay beyond; the thought of eternity terrified him, even now, as an adult. He remembered lying in his bed at night as a small child, looking through the window and trying to imagine what was at the end of the universe. It used to hurt his head, and he would often cry himself to sleep after trying to calculate the dimensions of infinity.

Simon set off towards the Arcade, where there was a greasy spoon café called Grove Grub. He passed a group of teenagers at the corner of Grove Side and they all stopped mid-conversation to turn and stare at him, following him with their surly gazes.

It had been a long time since he’d experienced this kind of casual antipathy. Even in London it was rare to be examined by strangers in such a direct manner, certainly where he lived. Simon’s old senses began to bristle, returning to life after years of neglect. He clenched his fists and maintained eye contact. He knew that any sign of weakness would be leapt upon, used against him.

The group continued to stare. There were two boys and three girls, and they all wore similar cheap sports clothes — no-name running shoes, tracksuit bottoms, hooded sweatshirts, and baseball caps. One of the boys — the biggest one, who was wearing a cap with a motif of a cartoon dog smoking a joint — spat on the ground near Simon’s feet. He smiled. Simon kept up his pace, not speeding up or slowing down to avoid the spittle on the pavement, and gritted his teeth.

Once he’d turned the corner, he heard mocking laughter. They’d done nothing, said nothing, in his presence, but now that he was out of sight they were full of bravado. Nothing much had changed in the years since Simon had walked these streets. Nobody had any balls; they all waited until your back was turned, or your attention was elsewhere, before sticking in the knife.

A hundred yards along Grove Crescent was the Arcade. The row of shops had always been here, ever since Simon could remember. The retail outlets renting the premises had changed, of course, but these were minor adaptations to the demands of the economy rather than any kind of improvement in consumer choice. The people round here did not want quality goods; they wanted cheap and cheerful products that would do for the time being. These days, the shops were tenanted by a DVD rental outlet, a pizza and kebab takeaway service, Grove Grub (which was the only constant factor in the Arcade, having been there since Simon was a boy), a flower shop, a betting shop, a butchers-and-grocers, a small hardware store, a hairdressers with a solarium place in the flat above, and a grimy newsagent with faded advertisements for chocolate bars and comics in the chicken-wire-covered windows.

More local kids in sports apparel hung around on the steps outside, mums stood smoking and chatting over prams, shady-looking men ducked in and out of the betting shop doorway, clutching or dropping onto the pavement creased slips of paper.

Simon entered the café, looking for an empty table. There were still a couple of hours to kill until lunchtime, so the place was not what he would describe as busy. Just a few old geezers drinking tea, a couple of grey-haired women eating a late fried breakfast, and a solemn-looking young man reading a red-top newspaper in the corner.

Simon sat at a table by the window. The plastic seat moved across the tiled floor with difficulty. The table was covered with a paper tablecloth depicting birds in flight. The salt and pepper shakers were glass, but they were old and chipped and the salt had hardened to a crust in the bottom of its receptacle. An enamel sugar bowl sat at the centre of the table, next to a plastic rose in a narrow vase. There was something black in the sugar. Simon thought it might be a dead fly, but he hoped it was just a piece of fluff or even cigarette ash.

“Getcha?”

He glanced up. Standing at his side was a young girl with her hair tied back into a ponytail that was so tight it made her face shine. She held a stubby betting shop pen in one hand and a tiny notebook in the other. She too was wearing tracksuit bottoms, but she had on a stained white apron over the top of her grey sweatshirt to identify her as a member of staff.

“Hi. Could I have a black coffee, no sugar? And, erm, how about a couple of poached eggs? On brown toast? No butter.”

She frowned, nodded, and snapped her chewing gum between her teeth. “Yeah, we can do that for you.” She scribbled on her pad. “That all?”

Simon smiled, but it fell short of reaching her. “Thanks.”

She nodded again, as if agreeing with something, and then headed back to the counter at the back of the café, where she proceeded to repeat his order at great volume through an opening to the back of the premises, where the kitchen staff was hiding.

Simon sat and watched the people walking by on the other side of the plate glass window: single mothers, absent fathers, pensioners holding hands, young couples shambling behind prams, the occasional overweight man or woman piloting a motorised shopping cart. It was a typical weekday in an urban shopping precinct, filled with those too old, too infirm, too lazy, too uneducated, or simply too defeated by their circumstances to hold down a day job.

Dirty sunlight glanced off the grey concrete paving stones, the sky looked wide and bright, yet curiously lacking in dimension, like a matte painting in an old film. Simon felt anxiety tightening across his chest, like a straightjacket binding him into the past. He thought again of his old friends, and the short journey they’d made from Beacon Green to the Needle. Still, after all this time, he struggled to remember why they had really gone to the tower block that night. They were following someone, he was certain of that; but he had no idea who that person might have been, or even if it had been a person at all. Maybe it was an animal: a stray dog, or a badger leaving its sett on the Green. But no, he had a definite image of them trailing a figure — following from a distance, like spies.

He also knew that it had been his idea. He had convinced the other two to take part in the plan, to leave the den they’d made and pursue whoever it was had been abroad that night. The memories were so close, yet still they remained out of reach. He was like a shipwrecked man swimming towards a shore that never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far and how hard he swam.

“Here’s your coffee.”

Simon turned around and smiled at the waitress. She didn’t smile back. Her hand was still on the handle of the coffee cup, and she snatched it away as if she were afraid he might touch her.

“Thanks,” he said.

She took a step back, away from the table, but did not move away. Curling up one side of her mouth, she folded her arms across her small breasts. “Can I ask you a question?”

Simon picked up his cup, took a mouthful of coffee and put it back down again. The coffee was bitter, but at least it was hot. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry… what do you mean?”

She glanced down at her feet and then back up again, looking at his face but not quite at his eyes. He realised that she had not made direct eye contact with him since he’d sat down. “You’re one of them three lads — the ones who went missing all those years ago.”

“How do you know about that, then? You must be — what, all of eighteen? You weren’t even born when it happened.”

She sighed, shrugged her narrow shoulders. “My mam used to know Marty Rivers. She went to school with you, a couple of years above. She talks about it when she’s drunk. She even kept the newspaper: the report about how the three of you went into the Needle and didn’t come out again for a whole weekend. She says that something bad happened to you in there. She used to tell us — me and my brother — to keep us away from that place.” She tilted her head in the direction of the tower block, just in case he was under any illusion as to where she meant.

“Yes, my name’s Simon. I was one of the boys. I’m surprised anyone even remembers us… what’s your mum’s name?”

“Sheila Dyson.”

The name rang a bell. He had an image of a mousey older girl with hair that looked as if it was never washed, a pale complexion, and heavy shoes. “Yes, I think I remember her. Didn’t she go out with Marty for a while, before you were born?”

“Dunno,” said the girl, losing interest now that his big secret was out. “Maybe. She screwed around back then.”

Simon laughed softly. “That’s very candid of you.”

The girl shrugged again. “She’s a slut, my mam. And a drunk. Always was.”

“Fair enough.” He took another mouthful of coffee.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to know… I never dared ask either of the other two whenever I saw them around. They’re too scary.”

“And I’m not? Scary, I mean?”

She grinned. “Leave it out. You’re about as threatening as a plastic doll, mate.”

“Okay. I’ll try not to be offended by that. What is it you always wanted to ask?”

She licked her lips and flicked hair away from her face with her hand. She was pretty, in a weary kind of way, like a lot of the girls around here. Her features were arranged nicely, but she lacked the spark that transformed mere pleasantness into beauty. She’d missed being conventionally attractive by a hair’s breadth that seemed more like a mile.

“Well? Now’s your chance. Ask me. I might even answer.” He smiled.

The girl chewed on her bottom lip, and then finally said the words. “What happened to the three of you, in there?”

Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his cheek with the fingers of one hand. “That’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to know, too.”

“Suit yourself, mate,” she said, walking away.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as an afterthought. “Have you seen Marty Rivers lately? I’ve been looking for him.”

The girl shook her head. “Nah. Not for ages.”

Simon watched her as she went to the counter. His food was waiting when she arrived, but she walked past it and into the room behind the counter. Shortly, a large man wearing a white chef’s apron, the sleeves rolled up to show his badly tattooed forearms, emerged from the doorway and picked up the plate. He carried it over and put it down in front of Simon without saying a word.

Simon smiled. Then he ate his breakfast.

After he’d paid the bill he left the café, feeling obscurely and belatedly offended by the girl’s behaviour. On the one hand, he was amazed that she even knew who he was, but on the other he felt as if she’d dealt him some kind of blow. He was unable to pinpoint his exact feelings on the matter, but he did know that he felt disturbed.

Perhaps that’s what led him to alter his course and head for the Needle, or perhaps he had always intended to go there again that day, ever since waking up in a strange bed. Whatever the reason, he picked up his pace and walked towards the daunting shape of the tower, trying to stare it down.

When he reached the security compound, he took out his keys and opened the gate, walked in, and locked up again. He didn’t want anyone coming in after him, and his strange confrontation with the waitress had made it clear that some people still remembered and drew dark associations with the place.

There was no watchman on patrol during daylight hours, so he walked past the security cabin and right up to the main entrance. He let himself in with his set of keys without even pausing at the threshold, thinking that momentum might give him strength. He didn’t want to think about why he might need to be strong, or what kind of courage he was looking for within himself. An echo of the waitress’s words mocked him: You’re about as threatening as a plastic doll, mate.

Did he really come across as so weak? In business terms, he knew that he was a man to be reckoned with, but here, on the tough streets of his youth, he was just another skinny twat in a nice suit. The girl had suggested that Brendan scared her as much as a real hard man like Marty, and the fact that Simon barely even registered on her threat-radar bothered him for reasons that he could not explain. He kicked a cardboard box, sending it skidding across the reception area and into a pile of old blankets.

“Wow,” he muttered. “That’s really tough.” He smiled, his anger dissipating as he relaxed. What the hell was wrong with him lately? Had this entire trip been nothing more than a big mistake, a journey into a past darkness the nature of which he would never understand? He wondered if he should have brought Natasha with him after all, if only to keep him sane. Then he remembered all over again that she was the one who unbalanced him, and that her constant demands on his affections were probably sending him slowly mad.

The faint odours of stale urine and old smoke drifted into his nostrils. He walked a few paces across the reception, dodging piles of rubbish, and stopped at the foot of the stairs. The doors had been removed; shattered glass covered a small area below the bottom step, rough diamonds on the concrete floor.

“What’s hiding in here?” His voice sounded small and weak, as if he’d regressed by coming in here again. Sometimes, when the nightmares dogged his sleep, he would imagine that his younger self was still trapped here, running between the rooms and wailing in the hallways and corridors, begging to be let out. Then, when the black dog of depression really bit deep and sleep eluded him completely, he would wonder if it was actually his future self that had been lost here, in this place. Was an older version of Simon Ridley, crippled and beaten by the flow of time, even now roaming the spaces above him, trying to reconnect with all the versions of his self that he had never been allowed to experience?

“What are you?” His voice was his own again, the adult he pretended to be. “Show yourself, you bastard.” Such tough words; empty bravado. There was nothing here, not really. Just dust and shadows and whatever remained of the memories that he could never quite grab hold of.

He placed his foot on the first step and peered up the staircase, watching the dust motes as they danced in the air, trying to make sense of the dimness that hung there like a light mist. The walls of the stairwell seemed to change colour as he watched, running from white to grey and then to brown. They changed shape, too, rippling softly, as if something moved beneath the plaster. Simon knew that he should turn away, leave the building, but curiosity held him there. Curiosity and something else: perhaps the promise of revelation. Because wasn’t that why he was here, to have something revealed to him? Was not that the whole point of his idiotic journey north? He had come here to discover what was missing from his life, to find out what had been removed to create the hole at his core.

The plaster began to crack, pieces of it falling away to drop silently onto the stairs. He knew there should be sounds accompanying the destruction, but was not surprised when there were none. The whole scene was being played out in silence, like an old film, and all he could do was stand and stare.

Simon watched, fascinated, as the small branches squirmed out from beneath the plaster, popping through the degraded joints in the brickwork. They moved as if they were alive, like snakes, lazy creatures waking from sleep to stick their heads out of the nest. The thin branches — like a sapling’s — writhed and stretched and wavered in the stairwell, daring him to pass. He grabbed hold of the handrail and prepared to take another step, to start climbing the stairs, but something held him back. He had a strong feeling of dread; the certainty that if he went up there, he would not come back down. Perhaps he would even meet that mythical version of himself, and they would embrace like brothers before dying. Was that it? Had he always been meant to die here, but had somehow escaped? Was it his own demise that waited for him here, within these cold concrete walls?

The branches danced before his eyes, reaching for him, grasping in the air. They slipped gently around his wrists, binding him in a way that he remembered from before. Pulling away, he managed to break their grip, snapping them. And then, as he moved backwards, shifting just out of their reach, the thin branches began to wither. They turned grey, black, as if singed by unseen flames, and exploded into little clouds of ash. The plaster repaired itself, like a film reel running backwards, and before long the walls were exactly as they had been. There was no evidence of the strange growths, the struggling saplings. There was nothing there.

He felt rejected. Whatever power resided here had turned its back on him, folding its arms and tapping its foot until he left the premises.

“Soon,” he said, moving back through the reception area. “I’ll come back soon… and I’ll have them with me. My friends. The Three Amigos.”

Upstairs, from several floors above him, he heard the sound of laughter. It sounded like a girl, and it was familiar. He strained to remember where and when he had heard the childish sound before, but nothing came to mind.

The laughter had died, replaced by a sharp clicking sound, like cards being slowly shuffled. This, too, sounded familiar, and it filled Simon with such a sense of dread that he felt like crying. He was a child again; he was terrified. The bad man was coming, Captain Clickety was on the loose… and he was coming for Simon.

A familiar emptiness yawned within him, threatening to consume him, so he left the Needle and headed back towards the sounds of the present.

“Soon,” he said again, but this time it was a promise he made only to himself.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BANJO CROUCHED AT the top of the stairs, trying to peer all the way down to the bottom floor. He saw a pale shape flicker through the murk, and then he heard the main doors slam shut. He stood up straight, turned around, and looked at the girl who called herself Hailey.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s gone. He wasn’t here to hurt you… none of them are. They’re here for something else. It has nothing to do with you. You’re safe now, as long as you stay close to me. The Underthing can’t touch you. He’s afraid of me, you see.” She smiled and to Banjo it was like the sun coming up in that other place, the one he had only ever glimpsed. Behind her, he could see the outlines of trees; they shimmered like a mirage, but he knew that they were real. They had always been real. Soon he would be able to touch them. Before long, he would enter that old grove of oak trees and sit at the heart of the magic that nested here, within this tower. He would find himself in a place that was both ancient and ageless, a land where the dreams of men became living things, and where myth was reality.

“It won’t be long, now.” Hailey smiled; her face shone golden, like the wavering shapes of the trees over her shoulder. “He’s coming out. We’re luring him, like a fish with a baited line. Not long now until the Underthing shows himself and we can be rid of his pollution. He’s already making mistakes, showing his cards.”

Banjo stood and approached her, drawn by the sight of her unfolding wings. He reached out, but he did not touch them, not yet. He wasn’t allowed. All he could do was watch, and yearn, and wait.

Hailey rose a few inches off the floor and hovered there, her beautiful, multi-hued hummingbird wings glowing in the dusty air.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THEY WERE WAITING for Simon when he went outside.

He locked the gates, checked that they were secure, and turned around. The three boys were standing there, at the edge of the Roundpath, watching him in silence. He recognised one of them from earlier at the Arcade — the big lad with the trippy Scooby Doo baseball cap.

“Can I help you?” The words made him sound more confident than he felt. He clenched his fists, holding on to the bulky set of keys — a good weapon in a pinch, he recalled from somewhere — and waited for a response.

“Who the fuck are you, like?” The biggest of the three — Scooby — stepped forward, spat on the ground after he spoke. Like the others, he was wearing jeans, trainers, and a hooded top. The sweatshirts were all the same style; the one the leader wore — if that’s what he was — was red, and the other two were blue and green.

“Well?” repeated Scooby, his arms loose, ready for combat.

Shit, thought Simon. I’m out of my depth.

“I own this place. Why, what business is it of yours?”

“Ooooh!” Green Hoody began to laugh. “What a fucking prick.”

Scooby smiled, rolled his shoulders like a boxer. “I’ll ask you one more time, and then I’ll fuck you over. Who are you? I saw you talking to my lass in the café.” He pronounced the word ‘cafee’.

“Listen son,” said Simon, stepping away from the fence. “I’m nobody you want to be messing with — okay? I was just talking to the girl, that’s all. I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. In fact, she was the one who spoke to me.” He stood his ground, shaking. He hoped that the boys couldn’t tell, but he felt his entire body flooding with adrenalin.

“Funny cunt, in’t he?” Blue Hoody had found his voice. It wasn’t worth the effort: weak, high-pitched, as if his balls were yet to drop. Green Hoody just stood there, his face a blank mask, not even capable of a proper expression.

“You trying to say that my lass was chatting you up?” Scooby turned to his cohorts, opening his hands in a questioning gesture. “Is that what he’s saying, lads? Eh? That my lass wanted his cock?”

Simon said nothing.

“Aye,” said Blue Hoody, nodding. “Aye, that’s what he said. I heard him.”

“For fuck’s sake…” Simon had run out of things to say. Debate was not an option. These kids wanted blood, and nothing else would satisfy them. Years ago, when he was a teenager, he would have been able to handle this situation — in fact, it probably wouldn’t have happened. Back then, he was an insider, this was his patch. But now he was a stranger, an outsider, and considered fair game by the local beasts.

“Give us your wallet.” Scooby had stopped smiling. He held his hands at waist level and flexed his fingers. He must have been, what, fifteen years old? “Now.” He bared his teeth. His cheeks were pockmarked, and his front teeth yellow, probably tobacco stained.

“Listen, lads–”

“No, you listen.” The boys each took a single step forward, like one entity composed of three parts. “Do what I said, and empty your pockets. If you do, we might not hurt you.”

Jesus Christ, was this really happening, in broad daylight?

Suddenly Simon was no longer afraid, he was angry. This was good; he could use it. He let the rage flood through him, filling him up from the inside, like a tap being turned on somewhere in his gut. “Fuck off, son.”

He’d barely finished his sentence when the boys struck.

Scooby moved forward and threw a punch, which landed sweetly on the side of Simon’s face. He reeled backwards, his own hands coming up, and he was pushed further back by the advancing boys. He lashed out, feeling his fist connect with bone, and started screaming abuse as he tried to pummel his attackers.

His energetic defence did not last. He went down after a few seconds, taking more blows to the face, and a hard one to the stomach. His breath came in thick, jagged bursts; his kidneys ached; he felt his head go down. Then, before he even had a chance to attempt any more punches, he felt the solid connection of a foot to his temple.

He stayed down, unable to fight gravity. The ground grabbed him, held him, and refused to let him go, while darkness inched in from the corners of his vision.

He was aware of the boys — Scooby, Blue Hoody, Green Hoody — going through his pockets, and then they dragged off his suit jacket. There was laughter, yelling, and the sounds diminished as they ran away, leaving him there on the ground.

The only reason he did not black out was because he vomited, bringing up his bland breakfast in the dirt.

After several minutes he stopped heaving. There was nothing left in his stomach to come up, and his throat felt raw. He struggled to his knees and inspected himself for damage. A few bruises on his face, a sore side, no blood. As far as beatings went, this one was mild. They were amateurs. He’d suffered worse when he was mugged by one man in London, four years ago as he stumbled drunk through the streets behind King’s Cross.

But the bastards had taken his jacket, and his wallet and mobile phone had been in the pocket. “Shit,” he said, looking upwards. He had no memory for numbers, not these days when everything was stored on a SIM card, so he would not be able to call Natasha, or Mike at The Halo. “Shit, shit, shit…” Nobody would be able to contact him, either.

He struggled to his feet, taking it slowly as the blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy, and then headed back towards the flat. He had a few loose notes in his trouser pocket, but his debit and credit cards had been in the wallet. He needed to get to a phone and make a few calls, stop the cards and order some new ones. He checked the ground for his keys; they were still there, near his foot. Okay, this could have been much worse. Yet still he felt angry. This was his birthplace, where he was from — how dare those little fuckers do this to him!

Beneath the anger, buried away in a place where he rarely looked, there was also shame. He was a grown man, a successful property developer, and he had been unable to handle a bunch of kids. They’d kicked his arse and hung him out to dry, and he was embarrassed at the pathetic effort he’d made at defending himself.

Next time, he thought, I won’t go down so easily. But, in that same quiet spot in his gut, he knew that he would. He always would, because despite the lies he told himself, he was not a real fighter. He was a survivor, but not a warrior. Experience had already taught him that.

Simon let himself into the flat and inspected himself in the mirror. His face was already bruising — the right side was slightly swollen, a lump developing along the side of his jaw and across his cheek. He was hardly turning into the Elephant Man, but the swelling would be noticeable.

He took a shower, dressed in some clean clothes, and then rang directory enquiries on the landline to get the number of his bank. He cancelled all of his cards, and because he was a priority customer, with large sums in his accounts, he was told that a new set of cards would be couriered to him within twenty-four hours. Again, he felt ashamed. Money got you what you wanted, the things you needed, and it got them to you faster than it did to anyone else. He took some notes and loose change from the drawer by the bed. He always split his money in this way; it was an old habit he’d not lost.

As an afterthought, he rang the emergency services number and was put through to the local police station. He told the officer on the other end of the line what had happened. They asked if he was hurt. When he told them it was nothing serious, and he did not need medical care, they gave him a crime number to quote in the instance of any insurance claim and asked him to call into the station when he could to give a statement. He hung up the phone, wondering if there had been any point in calling them.

Simon went downstairs and into the pub on the corner of Grove Court and Grove Road. The Dropped Penny had become, by default, his temporary local. He needed a pint, and perhaps a whisky chaser. The day had started badly, and unless Brendan delivered the goods with Marty Rivers’ grandmother, it was bound to get a lot worse.

He drank his first pint of bitter down in one, savouring the brief bloated feeling in his gut, and then ordered another. He took the second pint and the double malt to a table in the corner, where he sat and glared at the television above the bar, waiting for the alcohol to do its job. He drank the second pint slowly, alternating each mouthful with a sip of the whisky. Some of the other patrons glanced at him, but they did not stare. In pubs like this, on estates like these, a man with minor facial injuries was nothing out of the ordinary, and was often the last person you’d want to make eye contact with.

Simon enjoyed the aura of danger around him. He wondered if those little bastards would come in here to spend some of his money… the thought shattered his fragile machismo. He didn’t want to see them again, certainly not this soon after the attack, and not without someone to back him up.

He remembered what the girl in the café had said about Brendan, and how she’d seemed wary of him. That was the kind of company he needed. He hoped his old friend would find him soon, so that he could ignore the quiet, taunting voices in his head, the ones that were mocking him for being so easily defeated.

The Dropped Penny was quiet. Men drank in pairs; an old woman sat at the bar, her legs crossed to stop herself from falling off the stool. The young barman watched a football programme on the television, trying to lip-read as muted managers and players were interviewed outside stadium dressing rooms.

There was an air of desperation about this place, but Simon felt comfortable around these people. They might be alcoholics, wife beaters, petty criminals, or they might be high court judges slumming on a daytime session. Nobody cared; they were only here to drink, not to cause trouble or to ask any awkward questions. They each existed in their own little world, shut off from everyone else.

Brendan walked in just after noon. He stood in the doorway, not quite coming fully inside, and peered into the gloomy interior. The fruit-machine made a few noises, somebody laughed more loudly than a joke deserved, and finally Brendan’s gaze came to rest on Simon. He nodded, walked in, and crossed the room to the bar.

Simon watched his friend as he ordered two pints. He was staring straight ahead, as if concentrating on something. Then, when the glasses were placed before him, he paid his money and turned away, strolling over to Simon’s table.

“What happened to you?” His face did not change as he said the words. He looked unmoved, unconcerned: he’d only asked the question because it would have been peculiar not to. He didn’t really care about the answer.

“I was mugged. Three kids. They took my phone and my wallet.”

Brendan smiled; the expression was smug rather than amused. “You’re not the man you used to be, mate. Back in the day, you would’ve outrun them easily.”

“Thanks for all the sympathy. You really are spoiling me.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, drinking their beer. The atmosphere in the pub remained subdued. The Dropped Penny was not an establishment where people gathered for lunch, discussing business proposals over a nice Caesar salad. The clientele of this pub was more likely to grab a quick bag of pork scratchings between pints, if anything at all, and their debates and discussions revolved around football, horse racing, and possibly the state of the nation.

“Fancy another before we head off?” Simon’s face had stopped hurting, the pain dulled by the alcohol.

“Yeah, why not. I don’t have work tonight, thanks to you, so I can do whatever the hell I like.”

Simon stood and walked across to the bar, ordered two more pints, paid for them, and returned to the table. It felt right. This mechanical process — drink, forage, drink — was something that he could understand and rely on when everything else in his life seemed so unreliable.

“Sorry,” said Brendan, relaxing now that he’d had a drink. “I didn’t mean to make light of what happened to you. At least it doesn’t look too bad.”

“No worries. I probably had it coming. Walking around in designer togs, flashing my money… they must have been watching me since breakfast. I’ve forgotten how to act around here.”

Simon glanced around the room, not looking for anything in particular, just watching. “It’s not like it was when we were kids, you know. We had a fight, it was fists and feet and a lot of huffing and puffing. These little bastards will pull a knife on you, maybe even a gun if it’s after dark and you pose a threat to their drug deals.” Bitterness made his voice seem heavy, as if the words weighed more than his mouth could carry. There was sorrow, too, and regret: a sort of grief for the way things had been long ago, when life on the estate had seemed so much simpler.

He put down his pint glass but did not let go. He stared at his hand, at the fingers wrapped around the glass. “Tell me, Brendan. What do you remember from that night? The night we… went missing.” He did not look up. He didn’t want to look into his friend’s eyes.

Missing… and they still were, all of them, when it came right down it.

Brendan sighed. Then he spoke. “I remember us making the den in the trees, and then I saw something. Somebody. A man in a mask… like a bird’s face, or something.”

“Captain Clickety?” said Simon, finally raising his eyes.

Brendan nodded. “Yes.” He exhaled loudly. “Remember, it was something Marty told us. Back in the seventies, a couple of kids — twins — who lived in the Needle were tormented by a poltergeist. They called him Captain Clickety, because they kept hearing a clicking sound, like castanets. I’ve read about it since… most of the rumours are false. Nobody seems to want to talk about it these days, but one of the twins died of a heart attack. At least that’s what the records say. Natural causes, anyway. Probably shock-related.”

Brendan leaned forward in his chair, his chest almost touching the top of the table. His face was sombre, his eyes narrow. “Captain Clickety,” he whispered in a singsong voice.

Simon felt cold. The old rhyme had chilled him, bringing back snippets of memory, torn and tattered visions, like a shredded sheet: the inside of the Needle, all dark and damp and empty; a figure moving through the darkness, rustling in the low-hanging branches of trees; a girl, her skin shedding light as she came towards them, smiling… movement, like huge wings, curling around her back and shoulders.

Brendan spoke again, as if he had not broken off from his account: “I remember the platform falling, cutting my arm — I still have the scar." He glanced down, at his arm. “And we went back that night, sneaked out of our houses, and met up there, to guard the den. What a bunch of babies — acting like cowboys.” He smiled, despite the solemnity of his tone. “We saw someone again — possibly the same figure — and we decided to follow him, to spy on him. It was just a game, a bit of fun… that was all. A fucking kids’ game.” His eyes were shining with tears. “Then… then… we were in there, inside the Needle, and we were so fucking scared. We were terrified.”

Simon reached out and grabbed Brendan’s hand, clutching it. He didn’t care who saw them; he didn’t give a damn what it looked like. “But how did we get in there? That’s what I can’t remember. I didn’t even see the figure, although it was my idea to follow him. I don’t remember how the hell we got inside that place.”

Brendan looked deep into his eyes. “Me neither.”

Simon pulled his hand away, suddenly embarrassed by the contact. He glanced around the room, but nobody was taking any notice of their exchange. In The Dropped Penny, nobody eavesdropped on your conversation; nobody gave a damn about your business, whatever it was.

Brendan took a large swallow of his beer. He licked his lips.

“I went in there earlier,” said Simon. “I went in there again, by myself this time. That’s when I got mugged, as I came back out. They were waiting for me. But while I was in there, something happened. I saw things, things that shouldn’t have been there.”

Brendan pressed his lips together.

“I saw twigs, skinny little branches coming out of the walls and moving around like snakes, like they were trying to grow. They wrapped around my wrists, trying to bind me, like we were before. I heard a clicking sound, up on the higher levels. Clicking, like the sounds I remember from twenty years ago.” He had run out of steam, losing the rush that had forced the words out of him in a torrent. “I think I did. I’m not sure of anything anymore. I have these dreams… strange dreams.”

“I do, too,” said Brendan. “Nightmares, but they always seem so real at the time. It doesn’t even feel like I’m dreaming. Feels like… like real life, but flipped over, messed about with, shaken up into weird forms.”

Simon nodded. “That’s it. That’s exactly it.”

Brendan slammed one hand down onto the table, not too hard, but enough to make a loud, hollow sound. “You’re right. We have to find Marty.”

Simon listened to his old friend. For the first time, he seemed to be truly on board, to be taking all of this seriously.

“We need to find him and ask him if he’s been dreaming like this too. If he feels like something’s reaching for him, trying to pull him back, towards the past.”

Simon’s blood was racing through his veins. His skin felt hot. He was no longer cold: he was burning. “Is that how you feel?”

Brendan nodded. “Aye.”

“So do I, mate. So do I…”

Brendan closed his eyes and began to speak.

“Stop it,” said Simon. “Just cut that shit out, right now. You’re acting like a fucking child. We need to focus, we have to keep a grip on the situation.”

“What situation is that, then?” Brendan picked up his glass, but it was empty. He placed it gently back on the table. “How exactly do you describe what’s happening to us, if in fact there is anything happening to us and we’re not just going mad? Or always were mad, ever since some bastard locked us up in the Needle and abused us for a weekend.”

“A weekend that felt like an hour,” said Simon. “Remember that little fact? I do. When we came out of there, it seemed like we’d only been inside for an hour, but it had been two days. Two whole fucking days. I still don’t have that time back — do you?”

Brendan shook his head. “Okay, yes. I do remember that. It’s the thing that scares me most about the whole thing, those lost days. Where did it go? I mean, what the hell did we do for all that time? What did he do to us?”

“And who, or what, is he?” Simon pushed away from the table, suddenly uncomfortable within the walls of the old pub. “Let’s get out of here. The quicker we find out where Marty might be, the better for us all. Having that tough bastard with us will make everything seem a bit less oppressive.”

“Yeah, okay.” Brendan stood, pushing back his chair. “Let’s go. We have an appointment to keep with an old lady and a pot of tea. She might even have cake.” He smiled, and it almost reached his eyes.

Almost.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MARTY SAT ON his sofa with the blinds closed. The noise of the city — the busy quayside traffic, the lunchtime crowds surging towards pubs and cafes for their salads and panini and plates of antipasto — dimmed to nothing but background noise.

The television was on, tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel, but he had the sound turned right down. A woman with shiny blonde hair and impressive bone structure mouthed banalities that he had no desire to hear. He stared at her face, at her flawless skin, and imagined it peeling back to show the bone beneath. For some reason, that made him smile.

Marty was stretched out, with his legs trailing on the floor, and he was wearing only a pair of baggy gym shorts. His torso was bare. He was sweating; his skin glistened, as if he had been sprayed with water. In one hand he held a whisky bottle, and in the other he had the acorn. He was rubbing the surface of the nut with his fingers, polishing it, making it shine. It was a reflexive action, something to use up his nervous energy.

He took a long swig directly from the bottle. The whisky was good stuff: Talisker, his favourite. The liquor burned all the way down his throat, a golden trail of soft pain that sliced right through him.

His stab wound was aching.

He had taken off the dressing to give it some air. The stitches had already started to come loose, fraying like the hem of an old shirt, and he had been bleeding again. There were balled up paper tissues on the floor near his feet, stained red. The bleeding seemed to have stopped for the time being, but the place where he’d been stabbed felt raw, as if it might burst open at any minute. That bastard Doc; he didn’t have a clue, had done a botch job when he’d stitched up the cut. But Marty couldn’t go to a hospital, because they’d ask awkward questions. Stab wounds had to be reported to the police — it was the law. And that would create all kinds of problems.

He rolled the acorn around with his fingers, and dropped it onto his tight stomach.

With his other hand, he put the whisky bottle down on the sofa, leaning it against a cushion, and grabbed the remote control. He flicked through the channels, but saw nothing to interest him. Daytime television was appalling; it made him angry. Sensationalist intervention shows with career-choice chavs taking lie-detector tests to prove if they were the fathers of grasping brats to appease women who were aged before their time and desperate to hang onto something, however vulgar. Property programmes with smug middle-class city-types renovating old houses they’d snapped up in repossession auctions. Quizzes made by and for the mentally subnormal. Panel shows featuring faded soap stars and ex-cruise ship singers scrabbling at the foot of the broadcasting table for the scraps of one final meal before they were carted off like old horses, to have their sagging tits and prolapsed vaginas turned into glue.

“Jesus,” he said, surprised at the anger in his thoughts, the absolute venom coming through from somewhere. He knew that he was furious because of the stabbing, and the way the fight had ended, but this was something different. He had not felt this kind of pure, incandescent rage for a long time — not since the accident that had cut short his dreams of a career in boxing. It made him light-headed. The anger was so uncut, so undiluted, that it felt like the prelude to some kind of sexual thrill.

He closed his eyes and saw her face. Sally: the girl who’d been killed all those years ago, when he was nineteen. He had loved her, or at least he’d thought so then, when everything was so uncertain, especially his feelings. But she had been young and pretty, and knew how to handle him. She had possessed the softest hands he’d ever known.

Sally had been riding pillion on the Suzuki, her arms wrapped around his stomach, her chin resting against the back of his shoulder. They’d been racing out into the Northumbrian countryside, just looking for a space to call their own for a while, a quiet spot to lie down on the grass and cuddle. Night was gathering in the sky, chasing the lowering sun, but there was still enough light to see clearly. The road had been straight, and lined with low dry stone walls on either side. They had an unobstructed view of flat green fields, and in the distance craggy outcroppings rose like the backbone of some half-buried beast. It was all so beautiful… just like the girl, like Sally.

Marty had not been driving too fast, not really: possibly a few miles per hour over the speed limit, but it was nothing that he couldn’t handle. He felt in complete control of the Suzuki; its master. It was just another part of the beauty of that early evening.

Then, without warning, he’d seen it come stumbling out from the right, padding along on those ghastly oversized hand-feet into the middle of the road, where it turned to face him, its awful mouth growing wider and wider as it waited for him to arrive….

Humpty Dumpty.

The same hideous figure he’d dreamt of when he was a kid, and then seen for real the night he and his three friends had lost all those hours inside the Needle. It was a part of his life that he’d tried to block out, and Sally was helping with that. She helped him see light beyond the darkness, a faint glimmer that grew stronger every day that they spent with each other.

She was the light. It was part of her purpose, to make him see the candle she held out for him.

Even now, years after the event, he had no idea why he’d tried to turn the wheel. The rational side of him said that he must have been trying to turn into the path of the thing, to mow it down and kill it. But another part of him, the side that was and would forever remain a rotten coward, told him that he was trying to turn away, to dodge a collision with the creature from his nightmares in case it managed to grab hold of him.

He lost control of the bike. It skidded off the road, hitting a fallen section of wall, the victim of bad weather and escapee sheep. The tumbled, moss-coated stones acted as a ramp, and the bike took flight. They landed badly on the other side, at the bottom of a slope. Sally’s injuries were fatal: she took a short time to die, and was barely conscious all the while. Marty lay pinned beneath the Suzuki and the corpse of the girl he could have loved forever, until somebody came along and noticed them there.

“Sally,” he whispered now, in the soft, false darkness of the room. “I’m so, so sorry.” He grabbed the whisky and took a hit. He blamed the heat of the drink for the tears that dampened his cheeks.

And how many women had there been since Sally, ones that could never live up to her ghost, no matter how hard they tried? Indeed, the fact that they tried counted against them, because Sally never had. She’d just trusted in the fact that he cared for her, and never pushed, never forced anything. Or was that just him glorifying her memory, romanticising her?

There had been scores of such women. Of that he could be certain. He’d never counted — he wasn’t that vain — but he did know that he’d long passed the century mark. Over a hundred pairs of open legs, smooth, taut bellies, open mouths, needy eyes, and hands that were never quite as soft as the ones he sometimes dreamt about. That meant over a hundred minds that he’d barely taken the time to get to know, and it was his loss, because some of them had been good people, intelligent women who were drawn to him for reasons of their own. He’d just never been emotionally invested enough to care. There’d been the slags and sluts, of course: empty one-night stands used as a way of beating back the darkness, but only a few. There had also been women who, if he were not so damaged, he could have fallen in love with. Like Melanie, the girl he’d dumped the other day. She was good-looking, interesting, had an incisive wit… but still he had started ignoring her calls, wishing her away. Stepping back from whatever it was she had to offer.

None of these women had held a candle, lighting his way along the dark path. Only Sally had ever done that.

He was absently rolling the acorn between his palm and his stomach, moving it across his belly. It was smooth and cold, like a cold compress. The pressure, when he applied it close to his wound, eased the pain. It felt good, like a balm. He pressed it against the stitches, rolling it over the area where the knife had torn through his skin and penetrated his body.

The motion of the acorn, and the pressure it produced, also took away his rage, the dark thoughts of a past that could not be changed. His mind began to feel empty; the bad stuff was being siphoned off, like blood through a catheter.

A soft humming sound grew in his ears, and Marty looked up, at the window, but no shadows moved beyond the drawn shades. The humming turned gradually into another sound, something that made him feel uneasy all over again, despite the acorn’s movement across his belly. A quiet clicking noise, like hard nails drumming against plastic or playing cards flicked right beside his ear. Marty rolled onto his side and stumbled off the sofa, falling to his knees and then rising to his feet, adopting a defensive stance. His fists were clenched; his hands were raised. He was ready to fight… always, always ready to fight, whenever the need arose.

The sound faded, as if it were moving away from him, perhaps along a dark, deserted corridor inside a ruined tower block. Briefly he smelled the sap of summer trees, felt a light breeze blowing against his naked torso, and heard distant cries, like twisted birdsong.

He was safe. He wasn’t there, inside the Needle. He was safe and sound and prepared for action, within walls that were concrete, yes, but much newer, and not as haunted as the ones from before — the old, grey concrete walls that still surrounded his soul, cutting it off from daylight. Making it so that he could not see Sally’s candle; would never see it again, even in dreams.

Marty relaxed, letting his hands drop to his sides. He had to coax his fists to open, but they obeyed him. He sat back down on the sofa and picked up the bottle. Took a large swallow.

He felt around on the sofa for the acorn, experiencing a sudden desire for the security it had provided. He could not find it anywhere, not on the surface of the cushions, or down the back or sides of the cushions. He raised his hands to his head and scratched his scalp, rubbing his temples as he moved his hands across his skull. Looking down, wondering if the acorn had in fact dropped onto the floor, he noticed a small lump in his abdomen.

Time slowed down, stopped. The image of the television seemed to freeze, but when he glanced at it the picture began to move again, as if mocking him.

He looked down again, at his body.

His torso.

At the lump. In his belly.

The lump was positioned to the left of his navel, not too far from the knife wound (what had that fume-stinking old sawbones called it, a loin wound?). The lump was large, almost the size of a golf ball but more oval in shape. It stretched the skin around it taut, making it pale and thin-looking.

Marty reached down and patted the area around the lump. There was no pain, not even minor discomfort. It was as if the area had gone numb from some kind of anaesthetic. The kind you might receive before minor surgery, given to you by a heavy-breathing medic in a face mask.

He knew what it was, of course. Marty was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.

It was the acorn.

Somehow the acorn had got… inside him. It had entered his body.

He looked at the wound. The stitches had come undone. There was no blood; the wound was perfectly dry. To him, in that moment, its inner edges looked like the labia of some mutant vagina; the pink inside was the interior of a woman’s genitals. He had no idea why he was thinking this way, but the image would not shift. He was stuck with it.

Suddenly, as he watched, the acorn began to move. Inching its way along inside his torso, towards his navel, it rolled like a slow-witted dung beetle. Again, there was no pain. He felt nothing, nothing at all. It was as if he had been cut off from all the nerves in his body below the shoulders and above the pelvis: everything between these points was vague, like something that didn’t quite belong to him. It was like dreaming awake, caught in that idle moment between sleeping and waking, when the two states bleed into each other to become something entirely different. It wasn’t unpleasant… not really. He found himself fascinated by the slow-rolling movement beneath his skin, and the way the skin itself stretched like elastic to accommodate the travelling seed.

The acorn stopped moving.

Marty felt bereft. He realised that he’d enjoyed the sight of it shifting across his abdomen. He reached down and flicked it gently, and just the once, to encourage it to move again.

The acorn responded.

It rolled across his stomach, causing his navel to protrude as it passed beneath the recessed pink knot (he was always so oddly proud of being an ��outy’ rather than an ‘inny’), and round towards his opposite flank. The acorn disappeared then, under his body, but he was aware of its presence under the skin of his back. He still could not feel the acorn, but he knew that it was still in motion, as if some previously hidden sense was tracking it around his body.

Marty knew that he should be worried, perhaps even frightened, by what was happening to him, but he could not summon the energy to react in this way. He watched as the acorn completed its slow circuit, passing under the wound — making those labial folds purse and open like a kiss — and then back to its starting point to the left of his navel.

“Wow,” he said, feeling drunk on the experience. “Fucking hell.”

He reached down again and placed the end of his index finger against the conical top of the acorn. Then, without even considering what kind of damage he might be doing to his insides, Marty pressed down on the seed.

The acorn sank into his belly, vanishing into the yielding flesh. The skin popped back to its natural shape, and there was no evidence of the acorn ever having been there, beneath the surface of Marty Rivers, under his demented skin.

He blinked and looked up at the window. The blind was glowing white, like a screen, from the sunlight behind. What was happening to him? He felt like he’d just woken up from a long sleep. Had he been dreaming? Surely what he thought he’d experienced could not be real. It was impossible. A hallucination.

He looked down at his flat belly, and then at the dry wound. Everything looked fine.

But deep down, despite the fact that he did not want to listen, a small, scared voice — his ten-year-old self — was whispering: It wasn’t a dream. You were awake. This is really happening. Clickety-clickety-click.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE OLD WOMAN lived on Grove Terrace, in a house that backed onto Beacon Green. Simon could remember Marty going there for lunch every Sunday — a big roast, with Yorkshire puddings and all the trimmings. His parents would never have made such a meal. In Marty’s house, it was always whatever came out of a can served with bread — French toast on a weekend, as a little treat.

Brendan knocked on the door, rapping three times with his knuckles. There did not seem to be a doorbell, or even a knocker. The front garden was small and neat, with well-tended borders and a lawn that was cropped as short as a football pitch. The house number was painted on the wall to the left of the door in white emulsion.

“I hope she’s home.” Simon glanced at Brendan.

“She said she would be,” said Brendan, fidgeting with the buttons at the neck of his shirt. He looked uncomfortable, as if he were in pain, or perhaps his clothes didn’t quite fit him properly. Whatever the cause of his consternation, it was making him fidget in a way that looked exhausting.

“You okay?”

Brendan stopped fidgeting. “Aye, I’m fine. Why?” He didn’t make eye contact.

Simon sensed something, a kind of reluctance on Brendan’s part to reveal what was wrong with him. “It’s just, well, you seem a little off. You know, like you’re hurting or something. You keep wincing, and you’re pulling at your clothes. The shirt, the jacket.”

Brendan shook his head. “No, mate. It’s nothing. I have a rash, that’s all. Jane started using some new kind of washing powder — it was on sale. I think I’m allergic.” Still he did not meet Simon’s gaze.

“Oh. Right. That explains it.” Simon shrugged, took a step back, and glanced along the road, then back at the front door. “Where is she?”

As if on cue, the door opened. A small, well-dressed old woman stood in the hallway, peering over the rims of her spectacles. “Hello,” she said. “You must be… Marty’s old friends?”

“Yes,” said Brendan. “We spoke on the phone earlier. I’m Brendan, and this is Simon. Thanks again for sparing us some of your time.” He smiled but it looked like he was grimacing.

The old woman grinned, showing her gleaming dentures. Her face was weathered, crosshatched with creases and wrinkles, but she had the demeanour of someone a lot younger. “Oh, when you get to my age all you have is time. It might be nice to spend some of it today with a couple of good-looking young men.” Clearly she still had a sharp mind.

Still smiling, she stepped aside, turned, and walked down the hallway.

Simon stepped over the threshold and entered the house, and Brendan followed, closing the door behind him. The house smelled of cinnamon, with a hint of fresh lemon. It was a nice smell; homely and welcoming.

The woman had turned left and they followed her into a room. The first thing Simon saw was a small bird cage on a stand. Inside the cage was a tiny green budgie. When he and Brendan entered the room, the budgie hopped from its perch and grabbed the side of the cage, where it hung by its claws next to a portion of dried cuttlefish and watched them.

“That’s Percy,” said the old woman. “He’s mute. He can’t sing, can’t talk. He can’t make a sound at all, if I’m honest. But he’s good company.” She sat down on an overstuffed sofa, stretched out her short, thin legs on the carpet. “And I’m Hilda. Marty’s Nan.” Her smile never seemed to waver. It just hung there on her wizened face, displaying those too-white dentures and hiding her thoughts.

“Thanks for seeing us,” said Simon. He sat on a chair opposite the bird cage, taking another quick look at the silent bird. The budgie was watching him, its beady, unblinking eyes never moving from his face.

“I’ve made tea… if one of you lads wouldn’t mind getting the pot from the kitchen there.” Hilda tilted her head towards the door.

“I’ll go,” said Simon. He jumped up and walked out of the room, leaving Brendan to the small talk. The bird was making him nervous. The neatness of the room, the way all the pictures and photographs formed geometrical patterns on the walls, didn’t sit right with him. It was all too ordered. Simon had never trusted people whose homes were too tidy; he needed at least a small amount of mess around him to feel comfortable.

The kitchen was spotless. He imagined Hilda using all her free time to clean the place, every day, top to bottom. His mother had done the same, keeping a tidy home to hide the darkness at the centre of her marriage. He’d never realised before, but that was why he always created a mess, why he never felt at home unless things were in slight disorder. It counteracted the way his mother had kept things too prim and proper, her mask of domesticity.

The teapot was on the bench beside the sink, the tea brewing. It was on a little tray, alongside three cups and a plate of garibaldi biscuits. He picked up the tray and went back to the living room, where it seemed as if the budgie had been staring at the empty doorway, awaiting his return.

“Here we go,” he said, setting down the tray on a small occasional table near the gas fire.

“Thank you, son,” said Hilda, sitting upright and pushing herself forward on the sofa. “How do you take it?”

“Just black,” said Simon. “One sugar, please.”

“White with two,” said Brendan, shuffling on the seat, looking less comfortable as time went by.

“So,” said Hilda, after they’d all had a mouthful of tea. “You want to know where Marty’s been living. Is that right?”

Simon waited for Brendan to answer, but the other man remained silent, staring at the wall. His lips were pressed together, as if he were holding something back. He didn’t look comfortable in his own skin.

“Erm, yes,” said Simon, taking the initiative. “We’re old friends… I don’t know if you remember us, but we all used to hang around together. The three of us, we were best mates, when we were younger.”

“I’m not daft, you know.” Hilda put down her cup and ran the palms of her hands over her thighs, straightening her dress. “You were the other two, the ones that went missing with Marty. Of course I remember. You were nice lads back then, all of you. Good lads. That was a terrible thing.” She leaned back, pressing her spine against the sofa cushions, and briefly closed her eyes. She was still baring her teeth. “Whatever happened to you boys in there, it changed you all. I know that. I’ve seen it, with Marty, and with you, Brendan.”

Brendan flinched at the sound of his name. “I’m sorry?”

“I used to see you a lot around the Grove, but I started seeing you less and less. You always seemed to work nights, and it’s always that lovely wife of yours who takes the kids to school. I haven’t seen you in years, son. Considering we live around the corner from each other, that tells its own story.”

Brendan grimaced. It was probably meant to be a smile, but it wasn’t quite there. Clearly he felt uncomfortable being the focus of the conversation, but for some reason he did nothing to deflect the old woman’s attention. He just sat there, saying nothing.

“So, can you tell us about Marty?” Simon took a bite of biscuit. “These are nice.” He smiled, crumbs on his lips.

“Like I said, I’m not daft. I suppose you know all about the things he’s been doing to make a living. Illegal boxing matches, working on pub doors, and God knows what else. Everybody knows about our Marty, and about the kind of person they think he is. Hired muscle. A bruiser.”

“We’re not here to judge him, Hilda. We just want to talk to him. It’s something about… about what happened to us back then, when we were ten.” He’d taken a risk telling her this much, but as far as he could tell, there was no other option. This wasn’t some cracked old crone, sitting rocking in her front room waiting to die. She was a sharp lady; there could be no fooling her, even if he could be bothered to try.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I know he’s done some bad things, but he’s my grandson and I love him.” She paused, picked up her cup and took a sip, and then cradled the cup in one hand, like a small animal. “He was in a bad smash-up, years ago, on his motorcycle. His girlfriend, Sally, was killed, and Marty was unconscious in hospital for twenty-four hours. I sat by his bedside, holding his hand, waiting for him to either die or wake up. Nobody seemed sure which it would be.” She licked her lips. She was wearing lip-gloss; it made them shine. “When he did wake up, the first thing he said was ‘Humpty Dumpty’. It sounds silly, I know, but he said it with such fear in his voice that I never mentioned it to him. I don’t even think he knows he said that, or that I heard it. Not even now.” Her eyes were as shiny as her lips. She was lost in the memory.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She nodded. “Aye, it ruined his dreams of boxing. That’s why he started having those other fights, the ones that happen late at night in warehouses and basements… he thinks I don’t know about them, but I do. I always knew.”

“I bet you know a lot more than anyone, Hilda.” Simon glanced at Brendan, but his friend failed to notice.

“Oh, aye. Us oldies, we see a lot. We see it all. There’s nothing much else to do expect watch, you know. Watch and remember what we’ve seen, just in case it turns out to be important.”

Brendan was scratching vigorously at his back, knotting up his jacket at the nape of his neck. His face was pale. He seemed to be somewhere else, not here in the room. It was as if he were miles away, not even aware of the exchange taking place beside him. Simon willed him to turn around, to regain his focus, but Brendan just kept scratching away at his upper back.

Jesus, he thought. What’s his fucking problem?

“So, Hilda… Do you have an address or a telephone number for Marty?” Thankfully, she had not noticed Brendan’s weird contortions on the chair. She was distracted by her memories.

The budgie hopped around inside its cage, restless.

“I have his mobile number, but he doesn’t answer unless he knows who’s calling.” She reached across to a sideboard on her right and grabbed a ring-bound notebook and pen. Her stick-like fingers scribbled down the number. She tore off the page and reached across the table, handing it to Simon.

“Thanks,” he said. “All we can do is to try our best, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure where he’s been living. He’s always moved around a lot, you see. Never stays in one place long enough to settle in or give me an address. I even have to send his Christmas card to a post office box. The last I heard he was in Newcastle or Gateshead, looking after someone’s flat while they’re working away. He has a lot of acquaintances, does our Marty, but not many friends. None at all that I’ve met, anyway.”

Simon smiled. “We’re his friends,” he said, folding up the sheet of paper and slipping it into his trouser pocket. “If he still wants us, that is.”

“That’s nice,” said Hilda. “The past is important. Memories are the ties that bind us to each other. If he does call me, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. I’ll vouch for you, too. Tell him that you’re still nice lads and he should make the effort to see you.”

Brendan stood suddenly. He was jittery; unease bled from him like a fine mist. “Sorry,” he said. “Could I use your bathroom?” His eyes were huge. He was standing in such a way that Simon felt he was trying to hold something inside, like a man with chronic diarrhoea who’s been struck by sudden stomach cramps.

“Top of the stairs. First door on the left.” Hilda raised a hand and pointed vaguely at the door. The budgie, stuck behind narrow bars, skittered on the cage floor. Brendan hurried from the room.

“Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s wrong with Brendan. He’s been ill, something he ate.” Simon leaned back and crossed one ankle over the other, pretending to be at ease in this too-neat home with its floral-patterned curtains and mute bird in a tiny cage.

“I suspect there’s more wrong with him than that.” Hilda nodded, as if agreeing with her own statement. “He’s never been right, that one. Even before you lads came out of that tower block, he was a bit strange. Distant, like: always off with his head in the clouds.”

“He’s fine,” said Simon, feeling the need to protect his old friend. “Just a bit quiet. He always was the shy one.” Lies, all lies; Brendan had always been outgoing, at least in the years before the Needle.

“Listen, son.” Hilda shuffled forward again. “Marty’s been seeing a girl. Melanie Sallis. She works part-time in the betting shop on the Arcade: three days a week. He never sees anyone for long — never has, not since poor Sally and that motorbike accident — but as far as I know, they’re still an item. She’s a decent girl, Melanie. Tells me stuff about my grandson. Go and see her today; tell her I sent you. She might be able to help you get in touch with Marty. Christ knows, I’ve done all I can — the little sod barely even calls me these days. Sends me text messages. Can you believe that? Text messages to his old Nan! The cheeky bugger.” Her anger was faked; the tone of her voice suggested only compassion.

“Thank you, Hilda. You’ve been a great help.”

Her smile was gone now. The lines and wrinkles on her face seemed to have deepened, become filled with shadows. Her dentures looked huge. “Just promise me that you won’t go stirring up bad things from the past — things that are best left alone.”

Simon leaned forward. He placed a hand on her knee. “I just want us — all three of us — to be able to move on with our lives. That’s all. I want us healed. I want all that stuff, whatever it is, put away in a box for good. I want… I want us to be friends again, just like we were back then, before everything got so damned dark.”

She placed her hand over his and squeezed. Her bones felt tiny, like a bird’s. He glanced at the budgie; it was immobile, and staring at him through the bars.

Brendan chose that moment to come back into the room. His hairline was damp, as if he’d washed his face; his eyes and cheeks were red, as if he’d been rubbing them. He looked more tired than Simon had seen him since their reunion. He looked… wasted.

“We’d better go. Thanks again.”

“Let yourself out, lads. These old legs of mine are playing up again, and I’d rather not stand, if that’s okay.” She wriggled her feet, as if to demonstrate what she meant.

“Don’t worry, we can find our way out. Bye, Percy.” Simon stood and approached Brendan, ushered him out of the door.

“What the hell was wrong with you in there?” They were standing outside, on the footpath next to the gate to Hilda’s place. “I thought you were going to do all the talking? You left me high and dry. It’s a fucking good job she liked me, or we would’ve got nothing.”

Brendan was leaning against the privet bush next door. He rubbed his cheeks, licked his lips. “Sorry… I just. I didn’t feel well. I have this rash… on my back. It’s been bothering me.”

“Okay, okay.” Slowly, Simon started walking backwards along the street, in the direction of the Arcade. “I’ll see you tonight, for dinner. Just get yourself home and have some rest. We can talk again then. I’ll bring some wine for the table. We can get pissed and go through all this new information.”

Brendan looked up. His cheeks were pale now, but there were thin red lines, like scratch marks, running from just under his eyes to a point level with his mouth. “Where are you going?” The marks faded to white as Simon watched.

Simon turned around and increased his pace. He glanced over his shoulder but did not alter his stride. “Me? I’m off to put a bet on.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JANE WAS OUT when Brendan got home. She was always out these days, as if the walls of the house were no longer able to hold her. He staggered through the door and into the hall, feeling giddy, light-headed. His back and shoulders ached. He leaned sideways against the wall, out of breath. His vision was swimming; he waited for it to clear.

He turned and stared at his reflection in the mirror mounted in the hallway. His face was damp with sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. Behind him, hanging on the wall, he could see a family photograph: him, Jane, the twins. It was like a catalogue shot, deliberately posed to sell him something he didn’t need. As with every family shot in the house, he had the sense that something was missing.

“What’s happening to me?”

After a few seconds he turned away, disgusted with himself. He felt weak, absent, as if he was barely making an impact on the world. The safe existence he’d created over the years was being threatened. Everything was changing.

Carefully, Brendan took off his coat and hung it on the hook at the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed the banister and started to climb, heading up to the first floor. His legs ached; his back was burning. His other hand groped along the wall, feeling the ridges of the cheap wallpaper.

When he reached the top of the stairs he was breathless. He shoved open the bathroom door and turned on the light. Despite the sunshine, the small room never got much natural light. It was always dim in there. He looked again at his reflection in the mirror and did not recognise it from the one downstairs. His features looked different, as if he’d transformed somehow on the journey up to this level. He shook his head, trying to dispel the idiotic thoughts.

Pull yourself together. Get a fucking grip.

Slowly, he peeled off his shirt.

He’d deliberately worn a shirt that was two sizes too big, just to give the acne some breathing space. He wasn’t sure if it had made any difference, but it was all he could think of. Back at the old lady’s place, when he’d got up to use her bathroom, he’d taken off his jacket and seen specks of blood on the shirt collar. Since his strange experience early that morning, when he’d felt pinned to the bed by some angry force, he’d become convinced that the spots on his back had begun to change. He was almost afraid to inspect them and see what they looked like now.

Brendan dropped the shirt on the bathroom floor.

He turned slowly to the side and started picking at the plasters that held the dressing in place. There were small spots of blood on the white cotton gauze. It wasn’t much, but it was there, like a warning. He pulled at the plasters and removed them, wincing as they pulled out tiny hairs, and then lifted the dressing to reveal his lacerated flesh.

Turning around to present his back to the mirror, he strained to look at the reflection of his rear side. Despite the presence of the blood, the pustules looked dry — drier than they had in a while. No fluids glistened on his body; no vile-coloured ichors had been spilled. The acne was more like a patch of damaged skin than individual wounds. It looked as if someone had laid a sheet, or several sheets, of treated rubber over his upper back — like a TV special effect in a hospital soap opera. He flexed the muscles there, testing it. The pain flared briefly and then died.

But then something strange happened.

When he stopped moving, the wounds continued to stir. The damaged skin shuddered, as if from an electric current being passed through it. The skin clenched, like the backs of hands making fists, and as he watched, parts of it rose, like flaps — or like two eyelids.

Beneath each of these thin lids, there was a small, dark eye. For some reason Brendan was not shocked. He knew that he should be — he realised that eyes opening up in a person’s back was not a normal or natural occurrence, and he should be screaming in horror — but instead he experienced a strange overwhelming sense of calm.

The eyelids blinked, fluttering like a cheap whore’s on a neon-soaked boardwalk. The eyes weren’t human, he could see that clearly. They were yellow, rather than white, around the outside, and the pupils were strange… black and horizontal, like rectangular slots at the centre of the iris. They reminded him of something and he struggled to grab hold of an image. Then, suddenly, it came to him. Those weird eyes… they were the eyes of a goat.

The eyelids blinked again. Brendan had the feeling that they were waiting for something — perhaps for him, to acknowledge them.

“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I know I should be, but I’m not. I was afraid of you twenty years ago, when you locked us up in the dark, but that was a lifetime ago. You don’t scare me, you fucker. You make me angry, not afraid.” He curled his hands into fists.

The eyelids widened; the black, slotted pupils contracted. From somewhere in the small bathroom — the ends of the taps, the bath plug, the toilet bowl — came a familiar clicking sound. It started slowly, gaining speed as he listened, but remained at a constant volume.

“It’s just a trick,” said Brendan. “You can’t hurt me. If you could, you’d have done it by now. You’ve had twenty fucking years to kill me, but I’m still alive. I’m still here. So do your worst. I dare you.”

The two eyelids blinked again. And then they closed.

Brendan was shaking. He had not felt so alive in years. There was fire in his belly, his blood was molten lava, and he felt as if he could take on anyone and win. “Do your fucking worst,” he whispered.

He filled the sink with cold water and washed his face, then dabbed at his back with a wet cloth. The infected skin looked the same as it had done before, before those weird eyes opening. Oddly, it seemed as if the acne was healing, the badness leaking out, draining off. He pressed his fingertips against the spots, but they did not burst; the skin didn’t break.

Bending down, he picked up his shirt. When he straightened up he looked again at his face in the mirror. This time his own eyes were like a goat’s, with dull yellow irises and slotted black pupils. He stepped backwards, stumbling, and fell sideways, almost into the bath, slamming his arm against the edge of the tub as he did so. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself upright, using the sink for leverage, and looked directly into the mirror.

His eyes were normal again.

“More cheap tricks,” he said, leaning forward, pressing his nose against the glass. “They won’t work now. We’re all grown up and we don’t scare easy.” He smiled. In the mirror, his face looked sweaty and manic. “We’re not little kids.”

Brendan threw the damp shirt in the direction of the washing basket and then took off his jeans, socks and underpants and sent them the same way. He walked naked along the landing and went into the bedroom, where he picked out some clean clothes. He also selected another outfit for later that evening — dark dress trousers, the black silk shirt Jane had bought him last Christmas, and his best pair of shoes.

He sat down on the bed and began to polish the shoes with a duster. The methodical task calmed his mind, helped him to relax.

Why am I no longer afraid? he thought. What’s happened to me? I should be terrified.

He buffed the black shoes with the soft yellow cloth, pausing occasionally to breathe onto the leather upper, misting it.

I’m not the strong one. I’m the weak member of the group, the one who would die first if this was a horror film.

He smiled.

Exhaled.

Buffed.

If this were a film, he would not be sitting naked on the bed, shining his shoes. He’d be buying some obscure book on demonology from a backstreet dealer, or hiring an exorcist. But real life wasn’t like the movies; reality was something you had to go through to fully understand the complexities, a series of obstacles that were meant to be endured. Sometimes passivity was the only option, and not everyone could be a hero. In real life, the monsters were often defeated by common sense and a blunt acceptance of the reality they presented. You didn’t always have to fight, to confront the thing in the closet, the leering face under the bed.

Some battles were fought in the mind. Some wars lasted forever.

He examined his shoes. They were as shiny as he would ever get them. He could almost see his face in the polished surface. As far as he could tell, his eyes were the same as always.

Brendan put away the cloth and set down his shoes at the side of the bed. He laid out the clothes he intended to wear to dinner and dressed in the others, tucking his T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. Jane hated that; she said it wasn’t trendy. But Brendan had never been a fashionable man. Sometimes — more often than not, if he were honest — he wondered what the hell she ever saw in him. He had never been her type. But maybe that was part of the appeal?

Simon had been her type, and he’d dumped her.

Crossing the room, he went to the wardrobe and stood on his tiptoes. He couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the box from under the bed, so he struggled on his tiptoes to reach the thing he was looking for. The acorn, when he brought it out, was dusty, its skin peeling back in thin, dry folds. It looked old, rotten and decayed: an empty husk, devoid even of terror. He held it between the palms of his hands and pushed the hands inwards. The acorn held at first, but as he pressed it began to burst, the sides caving in as he forced his palms together.

The acorn turned to dust in his hands.

The skin of his back twitched, just once.

Brendan clapped his hands together, rubbing and cleaning off the greyish dust. He splayed his fingers and stared at his palms. They were pale, bloodless. The lines looked faded, as if his hands were smoothing out, becoming babyish.

At last his fear began to show itself. He closed his eyes, closed his hands. His back crawled, as if a million tiny insects were marching from shoulder to shoulder.

Brendan wished he knew how he felt, or how he was supposed to feel. Perhaps if he could translate his emotions into words, he might stand a chance of surviving this season in hell. Or at least he’d die knowing what was happening to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SIMON APPROACHED THE Arcade with caution, wary that the kids who’d mugged him might be hanging around, laughing and still going through his wallet. He looked around, checking out the area, and moved slowly, like a man with something to hide. He was ashamed of his cowardice, but at the same time he knew that he’d been outnumbered. One on one, it would have been a different matter — he would have fought harder, better — but confronted by three young men, overpowered by the force of numbers, he hadn’t stood a chance.

He’d tried calling the mobile number Marty’s grandmother had given him, but it had led nowhere. All it did was ring out, an endless, monotonous tone. He’d even sent a text, identifying himself and asking Marty to get in touch, but had the feeling that any initial contact would need to be face-to-face, man-to-man. He got the impression that Marty was that kind of guy.

Shoppers slow-danced in and out of shop doorways. Middle-aged men in loose jogging bottoms hung around smoking and staring belligerently at passers-by. Simon sidled up to the front of the betting shop, trying to act as if he belonged here.

The large windows were covered with posters advertising races, fights and football matches, with betting odds listed in their alien language. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, feeling an oppressive atmosphere wrap its fingers around his body. He hated betting shops. His sports-obsessed father had spent a lot of time in this one, and others just like it, so Simon had a near-physical reaction whenever he was in the proximity of one of these places. He felt nauseous; his head began to pound.

Rows of flat-screen televisions lined the top of the walls near the ceiling, padlocked into metal frames. Other screens, smaller and lower down, showed a constant scroll of betting odds. Along the walls, between the lower television screens, were booths at which men stood writing out their bets on small slips of paper. Most of them looked deep in thought, a few of them looked wary, fewer still looked afraid.

Simon took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds. Then he moved to the back of the shop, towards the counter. There were three separate windows where people could place a bet, protected by bullet-proof glass screens. Behind the one on the left was a thin, pale-faced young man who kept biting his fingernails. The middle screen housed an obese old woman with frizzy brown hair, her spectacles too small for her swollen face. The final booth, on the right, was the one he needed. The woman behind the glass was young, slim, and rather beautiful. She looked out of place in these surroundings, like a pedigree dog stuck in a kennel for strays. Her black hair was held back in a loose ponytail, she wore too much make-up, and the skin of her face sported a familiar orangey fake tan… yet still, despite all of this, she was gorgeous. Scrape off that muck, allow the shop-bought tan to fade, and Simon had no doubt that she could pass for a model.

He walked to the window, taking the opportunity to approach her while everyone else inside the shop watched the numbers and horse names scroll down the screens.

She smiled.

“Hi.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I… listen; I don’t want to put on a bet. I just want to talk to you.”

She smiled again. “I’m flattered, mate. Really I am. But do you know how many blokes ask me out every day, how many phone numbers get written on the back of spent betting slips, how many sad losers just come straight out and ask to see my tits?” Her face hardened; the smile slipped away. “I’m not interested.”

“No… no, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m a friend of Marty Rivers.”

Her entire attitude changed. Her posture straightened; the muscles in her face and neck tensed, making her look older, less attractive, and she leaned forward, towards the glass. “Marty? Did he send you?”

“Not exactly.”

She began to move away, her lips curling into a silent snarl. This wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d hoped for.

“But I have a message from him.” It was the first thing that came into his head. Simon knew that he was asking for trouble by lying to this woman, but what else could he do? “You are Melanie, aren’t you? Melanie Sallis?” He tried his final gambit: “Marty’s grandmother told me to come and see you. She said you were his girlfriend.”

She laughed softly. “That’s my name, yes. As for the other part… well, I’m not so sure. Maybe you should ask him.” Her eyes shone, with anger rather than sorrow.

“My name’s Simon Ridley. Could I speak with you, Melanie? Not here — somewhere else, where we can sit and have a proper talk. It’s important, I promise you. I won’t waste your time.”

She glanced over his shoulder, at the interior of the betting shop, and then her eyes took him in again. “Marty didn’t send you at all, did he?”

“No. No, he didn’t. But I really do need to talk to you, and it is about Marty. I promise.”

Her eyes flicked left, then right. She pursued her lips, and then opened them slightly. Her teeth were remarkably clean and white, unlike anyone’s he’d ever seen outside modelling or television. He wondered how much she’d paid for all that dental work.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’m due a break, anyway.” She looked right, at the obese woman. “I’m off for a fag break, Denise. I’ll be back shortly.”

Denise shrugged and turned away.

“Come on,” said Melanie. “I have the flat upstairs. We can talk in peace up there.” She grabbed a leather jacket from the back of her chair and opened the side door of the cubicle. There was a combination lock, and she spun the numbers without looking.

She walked past him, towards the betting shop door. Her waist was narrow, her hips thin; she had long legs, and the short skirt she was wearing showed them off. Simon followed her outside, and then along a narrow alley at the side of the betting shop. She stepped up onto a metal stairway, took a key out of her pocket, and opened the door there.

Simon waited to be invited up.

“Come on, then,” she said, shaking her head. “I haven’t got all day.”

He followed her inside.

They went up a stairwell, Melanie’s high heels echoing like gunshots in the enclosed concrete space. At the top of the stairs was another door, clearly the main door to a flat. She used another key and unlocked the door, and then pushed it open.

He climbed the last couple of concrete stairs and followed her into the flat, closing the door behind him. He was standing in a narrow hallway. There were two doors in the wall on each side. Up ahead, he could see Melanie moving around in a small living room, putting her coat down on the arm of a sofa, brushing something off the front of her skirt.

Simon walked along the hall. There were framed prints of Paris, Barcelona and New York on the walls. “You travel a lot?”

She turned as he entered the room. “No, but I wish I did. That’s what those pictures are — wishful thinking. One day, I might even get to see those places.” Her smile was small and sad. “Drink?”

“No thanks. I’m already full up with tea and if I have anything alcoholic I might collapse from exhaustion.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, sitting down heavily on the patterned sofa. She slid off her shoes and flexed her stockinged feet. “You now have ten minutes to explain yourself,” she said. “And if this isn’t as important as you claimed downstairs, I’ll fucking Mace you.” She smiled, but it was devoid of humour. She pointed at the small, cluttered coffee table under which she’d rested her feet. There was indeed a can of Mace on the tabletop.

“Really, I am a friend of Marty’s.” Simon kept his distance. “An old friend. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but I need to see him, to speak to him about something important.”

“You aren’t impressing me yet,” said Melanie, curling up her legs on the sofa. “Sit down. I was joking about the Mace. It isn’t even real — it’s a novelty cigarette lighter.” This time the smile was mellower, tinged with humour. “If I thought you were a threat, do you think I’d have invited you up here?”

Again, Simon felt obscurely insulted. Did he present a threat to nobody around here? Was he really so harmless?

“I’ve seen your photo,” she said. “I saw it at Marty’s place.”

Simon shook his head. “When we were kids, you mean? A school photo?”

“Nope. In his wallet — a clipping from a London newspaper. He showed me, bragged about how one of his old mates was a millionaire.” Her legs squirmed on the sofa.

“He keeps a photo of me in his wallet?”

“Weird, eh? But Marty Rivers is one strange dude.” She stretched out those long, slender legs, making herself comfortable. Simon wasn’t sure if this was the preamble to some sort of seduction. She certainly looked as if she were limbering up for something.

“I don’t understand.” He sat down on the chair opposite, sinking into the soft cushion.

“That makes two of us. He seems really proud of the fact that you got away from here, though. I mean, he doesn’t talk much about you — but that one time, when he showed me the photo, he was, like, beaming with pride.” She blinked slowly.

Simon could barely believe what he was being told. All this time, he’d thought that his old friends had forgotten about him, perhaps even hated him for managing to get away while they’d stayed behind. The truth was, at least one of them had wished him well, silently supporting his escape. A welter of emotions surged though him — pity, regret, hatred, despair, and even what he thought might be affection.

“So what do you want to talk to me about? Surely you can just call Marty on the phone?” She feigned disinterest, examining her nails. They were long, and painted deep red.

“No, I can’t. I was telling the truth when I said that we hadn’t seen each other. I got out of the Grove not long after leaving school, and we haven’t even spoken since then.” He breathed heavily, feeling tired all of a sudden, as if by taking a breather here, in the small, cramped flat, he had allowed everything to catch up with him.

“Oh. I see. So now you want to know where he is? Maybe get an address?”

Simon nodded. “His grandmother told us that he doesn’t answer his phone unless he knows who’s calling, so we struck out there. I tried calling him earlier, on the way here, but only got his voicemail.”

Melanie laughed. “Marty is a paranoid man — the most paranoid man I’ve ever known, to be honest. He doesn’t trust anyone. The circles he moves in, the people he knows… well, let’s just say that it pays him to be suspicious of people’s motives.”

Simon sat up straight and rested his hands on his knees. He felt awkward, displaced, as if he had no business being here, with this woman. “Yes, I’ve heard that he’s into some dodgy stuff. Criminal stuff. How deep is he involved?”

Melanie bent her legs at the knee and sat up; it was a graceful movement, like something a dancer might do. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He doesn’t talk to anyone, really. All I know is that he’s always out at night, and he often comes home with bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt. He’s a violent man, but only if you cross him.” Her face changed again, then, becoming cold and hard and bitter. “I suppose that’s the attraction with a man like Marty Rivers — that sense of danger, and the fact that you know he’ll protect you. That counts for a lot in a place like this, doing a job like I do.” She tilted her head, indicating the betting shop downstairs, then shrugged, stood and walked across to the window. “He’s stopped calling me. I haven’t seen him for days. I guess he’s dumped me.” Her shoulders tensed as she looked out of the window, across the estate. “He doesn’t like to get too close to people.”

Sunlight flared, creating a soft halo around her head as she turned to face the room. Simon squinted against the glare, feeling as if, for a second, he had been transported elsewhere, to another place that existed alongside the reality he knew.

“I suppose I can give you his address,” she said, moving towards him, out of the light. “I don’t owe him anything, not now. He thinks he can pick people up, use them for a while, and then throw them away. What do I care if you know where he’s staying?” The light faded behind her. Simon felt the absurd urge to get up and run towards it, try to prevent it from going away.

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

Melanie picked up a pad and a pencil and started to write down the address. “It’s on the other side of the river — Gateshead. A penthouse flat on one of those nice new riverside developments that keep popping up along the quayside up these days.”

Simon smiled. “I remember when Gateshead was a shithole.”

Melanie looked up from the notebook. “It still is,” she said. “People just pretend that it’s changed. Isn’t that what we all do? We pretend that things aren’t what they really are?”

Simon wasn’t sure what she meant, but it sounded like her words had taken on a meaning that she had not intended, as if they were talking about something else.

She tore the page from the notebook and handed it to him. She looked pensive, as if this was the end of something that she was reluctant to finish. “Don’t tell him you saw me. I’ve had enough of his crap. He had his chance and now it’s gone. I want to get on with my life, and if that means leaving him behind, then I’m cool with that.”

Simon nodded. “I won’t mention you. And thanks again… this really does mean a lot. Could I ask you something else?”

Melanie returned to the sofa, where she sat and began putting on her shoes. “Time’s up, mister, so make it fast.”

Simon folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers. “Did Marty ever mention anything about what happened to us when we were kids?”

Melanie looked up as she struggled with the strap on her right shoe. “What do you mean? What happened when you were kids? Is that what this is all about? Some kind of closure for a falling-out you all had when you were younger? I thought it might be something more exciting than that.” Some of the hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and slid down over her eyes. She didn’t bother moving it out of the way, just peered through the dangling fringe.

“Yes,” said Simon. “It’s about unfinished business. I just wondered if he’d ever spoken to you about any of it, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “’fraid not. Like I said, Marty’s an insular bastard. He doesn’t give much away.”

“Thanks again, then. I’ll let you get back to work.”

When she did not respond, Simon took it as his cue to leave. He walked back through the flat and opened the door, then stepped out onto the shabby little landing. Once he was outside, in the open air, he felt like he’d been released from confinement. But he looked around, and realised that all he’d done was pass from one cell into another.

He moved along the alleyway between the shops and turned right, walking once again past the betting shop. He did not look in the window. If Melanie had gone back inside through some other door, maybe one that linked the upstairs flat with the rear of the shop, he didn’t want to be seen checking her out. She was an attractive woman, but she had an aura of melancholy that he had found difficult to bear. He couldn’t imagine staying with such a woman, where every movement, each tiny gesture, seemed like it was hiding another meaning.

He walked along the Arcade, lost in his own thoughts, and only when he was level with the butchers at the end of the row did he see the boy. It was Scooby, from earlier that day — the cocky ringleader of the group who’d taken Simon’s wallet. This time the kid was on his own, walking up ahead with oversized earphones clamped to his head.

A surge of rage travelled the length of Simon’s body, originating in his chest and moving through his torso, to end up in his fists. Here, he felt, was a chance for redemption, an opportunity to bolster his self-image and dispel the cowardice he’d experienced before. If he could get back his phone or his wallet, or at least scare the kid, then he could once again feel like a man. He realised how shallow the thought was, and how it diminished him in some way, yet the part of him that was always pushing overcame his doubts.

The boy turned right, into Grove Street West. Simon followed, keeping his distance but increasing his pace so he could see if the boy ducked into a ginnel or an alleyway. The boy continued along the street. On either side of them, many of the properties were boarded up. The burnt-out shell of an old gymnasium — Simon remembered the newspaper report he’d been sent — cast a dark stain on the footpath.

Scooby stopped outside the burnt building, stuck his hand into the pocket of his tracksuit top and produced a key. Moving quickly, he unlocked the heavy-duty security door and began to enter the building.

Simon moved fast, without really giving much thought to what he was doing. He had no plan; he just sprinted across the road, knowing that the boy couldn’t hear him through his headphones, and barrelled straight into Scooby’s back, sending him sprawling inside. He slammed the door without looking back and went for the kid, kicking him in the side.

“Fuck!” Scooby’s cries were too loud; he was compensating for still wearing the headphones.

Simon knelt down and grabbed the headphones, wrenching them off the kid’s ears. The walls around him were scorched and blackened. To his left, half a staircase hung suspended in mid-air, the ends of the treads seared away. The place smelled of old flames.

“What the fuck?”

“You don’t recognise me, do you?” Simon grabbed the kid’s face with both hands, letting his fingers sink into his stubbly cheeks. “Where’s my fucking wallet, you chav vermin?”

Realisation dawned; the kid’s eyes took on a panicked look. His mouth started to work but he said nothing.

“My wallet. Now!”

Scooby shook his head. “That’s gone, mate. We cleaned it out and stuck it in the post box in Near Grove, by the community centre. You should get it back in a few weeks.” There was a cocky little half-smile on his face.

Despite the situation, Simon did not feel as if the boy was afraid enough of him. Still, he wasn’t threatening, the people he met did not respect his aggression.

“You little bastard.” He pulled back his right fist and punched the kid in the face, just below his right eye.

Scooby cried out. He tried to fight back, but Simon held him down, shifting his body weight so that he was kneeling on Scooby’s shoulders, pinning him down.

“Fear me,” he said. “Be fucking afraid of me.” He started punching again, and he did not stop until Scooby lay still, his eyelids flickering and his lips slack and bloodied.

Simon stood up and backed away, pressing his back against the wall. What the hell was he doing, beating the kid senseless? What had come over him to make him act this way? He rubbed his face with his hands, and then wiped them on his trousers. He glanced over at Scooby, sprawled on the dirty floor, his face damp with blood.

He looked at the palms of his hands, and then at his fists. His knuckles were red and angry. He rubbed them on his trousers.

Simon went to the door, opened it, and peeked outside. The street was empty. Nobody came along here unless they were up to no good — he suspected that Scooby had come inside the burnt-out gym to smoke some weed or perhaps even to make a drugs drop.

Shit, he thought. That means someone else might be on their way here to pick up the merchandise.

He returned to Scooby’s body. The kid was stirring. He made moaning sounds as his legs twitched. Simon hadn’t killed him; that was good news, at least.

He checked Scooby’s pockets and found a large plastic baggy filled with white powder in the left hand pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. A drugs drop, then. He put the bag back in Scooby’s pocket and returned to the door. He slipped outside, closing the door behind him, and then jogged to the end of the street, where he turned back towards the Arcade. Nobody paid any attention to him, despite the fact that his jacket was dusty from where he’d leaned against the wall. He hoped that there was no blood on his face, from when he’d touched it with his hands.

As he walked, heading towards the relative safety and security of the Grove Court flats, Simon felt better about himself than he had in quite some time. That exultant moment of opportunist violence, the way he’d handled the scruffy little upstart back at the ruined and abandoned gym, had served its purpose: right now, at least until the shame and the guilt kicked in, he felt like a man again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IT WAS ALREADY growing dark when Marty arrived at Doc’s house. He couldn’t believe it was summer; it was only seven o’clock. The darkness was creeping in early, as if trying to get a head start on the season and usher in the short days of autumn.

He looked up, at the churning sky, and realised that the light was being blocked by a dense layer of dark clouds. The day was still there; he just couldn’t see it.

Marty had a few enemies in this part of Jesmond, mostly from the days when he’d worked regularly as a pub doorman, so he didn’t come around here often. He’d learned long ago to walk away from possible friction; life was too short to risk making it shorter in a kerbside brawl. A younger Marty — maybe even the Marty from five or six years ago — would have laughed at that and called his older self a coward. But these days, he knew the score. He realised that his life had been lived far too long in the line of fire and sometimes it’s better to dodge a bullet than to try and catch it in your teeth.

Doc’s place was a three-storey Victorian terrace with a large garden and an outbuilding. There was a greenhouse tucked along by the fence. This had surprised Marty in the past; he hadn’t figured Doc for a gardener. He’d been to the house on a couple of previous occasions, having various knocks and bumps treated, but had never before turned up on such short notice.

Nobody knew the old medic’s real name. Or if they did, they hadn’t bothered to remember it. He was simply Doc, and the old man never complained about it. According to local legend, he’d been a popular ringside doctor at pro bouts back in the day, but the drink and an ex-wife with expensive tastes had wrecked him, leaving him to scrape a living by less conventional means. Marty had once been told that Doc was struck off by the Medical Council, but nobody seemed to know why.

He knocked on the door and waited. A few seconds later a light went on in the hallway, shining through the decorative glass panels in the door. A small shape shuffled towards the other side of the door and opened it.

“Thanks for seeing me,” said Marty.

“It’s no bother,” said Doc, turning to the side. “Please, come in. You know the way through, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve been here before, remember?”

Doc nodded, but clearly had no idea. “Come on in, then, and let’s take a look at that stab wound.”

The house was filled with old things. Expensive things. The ex-wife must not have been fully successful in her endeavours to ruin the man, if he’d managed to hold on to this house and all the possessions crammed between its walls. There was clutter everywhere; the walls were covered with paintings (real paintings, not prints), and every piece of furniture — even those in the wide hallway — looked antique.

“Nice place,” said Marty, walking through into the huge reception room.

“Thanks. I’ve lived here for a long time. It probably needs renovating, but I haven’t the heart. I enjoy age; even in myself. I was never happy as a young man.” He smiled.

There was a leather medical table with wooden drawers in the sides set up at one end of the room. Marty remembered it from his previous visits, and guessed that it was always set up for business, ready and waiting for paying customers. He knew that Doc had a little sideline tending the stab and bullet wounds of gang members and drug dealers, and was paid handsomely for his services. The wounds sustained in the kind of fights Marty took part in were probably light relief compared with that.

“Take off your shirt, Marty. Lie down over there, on the table.” Doc was scrubbing his hands at the sink against the opposite wall. He did not look up, just stared closely at his hands as he slathered them in blue fluid beneath the hot tap.

Marty did as he was told. The pain had returned, and the dressing he’d applied to the wound was coming loose. He folded his shirt and set it down on a chair, and then climbed up onto the table. He lay flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was a death pose, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He moved his arms to rest by his sides and stared at the ceiling, the sculpted plaster rose at its centre, and the bright light that hung from it.

“So what’s the trouble?” Doc stood over him, his pale arms pink and hairless in the harsh light. “Is it infected? That’s what you suggested over the phone.” He leant over Marty’s torso. His breath smelled of whisky and ginger.

“God, man, how much gauze did you use?” He peeled back the dressing and cleaned out the wound. “What happened to the stitches? Have you been picking at these?”

“No… they just came out, on their own. Maybe I knocked it against something, I can’t remember.”

“You fucking guys… you’re all the same. With your cheap gold rings and your tribal tattoos, thinking you’re real tough guys. You can’t hurry nature, son. Healing — every kind of healing — takes time and care. You can’t hurry it along like a slut on a first date.” His hands were soft and gentle, unlike when he’d worked at ringside. Here, on his own turf, the man became the skilled doctor he must once have been, before life broke him.

“Doc, this might sound a bit funny, but I need you to inspect inside the wound. I think I got something in there.”

Doc stopped working. He straightened his back and stared at Marty’s face. “Are you high, son?”

Marty shook his head. “No. I just have this… this feeling. It feels like there’s something moving around in there, under my skin.” He looked away, unable to meet the old man’s gaze.

“Jesus Christ on a bike. You people… drugged up, fucked up, and walking around like you’re masters of the universe. Don’t you realise what kind of mess you’re making of your life?” He shook his head, talking to himself now. “I don’t know; some folk just never know when to quit the game.”

Doc grabbed some stainless steel pincers and a scalpel off a tray and paused. “I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t hurt much, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Okay. Just have a look… check around in there, would you?”

“Aye. Don’t worry. If there’s anything in there, I’ll have it out in a minute.” He bent back to his work, his eyes widening, his lips pressing together.

Doc was as good as his word. The examination did not hurt too much. Marty gritted his teeth a couple of times, but the mild pain was tolerable, much less than he’d expected.

“I’ll put in a few more loose stitches,” said Doc, when he’d finished. “There’s fuck-all in there, son, so please leave it alone this time. If you have any discomfort, just give me another call. Don’t start imagining symptoms — that’s my job.” He winked.

“Thanks,” said Marty, closing his eyes.

When Doc had finished, Marty handed him an envelope of used bills. Doc didn’t bother counting the money; he simply nodded, smiled, and walked Marty to the door.

“Remember,” he said. “Just leave it alone… let it heal.”

“I will,” said Marty, but the door was already closing in his face.

He went back to his car and sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Aretha Franklin was singing on the radio. He listened until the song ended, and then switched it off. He drove away from the kerb, watching the street, wondering what was happening to him. None of this seemed real. It was like a dream he’d once had, when he was a much younger man. The acorn he’d imagined burrowing under his skin was a metaphor, but he did not have enough information to understand what it meant.

Back at the flat, he poured himself a whisky and took out his phone, ignoring the voicemail and text prompts. He dialled Erik Best’s mobile number. The call went through to voicemail, as he’d expected. Erik screened all of his calls.

“Erik, it’s me. Marty Rivers. I have something important I need to tell you. Call me back.” He ended the call and drained his glass, then got up and poured a double. Then he sat back down and waited.

He grabbed the remote control and turned on the stereo. Muddy Waters sang about a Mannish Boy. Marty closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, letting it infect him with its melancholy. His mobile must have buzzed for thirty seconds before he realised he had a call.

“Hello. Erik?” He’d answered without looking at the display. He only hoped that it wasn’t Melanie.

“What is it, Marty?”

No preamble: just get straight to the point. “I quit. No more fights for me. That last one… it wasn’t right. The game’s changed.”

There was a pause during which Marty thought he might have said the wrong thing, or at least picked the wrong time to say it. Then Best began to speak. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Marty. Actually, I’ve been expecting this for a while. Just do me one favour, yeah?”

Marty swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “What’s that?”

“Go away and have a proper think. Sleep on it; run everything though your mind. Then, in a few days, a week, if you still feel the same, we’ll have this chat again. There’ll be no hard feelings from me. If you really want to chuck in the towel, I’ll respect your decision. I will call on you for other favours, though, just like before. Just a bit of heavy work here and there, or maybe the occasional stint on the doors. A man still needs to make a few dollars, mate, and I’ll always need a battler like you on my team.”

Marty relaxed. “That seems fair enough to me, Erik. I’ll speak to you in a few days. But I doubt anything will change. I’ve made my decision.”

“Okay, marra. Speak to you soon.” The phone went dead.

Marty was about to hit the ‘off’ button on the handset when he remembered that he had a text message and a couple of voicemails. He’d ignored them before, assuming that it was Melanie, but this time he checked, just in case. Both messages were from the same person: Simon Ridley.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, listening to them again. “Fuck me, Simon Ridley.” The messages were short and to the point:

“Listen Marty, this is Simon Ridley, from years ago. Please give me a call. I need to speak to you about something.”

Later, “It’s me again, Simon. Call me. It’s important; very important. Have you been having dreams? Dreams about a grove of trees and that time we spent in the Needle?”

He opened the text message and it gave the same information in fewer words.

Marty stored the number and put down his phone. Then he picked it up again and switched it off. He did not want to speak to anyone else this evening. He needed to think.

He struggled to control his breathing.

His side ached. Something moved sluggishly beneath his skin. The world turned; the remains of the day moved briskly towards night; his life passed in a succession of moments, each a layer of his self being peeled away by the things that had happened to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BRENDAN WAS NERVOUS. He was drinking too much, far too quickly, his clothes felt uncomfortable, and whenever he looked at the clock on the shelf, time seemed to have moved quicker than the laws of physics allowed.

Jane was in the kitchen, cooking the meal. He could tell that she was on edge, too, but she would not tell him why. He suspected it was simply the fact that she hadn’t seen Simon since he’d left the Grove, but his habitual paranoia kept trying to make more out of the situation. Did she still harbour feelings for her ex-lover? Would she look at him in the same way that she used to look at Brendan, all those years ago when they first got together?

He finished his can, crushed it in his fist (an old habit, one he’d picked up from watching Jaws in his teens: Robert Shaw, Quint, the old sea dog). He bent down and grabbed the fresh can resting on the floor between his feet, popped it open, and took a mouthful of cold ale.

“What time is it?” Jane’s voice carried through from the kitchen. The twins were banging on the floor upstairs, running around from room to room, playing catch, or indoor football, or simply running because they could.

“Seven-forty!” He took another swig of his beer and stood, moving across to the window. Typical Simon: late as always.

“Have you checked your phone? I’d hate to think that he might have called to cancel and we didn’t get the message.” Jane moved up to him from behind, slipping her arms around his waist. She kissed him on the side of the neck. Her breath was warm; her lips were wet from the wine she’d been drinking.

“He’ll be here. He just likes to make an entrance.” He stared out of the window, at the empty street. The sky was darkening, the clouds were low, and lights had already come on in some of his neighbours’ front rooms. He’d never noticed before just how early they came on, and for some reason the thought unnerved him.

Jane rubbed his stomach with her hand. She pressed her lips against the back of his head. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “He’s probably more nervous than we are.” Then she was away, back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the preparations. She’d kept the menu simple: a prawn cocktail starter, chicken and tomato with penne pasta for main, and a cheesecake bought from the bakers on the Arcade for dessert. Simon would probably think it was cheap, working class; no doubt he was used to eating out every night in classy London restaurants where they served small bowls of sorbet between courses.

Suddenly Brendan felt like a fool. Standing there in his cheap trousers and badly ironed shirt, he knew he was a fraud, a pretender. Why had he bothered to try and be something he was not? He should have sat around waiting in his work jeans and a T-shirt. Simon-fucking-Ridley wasn’t worth all this trouble. All they were doing was feeding his ego, making him think that he was something special.

He gulped from his can, trying to stem the sudden flow of hatred. He had no idea where it was coming from, and didn’t see any reason why he should be thinking these things, or why Simon’s imminent arrival should be affecting him in this way.

He turned away from the window and sat back down on the sofa, facing the television. The kids were still clattering about upstairs, causing a lot of sound and fury, and he expected Mrs. Broadly from next door to start banging on the wall. She hated children, and never missed an opportunity to complain.

There was a knock on the front door, followed by the chime of the doorbell. Simon was here. He had sneaked along the street, down the path, and onto the front step while Brendan had been occupied, lost in his own banal thoughts. He stood, straightened his shirt (hating himself for doing so), and went to answer the door.

“Brendan!” Jane’s voice, loud and slightly panicked.

“Aye… I’ve got it. It’s him.”

He could see Simon’s outline through the textured glass panel in the door, a slim, elegant shape. He waited motionlessly, as if he were a statue and not a real person.

Brendan paused for a moment, waited for a lull in the commotion on the first floor, and then opened the door.

The man on the doorstep was Simon, as expected, but he looked different… somehow less than he had done before. The bruising on his face had already faded, but his skin looked discoloured, slightly jaundiced. He seemed thinner than earlier that day, his garments less fitted, and when he smiled it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He stepped back and opened the door fully, making room for Simon to enter.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit tired, that’s all.” Simon held out a bottle of red and a bottle of white, one in each hand. “I didn’t know what we were having, so I brought both.” He smiled again, and this time it was better, healthier… but still there was something missing. “Anyway, I’m here. Thanks for the invite.” He stepped slowly across the threshold.

“Thanks for coming. You know the way through, yeah? I’ll just grab you a beer from the kitchen.” Brendan shut the door behind his guest and watched him walk along the hallway and enter the living room. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, taking out two cold beers.

“This won’t be long,” said Jane. Her cheeks were flushed. The kitchen was warm. “I’ll go and get the twins down and we can all say our hellos.” She reached out as he straightened from the fridge, her hand lightly brushing the collar of his shirt. “Nice shirt. Didn’t I buy you that?” She winked. He smiled. It was a rare moment of solidarity, one that felt like it lay outside of their roles as parents, even as husband and wife. In that moment they were friends, and they were allies.

Brendan took the beers back into the living room. Simon was sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat and watching the television. His eyes were small and hard; his face was tense.

“There you go.” Brendan handed him a can. “Get that down you, bruiser.”

Simon opened the can, smiled weakly, and took a long swallow. “Why is it that beer always makes things better? They should give it out on the NHS.”

“Let’s turn this shit over. I’ll put some music on.” Brendan picked up the remote control and switched the channel. One of the music channels was playing big-hair rock anthems from the 1980s. “That’s better… might cheer us up.”

Sounds of movement came from upstairs. Jane was herding the kids, trying to get them under control. He could hear her raised voice, the twins giggling, and then Jane joining in the laughter. He loved his family. They were all he had. Everything he needed.

Footsteps across the ceiling, then down the stairs.

“Here they come,” he said, turning towards the door.

Jane walked in first. She looked gorgeous. Her hair was in disarray, but slight dishevelment had always looked good on her. Brendan turned to face Simon, and saw him staring at Jane, too, his eyes wide, his face twitching into a smile.

Brendan turned back to his wife, clenching the beer can in his fist. He didn’t understand why he felt so anxious.

“Hello, Simon Ridley.” Jane seemed to float into the room. With both men’s eyes upon her, she became more graceful than ever. “Long time no see.” The twins entered behind her, silent for once.

Simon stood and walked to the middle of the room, where he halted, as if he didn’t know what to do. He stuck out a hand. Jane laughed, took the hand, and shook it, then she bent towards him and kissed him on both of his cheeks, left, then right: celebrity style.

“This,” she said, turning to address the twins, “is Simon. Say hello, kids. Simon, this is Harry and Isobel. Our children.” She was beaming; that was the only word Brendan could think of to describe the way she looked. At first he suspected that she might be trying to flirt with her old flame, but then it hit him. She was proud. She was glowing with pride, showing off her husband and her children. Her family. She was telling Simon, without words, how good things were for her now, and that she hadn’t missed him one bit, not one tiny bit since he went away.

The kids started to laugh, now at ease. They went to Simon and started babbling information: telling him about school, about their bikes, their friends and teachers. Simon started to relax. Brendan wasn’t sure why his old friend had been so tense when he first walked through the door, but all that was gone now. He became the perfect guest: interesting, interested, charming, and funny.

Brendan felt himself relax, too. He’d been worrying for nothing. Simon wasn’t a threat; he never had been. If anything, it had always been him, Brendan, who was the real threat. Hadn’t he taken Simon’s girlfriend off him all those years ago, and given her everything she needed?

For the first time in his life, he felt equal to Simon-fucking-Ridley. And in doing so, he opened a door inside himself that allowed all the old, suppressed feelings of friendship to emerge, returning to the light. This wasn’t so bad; he could even get used to it. Maybe he and Simon could be buddies again, after all, and once they managed to speak to Marty it might even be possible for the Three Amigos to mount up and make a triumphant return. Perhaps Simon was right after all, and they could band together to slay the monsters of their youth.

Simon played cards at the dining table with the twins while Brendan helped Jane in the kitchen. He was spooning the prawns and Marie Rose sauce into wine glasses crammed with lettuce leaves while she took their best china dinner set from the display cupboard and wiped it down with a tea towel.

“See,” she said. “It’s going okay, isn’t it?”

Brendan smiled. “Yeah, I suppose it is. The kids seem to like him.”

“I’ll just put them to bed, so we can eat in peace.”

Brendan nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get me and Simon some more beers. Wine?”

“Hell, yes,” she said as she walked out through the door and into the hall.

Brendan heard Jane say something to the kids — probably telling them to say good night to the visitor — and then the three of them trooped upstairs, making as much racket as humanly possible. He pulled two fresh beers out of the fridge, tore off the ring-pulls and then took them through into the living room.

Simon looked much more relaxed. He was crouching on the floor, picking up pieces of Lego and smiling. “They’re great kids, mate,” he said, raising a hand and pointing in the direction of the door. “Really great kids…”

“Thanks.” Brendan dropped into a crouch and helped him tidy up the toys. Then, when they were all neatly put back in their box, the two men started on the fresh beers. “I suppose you’d say they’re the centre of my life, those two. I can’t imagine not having them.”

“Cheers to that,” said Simon, lifting his can and taking a long hit of the beer.

The two men moved over to the dining table. It was already set with cutlery, and a candle — as yet unlit — placed as a centrepiece. “Do you have a lighter?” Simon took hold of the candle and teased the wick between his finger and thumb so that it stood upright.

“Here,” said Brendan, handing over a box of kitchen matches.

Simon struck a match and lit the candle. Neither of the men spoke, and the act seemed to take on a kind of symbolic significance. Simon held the candle aloft; the light from the flame caressed the contours of his face. He smiled — at nothing, at everything — and then he placed the candle back on the table.

“Should we, like, say a little prayer?” Brendan put down his can and belched.

They laughed.

“Okay,” said Jane, from the doorway. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” said Simon, shaking his head.

“Nowt much,” agreed Brendan.

“Hmm. Well, is someone going to give me a hand setting out the food?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the guest?” Simon winked, took a long swallow of his beer, and let out a loud “Aah…”

“Twat,” said Brendan, standing and following Jane into the kitchen.

They ate the starter in a comfortable silence. Brendan opened the white wine Simon had brought, and it was finished before the main course. “I’ll get another from the fridge,” said Brendan, standing.

While Brendan was in the kitchen he heard Simon and Jane talking in low voices, but this time he didn’t feel threatened by them. The beer and the wine, the food, the fact that they had all relaxed in each other’s company, had quietened his paranoia. Even his back felt soothed, as if the calm had extended to envelope his body.

After the main course, Jane cleared the table and then popped her head back into the room. “I’ll just be a minute. There’s something I want Simon to see.”

Simon glanced at Brendan and raised his eyebrows. Brendan shrugged. “You’ve got me, mate. She didn’t mention anything earlier.”

Jane returned in less than a minute, carrying a large cardboard box from Argos. Brendan recognised it as the packaging from a DVD player they’d bought the kids a few Christmases ago.

Jane set down the box at the centre of the table, pushing away the coasters and the placemats and moving her glass so that she didn’t spill her wine.

“Okay,” she said, glancing at the two men, one by one: first Brendan, then Simon. “This is going to seem weird, but bear with me. Okay, Brendan?” Her eyes flicked to her husband. Brendan felt the skin of his shoulders tighten, the rash flaring as if in warning. But he said nothing; he just nodded and took a mouthful of wine.

Jane closed her eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again. She lifted the flaps on the box and took out two black box files. “This,” she said, “is sort of a collection.” She opened the top box file and took out an old newspaper, folded over to a report about strange birds seen gathered about the tip of the Needle. It was a recent edition; the incident had occurred only a few weeks ago. “It’s an unofficial history of the Concrete Grove. For years now, I’ve been keeping anything that you might describe as odd or offbeat — news clippings, photographs, even a few hand-written stories people have told me about events they found hard to explain.”

“What is this, Jane?” Brendan went to stand, but she put out her hand to stop him. “Jane?”

“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you about this, but once I’d started keeping it a secret, it was easier to keep on going. I’m not even sure why I started collecting this stuff in the first place — initially, I think it was a way of keeping Simon in the loop, or maybe making sure he never forgot us.” She glanced at Simon.

Brendan looked at him too, across the table.

“So it was you? It was you all along?”

Jane nodded.

Brendan felt the anger surging through him. He didn’t understand what was happening, but it seemed that his wife and her old boyfriend had secrets between them after all. He’d been right to be paranoid. It was true, all of it. They’d been running around behind his back… Somehow, they’d managed to keep some kind of long distance affair going without him noticing.

“Brendan… Look at me, Brendan.”

He turned to face his wife. She was shaking her head.

“What is this?” His voice sounded whiny; thin and reedy and childlike.

“Ever since Simon left, I’ve been sending him reminders of what he left behind. Reminders of you, and the hell he left you to carry on your own. That’s how it started, I suppose: as a form of revenge. I might as well admit that now. Then, as time passed, it turned into a habit. I just kept sending them. Whenever he moved, I did a little research and located a new address. I wasn’t even sure if they were correct, those addresses — not until now, anyway.”

“Oh, yes.” Simon exhaled a long breath. “Yes, I’ve been getting this stuff for years. Emails, too.”

“Emails?” Brendan leaned back in his chair, pushing it away from the table. He felt a little better about the situation, yet still he knew that somehow he had been betrayed. He just could not figure out how, or why.

“The emails were a lot easier,” said Jane. “Google is your friend.” She smiled, nervously. “I’m just glad you never replied.”

“Shit, mate, remember I told you about this? I thought it was Marty, sending me all that stuff. But it was Jane.” He turned to face her. “It was you!”

“Should I be angry about this?” Brendan grabbed his wine glass and gripped the stem. “I mean, you’ve been keeping secrets from me. Both of you.”

“No,” said Jane, walking around the table and sitting on his knee. She stroked his face with the palm of her hand. She tilted her head close to his. “Just me: me and nobody else. And I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I think at the start it was because I didn’t want to upset you. Remember, it took you a long time before you could actually talk about your feelings, how you felt deserted by your old friends.” She kissed the side of his face. “I would never do anything to hurt you.” Her smile was warm; her words were like fire.

“I know,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t, but this feels strange. As if I should feel hurt.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Okay,” said Simon, pouring more wine. “So you’re not going to punch me?”

“I should. But I won’t.” Brendan picked up Jane’s glass and handed it to her.

“Let’s call this a clean slate,” said Jane, standing. “No more secrets. You two need to work together to get Marty involved in all this, and then the three of you need to sit down and talk — really talk, about everything. All of it.”

“Yes,” said Simon, raising his glass.

“Aye,” said Brendan, mimicking the gesture.

“And I’ll stop interfering. I shouldn’t have done that.” Jane lifted her own glass high into the air.

“It worked, though,” said Simon. “I could never forget. The Grove was always in my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get this place, or all of you, out of my mind.” He paused, nodded. “Hell, yes, it worked.”

“Daddy…”

They all looked over towards the door. Isobel was standing in the open doorway, in her white nightdress. Her face was damp with tears. “Daddy… something’s wrong, Daddy.”

Brendan got to his feet and ran across the room, scooping her up in his arms. She was cold. Her body was shaking. “What is it, baby? What’s wrong? Are you poorly?”

The little girl shook her head. Her blonde hair was moist. “It’s Harry. There’s something wrong with Harry. He’s being sick.”

He handed Isobel to Jane and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the first floor, he moved quickly to the kids’ room. He pushed open the door and saw Harry kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, his arms ramrod straight, his shoulders hunched. He was retching, dry-heaving, his little body jerking and spasming as his stomach muscles worked overtime.

“Oh, God… Harry. What is it, son?”

“Daddy!” Harry screamed the word and then went into another convulsion. There was dull yellow vomit on the floor, inches from his face. He turned his head to the side, and in that moment Brendan saw that his son’s throat was swollen. His neck was actually bulging, already twice its normal size; his cheeks were puffed out, as if they were filled with hot air. He tried to speak again, but his voice could no longer get past the constriction.

“Harry!” He went down on his knees and grabbed the boy’s shoulders. Harry’s skin was hot and his pyjamas were soaking wet. “Oh, God…”

“What is it?” Jane was behind him, standing in the doorway. He looked back and saw Simon there, too, holding Isobel’s hand. His daughter’s face was pale, almost white. She looked like a ghost.

“Harry!” He turned back to his boy just in time to witness another convulsion, and this time Harry was bringing something up, a small, lumpen mass that Brendan could make out rising in his throat. The boy’s neck fluttered; his eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth opened, opened…

The soggy object was forced out between his wet lips, and dropped onto the floor, right into the pile of fresh vomit. Harry slumped sideways, possibly in a faint. The small lump began to twitch. Brendan thought it was a giant moth, ready to break out of its sticky pupa.

Nobody moved. For a moment — and that was all it took — none of the three adults could even speak. They all remained locked into position, bound by their fears.

The object rolled on the floor, and then it began to transform. Tiny wings twitched outwards, unfolding from the body, and a tiny head emerged from beneath one of them. The thing made no sound; it just started flapping its wings, slowly at first, and then fast, faster, until they were nothing but a blur of motion. And the hummingbird floated up from the floor, soundless and graceful and totally out of place, an alien object in Harry and Isobel’s bedroom.

Brendan turned his head to follow the bird’s progress, and watched as it flew past Simon and Jane — both of them stepping back from the doorway to allow it out of the room — and into the rest of the house. The sight of the thing triggered a chain of detonations, submerged memories exploding at random inside Brendan’s head, but they went up in smoke before he could grab them.

Then, snapping back into the moment, he bent down and cradled Harry in his arms, moaning and stroking the boy’s sweat-damp head. “Call an ambulance,” he said. “Do it, quickly.”

Outside the bedroom, on the cramped landing, Isobel began to weep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SIMON SAT DOWN on the bed and tried to make sense of everything that had taken place this evening. He was tired and his head throbbed, yet he still felt drunk. Things were changing so fast. Everything was fluid; he could not lock his thoughts in place, not even long enough to examine what they meant.

When he’d first arrived at the Cole house, things had been tense. He had been unable to settle down after the violence he’d perpetrated upon the kid in the burnt-out building, and it seemed to him that Brendan had something of an attitude — which was understandable, really, the way that Simon had been pushing the man.

Jane’s presence, however, had made all the difference: she had calmed the situation simply by being there, and they had all slowly relaxed into an almost pleasant groove. When she had made her revelation regarding all the stuff she’d sent him over the years, things had threatened to become tense all over again, but she’d handled it beautifully.

He still couldn’t understand why she’d been sending him those updates — not fully. Yes, it was a way of anchoring him to the Grove, of forcing him to remember — or, rather, not to forget — that he’d left the other two Amigos behind to live with the mess they’d all made, but somehow he felt that there was something more to it. She did not know what had happened when the boys were ten years old; nobody did, not even the boys themselves. So why would she put her marriage at risk to keep her claws in his life?

It was all too complex, an emotional assault course that he was nowhere near fit to complete. He was out of shape; his stamina was gone. The truth was, he had not been in good enough shape for this kind of onslaught for years.

He lay back and kicked off his shoes, wriggling on the sheets until he found a comfortable position. Outside, a dog barked, children laughed, a distant siren made a tune to which the city danced. The darkness behind his eyelids writhed.

Jane. He could see her now, emerging from that darkness.

He would be lying to himself if he thought that he did not still find her attractive. Her youth had faded, there were lines and blemishes where once her skin had been smooth and flawless, but still there was something about the woman that drew him, sent his blood pumping too quickly around his body. There was a homely quality to her beauty that intrigued him. Natasha didn’t have that. She was too perfect, too model-like: zero body fat; a flat chest; porcelain skin; a way of carrying herself that suggested she was always aware of people watching her. Whereas Jane moved naturally, with an almost slovenly gait. She didn’t give a damn who was watching, or if nobody was. She was her own woman; nobody could own or rent her image. She was real. She was a beating pulse under the skin of life.

When he’d first seen her this evening, his initial reaction had been base: he wanted to fuck her. He felt ashamed of himself for having these thoughts, but that didn’t negate them. Jane was his one regret: back in the day, they’d never made it past the heavy petting stage — a feel of her tit through her lacy bra cup, a hand on her warm, moist pudenda, but only over the top of her knickers. Once she had grabbed his crotch when they were kissing in the back of somebody’s car. He remembered it now; he had been breathless, his chest hitching and his legs shaking. She had never done it again.

He wondered how often she and Brendan made love. He tried to imagine what her body looked like beneath the baggy, unflattering clothes she wore. Was it full, voluptuous, like a real woman, rather than thin and scrawny, with the bones jutting through her paper-thin flesh, like Natasha?

He realised that he was rubbing his cock. He was hard as steel.

He stopped and turned onto his side, feeling obscurely guilty, like a schoolboy fantasising about his best friend’s mother.

She had kids. They had kids — Brendan and Jane. They were a family, a solid unit; he could not come between them, even if he tried. It was all just make-believe, another way of trying to hold on to a past that he had never really owned in the first place. Of trying to identify what was missing, what had been taken from him when he was ten years old and the world had seemed so large and filled with promise.

Kids…

What on earth was going on with those two kids?

The ambulance had arrived in five minutes, and two paramedics had inspected Harry’s throat for blockages, massaged his tiny chest, and pushed an oxygen mask over his face. By that time, the worst of it was over. The hummingbird — had it really been a hummingbird? — had flown, and the boy was breathing easier, but they had not taken any chances. Jane had gone with them in the ambulance and Simon had called a taxi for Brendan, insisting that he pay the fare when it arrived.

It had all happened so quickly; the whole scene had played out faster than he could recall. He barely even had time to register how he felt, what it all might mean in terms of the reasons for him being in the area. It was all linked — he knew that, could not deny it — but he didn’t understand how, or why. The dots were there, all over the page, but he was unable to connect them.

A hummingbird…

Small, silent, and forcing its way out of the boy’s throat, being born into the world.

A hummingbird…

Just like the ones he could remember from the Needle, when he and his friends had been imprisoned there. With his eyes closed, he could remember the sound of their wings beating: a hushed whisper in the darkness. He could see the colours of their feathers, the multi-hued blurs they had become as they darted across the room, emerging from conical nests high up in the branches of the old trees.

There had been a forest in there: inside the Needle. There was a forest indoors, but he could not imagine how that might be true. It was impossible, a child’s daydream. Trees growing indoors; one world enveloped by another; wheels within wheels; stories within stories. A fairytale…

Other, darker memories remained out of reach, backing off from him, not allowing him access to the secrets they might reveal. All he had, all that he could recall, were the trees and the hummingbirds… and the girl. The girl called Hailey: the same girl from the newspaper report, the girl who had gone missing last year on the estate, along with her mother. The girl with the hummingbird wings.

But how could they be the same person? How could that girl — the one who had lived on the Grove so recently — be the same as the winged phantom he had seen inside the Needle twenty years ago? It made no sense. They must be two different people. Perhaps they were related.

Surely that was it. Mother and daughter, or aunt and niece, perhaps they were even grandmother and granddaughter. But then, it seemed, time was somehow elastic inside the Needle; it looped back on itself, creating cracks and fissures where bad things might scuttle through. Perhaps their childhood selves were still in there now, going through the same nightmare he’d already experienced twenty years before…

Sleep stole over him, moving across his body and carrying him away. When he opened his eyes he was in another place, yet he knew that he was still somewhere in the Concrete Grove, lost in a fold in the fabric of the place, paused at a point where all things converged and time lost all meaning.

Time lost all meaning…

The low, fat clouds were dark brown, the colour of old bloodstains, and the sky beyond them was black. There were graduations in the blackness, but he could see no stars: just an endlessly folding darkness, an overpowering sense of nothingness.

The Grove was a wasteland: buildings had fallen, roads were shattered, chunks of tarmac lay strewn across the dirt, and broken paving stones littered the scene like the forgotten building blocks in a child’s game. Something had happened here — something devastating. An apocalypse had taken place, and as far as Simon could see, there were no survivors. The houses had all been flattened, taken apart, and the burnt-out shells of vehicles resembled the abandoned carapaces of giant dead beetles.

Up ahead, the Needle was in ruins. It had fallen like some mighty citadel, an ancient fortress from a storybook battle. The concrete looked like old stone, and had taken on less modern forms. Like ruined castle ramparts, the concrete walls and lobbies had been destroyed and reshaped.

Upon a pile of rubble he saw a familiar giant figure. The Angel of the North sat like a chastised schoolboy, its legs drawn up against its chest, its arms down by its sides and its hands resting on the concrete block upon which it was perched. There were manacles at its wrists; it had been bound and left to die.

Simon walked closer, drawn to this curious sight. He was afraid, but his curiosity compelled him to get a closer look, now that he was certain the creature could not harm him.

The Angel’s head was bowed, the cold steel face hidden between its knees. The mighty wings were folded back; rust had broken away from the lattice framework, settling like strange dandruff onto its broad shoulders.

A woman sat at the Angel’s side. She was tall, a giant, but not quite as large as the Angel. She was naked, and across her thighs were draped the bodies of two children, a boy and a girl.

As Simon drew closer to the group, he saw that the dead children were twins: they had the same dark curly hair, pale flesh, and each had a trio of acorns tattooed across his or her narrow back. The boy lay looking up into the woman’s face, staring into her eyes. The girl was draped face-down across the woman’s legs, her buttocks sallow and flaccid.

“What is this?” Simon’s voice sounded strange. The intonation was flat; the words bounced back at him, as if he was bounded by thick walls. “What does it mean?”

The woman turned slowly to face him. Her hair was long and dark. Her breasts were saggy, empty bags laid across her ribcage. Her nipples had been removed. There was no blood, just flat, cauterised flesh. Her body was young, but it was battered, and her face was so very old. She mouthed words to Simon, but he could not hear. He stood and watched the silent mummer’s performance, wishing that he could help, that he could take on at least a fraction of the woman’s burden. If he could help her, he thought, then might not he also be able to help himself? It was an odd thought, based on nothing but intuition, but it felt like the truth.

The woman was crying soundlessly. Tears of blood ran down her lined, wrinkled face. She did not wipe them away. She just clutched her children, her poor dead children, and tried to convey a message he would never understand, no matter how long he remained here.

The Angel did not move.

The Angel was broken.

Simon looked to his right, his gaze drawn by a subtle movement, a flicker at the edge of his vision. The dark earth began to rise and fall, and then to churn. Like the woman’s weeping, the motion was soundless. He watched as the ground shuddered and was torn apart, and something broke the surface. What rolled into view was not unlike the back of a whale, or perhaps the flank of an elephant wallowing in cool mud, and it appeared only for a moment. Then, his mind clear at last, Simon thought it had resembled more the segmented flank of a giant maggot burrowing through the topsoil. Now that the shape was gone, he had the impression of boils and tumours on its hide, splits and cuts in the thick flesh which had oozed yellow fluids…

He turned again to the woman, the bereft woman and her dead twins.

She was mouthing a word — the same word, over and over again. Simon glanced back over to where the earth had been disturbed, but this time there was nothing to be seen. He looked back at the woman. She was still mouthing the word.

He stepped forward, approaching her. Her eyes were white, with no pupils, and her lips were thin, like blades. Silently, she repeated the same word, again and again and again… the same single word.

Doors swung open inside Simon’s memory, and a wind gusted through the empty halls of his mind. It was coming; something was on its way now. So he waited. Bracing himself against this alien earth, watching a giant woman as she repeated a silent warning, and wishing that the Angel would move, just an inch, he waited for whatever was coming.

Underthing.

He heard the word as if it had been spoken, but not by the woman. By someone else, twenty years ago… a girl, a young girl called Hailey.

Underthing.

This was the thing that had taken him, taken them all, the foul creature that had stolen their youth, tainted their future, and torn apart the foundations of their friendship. This was what had called him back to the estate, and finally, after all these years, he recognised the monster they had followed into the Needle, the beast with no name, just a description:

The Underthing.

Simon knew that this was a dream, but if he allowed it to happen, and the events whose aftermath he could see took place, nothing would ever be the same again.

The doors in his mind stayed open, and his worst fears came lumbering through, wearing so many masks that he could not help but realise they were still hiding, still concealing themselves. One mask at a time, piece by piece, Simon began to discover what had been hiding in his darkness.