by Gary McMahon
“Very insightful,” said Simon. “But you’re only half right. I do believe that the three of us need to confront our shared past, but I think we need to do it more literally.”
Brendan shuffled on his chair. He picked up his drink and held it, not moving it anywhere near his mouth.
Simon rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble growth. “I think we need to go in there together – the Needle. We need to make like it’s twenty years ago and march right the fuck in there, then shout and scream and force whatever the fuck held us in there to make an appearance.”
Marty sat forward again, his arms flexing and pulling his shirt tight. “And then what? Kick the shit out of it?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Simon. “At first I thought we were going to have to pull down the place, brick by brick, so I bought it from the council. Took me ages to convince them, and I paid well over the odds. Now I realise that won’t be necessary. Simply by coming back here, I seem to have triggered something. Whatever’s been hiding here, making its nest under the streets of the Grove, it’s waking up... it’s waking from a long sleep. Can’t you feel it?”
Marty did not reply.
“You’ve been having dreams, haven’t you?”
Marty nodded, but still he did not speak.
“Weird dreams that feel just like reality, but fucked-up, messed around. Apocalyptic visions, monsters from the past chasing you, things keeping pace with you in the dark?”
“Yes,” said Brendan, joining in at last. He was gripping his glass too tight; his knuckles were white. “Yes, that’s it. All of us... the three of us... we’ve been dreaming about the same things, the same place. Haven’t we?”
“Yes,” said Marty.
“Yes,” said Simon.
“Another drink?” Brendan slammed down his glass.
Marty laughed softly.
Simon shook his head. “Is that all you guys do around here, drink? I’ve not drunk so fucking much in my life since I’ve come back.”
“You’re out of practice,” said Marty. “And I’ll have the same again, thanks.” He glanced at Brendan, smiled, and let out another soft chuckle.
“It really is good to see you,” said Brendan. “Both of you.” When Simon looked over, he saw how pale Brendan’s face had become, and he felt such a great wave of pity that it pressed him down into his chair, pinning him there.
Before he could say anything, Brendan stood and went to the bar, fishing nervously inside his jeans pocket for his wallet.
“Is he okay?” Marty leaned in close. He smelled of whisky and expensive aftershave. And beneath that, a deep, musky odour that made Simon think of violence: of punches thrown and threats made, of kicked heads and split skin and spilled blood.
“I’m not sure. His kid’s ill. Last night, something strange happened. He went into some odd kind of shock, like a trance or something. Threw up and something... well, something really weird came out. A bird.”
Marty closed his eyes. “A hummingbird,” he said.
“How did you know? How the hell did you know about that?” Simon’s hand made a fist on the tabletop; his nails scratched against the damp wood.
“I don’t know. I... I just knew. When you said it, an image came into my head. Like a dream I once had but couldn’t remember until now. The hummingbirds are important – we saw them back then, too. Can you feel it?” His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. “It’s like doors are opening inside me. Connections are being made, loose ends tying themselves together in neat little knots. Something’s happening...”
Simon shook his head. “I wish I could say the same. It’s what I wanted, why I’m here. But I don’t... I don’t feel any of that. My brain feels like when you push your knuckles into your eyes to fight sleep: that same kind of bunched-up pressure, when the darkness behind your eyelids starts to spark. That’s all. I get nothing else.”
Brendan had returned with the drinks. He set them down on the table, beer spilling over the rims. “I feel it,” he said. “Just like Marty said. Cogs are turning; they’re moving together, starting up some kind of motion. It’s slow – very, very slow – but it’s happening. What happened to Harry is only part of it. We can stop it, if we try. We can put an end to this shit.”
Simon felt empty. Why was he the only one who could not feel the energies massing, the world reconfiguring and taking on a new shape around them? It wasn’t fair; it was not right. He felt cheated, as if he were the victim of a con or a grift. He, Simon, should be the one to feel it first, the man to set off the reaction. After all, it was he who had come back here, in search of the truth, so it was only fitting that he was the one who acted as a catalyst for whatever would take place when the Three Amigos banded together for a fight.
The music on the stereo had changed to soft rock, a power ballad. The volume was still low, but one of the barmaids was singing along quietly as she worked. Simon watched her as she glided the length of the bar, picking up glasses, washing them, rubbing them dry, and mouthing the words of the song.
“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t we try something? How about this: each of us talks about what we can remember from that time, when we were held in the Needle? I know it isn’t much, but maybe if we piece our memories together we might start to see a picture forming. It might help me to feel everything you’re feeling.”
Brendan looked nervous. He was biting his lower lip. “Do you think it’s worth it? I mean, will it actually achieve anything?”
Marty leaned forward again, his big arms pressing against the table. “Is this, like, our Rashomon moment?” He smiled, shook his head. “Actually, I think it’s a good idea. If nothing else, it might prompt something, press a button in one of our heads and free up other memories, images, feelings... whatever.”
“Exactly,” said Simon. “Are you in, Brendan?”
Brendan stared at the two of them, and then finally he nodded. “Okay.” He took a drink. “So who goes first?”
There was a slight pause, a silence within the greater silence that had surrounded each of them for two decades, and then Marty spoke: “I went back there, you know. To that grove of trees. After I had my bike accident. You know about that?”
The other two nodded.
“Well,” continued Marty. “I was in a coma for a while – not long, and it wasn’t too deep. But while I was unconscious I went back there, and I stood enclosed within that grove of old oaks. I remember...” – he closed his eyes – “I remember it was night, and the stars looked miles away, too high to be much more than pinpricks. I could hear that same clicking sound – Captain Clickety’s voice – but it was too far away to scare me. In fact, now that I think about it, the clicking sound was moving away, leaving me behind, and for a moment I felt abandoned. Then the trees and the bushes began to rustle. I felt that something was stalking me, or at least watching me from the undergrowth. I think it wanted me to follow it.”
The barmaid was still singing. The bar had emptied out; there were not many people left drinking, other than the three men at the table in the window. Sunlight lanced through the glass, making a dagger shape on the table.
“It was weird,” said Marty, “but I think I was looking for that girl – the one who spoke to us when we were tied up with branches in the middle of the grove of trees. I think... I think she saved us.”
“Hailey,” said Brendan in a whisper.
“Yeah, Hailey. The hummingbird girl. That was it. I could never quite remember her name. I was looking for her. I’m not sure why, but I needed to see her, perhaps to tell her something. Maybe to thank her. Other than that, all I could remember about actually being there the first time was that it was dark, I was scared, and that fucking bird-faced cunt was tormenting us. I think he probably tortured us – abused us, or something.”
Brendan was nodding. “Yeah, yeah... that’s what I remember most: the torture.” He looked paler than ever, and his neck was scrawny, like that of a chicken. “It fucked me up, that torture. I don’t
remember any specifics, but it left me with...” He glanced at the others, his eyes wet, on the verge of tears.
“Go on,” said Simon. “We won’t judge you. Not us.”
Brendan nodded. “Okay. Here goes. It left me with a kind of kink; a fetish, I suppose you’d call it. I read a lot of bondage magazines, watch the videos. I like to watch it happen to other people, to see them tied up and... and abused. Nothing bad, not real violence. Consensual stuff, light spanking, and that. I just like to watch.” The colour came back to his cheeks; he was blushing. “Jesus, it left me liking bondage...”
Marty turned to Simon. “What about you? What are your memories?”
Simon’s head dropped. He stared at a damp patch on the tabletop. “Not much. Not much at all. Just the grove of trees... and that’s about it. I remember everything before that, when we made that stupid den, and thinking we were heroes that night, tracking down some kind of beast. But afterward, when we went in there... there’s nothing. Nothing but the trees. The fucking trees.”
A silence elbowed its way between them at the table. None of them spoke for a moment or two, as if they were each afraid to shatter the quiet that had fallen across them. Background sounds swelled: the music, the chatter of the handful of people left in the bar, the barmaid’s soft, lilting voice as she continued to sing.
Then, finally, Marty spoke.
“Let me ask you something,” he said, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. “Does this – any of this – feel weird to you, or does it feel... well, normal? Does it feel natural?”
“You mean us?” Simon glanced at the other two men, one at a time. “Meeting here again, after all this time?”
Marty nodded.
“Not weird to me,” said Brendan. “Not any more. I thought it did, at first, when it was just me and Simon. But now it’s just like you say – it feels natural, as if we never parted.”
“Yeah,” said Simon. “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels. It feels like–”
Marty butted in before he could finish: “It feels like we left each other yesterday, as children, and then met up again today as adults. It feels like no fucking time has passed at all.”
The quiet fell once again around their shoulders, covering their heads, their mouths. They all stared at each other, eyes flicking from face to face, seeing beyond the masks of age. For all intents and purposes, the men sitting around the table were once again little boys. They were young again. But this time they were not afraid.
“You know,” continued Marty, “I’ve always lived my life on the edge of glory. Never quite got there, just prowled around on the wrong side of the ropes, trying to fight my way in. Now I finally realise that’ll never happen. I’m not going to make it. But maybe with you guys I can still make a difference, even if it’s just to us. To the rest of our lives.”
The barmaid’s singing built to a small crescendo. The song was a sad one, and she knew the words by heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“WE HAVE TO go back,” said Simon, breaking the spell. “The three of us, all together... We have to go back in there and kick-start the whole thing, make it happen again. But this time we need to fight it, and beat it. This time, we stop it dead in its tracks.”
The other two Amigos said nothing, but the mutual consent was evident in their faces, the posture of their bodies, the way they each sat forward in their chairs, as if eager to meet something head-on.
“We have to go there now, before we change our minds. We can’t wait, not any longer.”
He could see in their eyes that they agreed, despite remaining silent. Their features were old, worn, and tired, but those eyes – they were young boys, peering out from behind the broken-down faces of men.
CHAPTER THIRTY
JANE WAS WORRIED. Brendan had called her half an hour ago and filled her in on the latest news.
They’d met up with Marty and they were going inside the Needle; all three of them, together again, to see what memories they could stir up. Jane was put in mind of three boys poking a wasp’s nest with sticks, and the wasps going crazy, their stingers dripping with poison. It was a stupid image, really – a ridiculous comparison – but nonetheless, she felt that her husband and his old friends were about to disturb things that might just be best left to rest in peace.
She moved around the house like a Prozac phantom, her mind in a haze, her eyes roaming across every surface, her gaze unable to settle in one place. She felt simultaneously energised and exhausted. It was a strange sensation, like running through treacle.
Harry was fine. The boy was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the concern he’d caused.
But she couldn’t stop checking on him; she’d been up there three times in the past hour and was, even now, turning to climb the stairs again. She grabbed the handrail and began to ascend, her mind floating ahead of her. He’s okay, she thought, not knowing if she meant Brendan or their son. We’re all okay.
At the top of the stairs she turned and walked along the landing. The bathroom door was open. She could see the mirror through the gap; it was greyed-out, steamy with condensation. Had she taken a bath earlier? She must have done, but could not remember anything about it. Perhaps she’d bathed the twins – or maybe just Isobel, while Harry rested.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “I’m losing the plot.”
Written in the condensation was a nonsense word: Loculus. What was that, the name of a cartoon character or a TV show? Maybe Harry had been up and about...
Jane stopped outside the twins’ room and waited. She didn’t know what it was she was waiting for, but the pause felt right. It seemed like the thing to do. She pressed the palms of both of her hands against the door, and then leaned in close, pushing the side of her face against the wood. She listened, but could hear nothing. Of course she couldn’t. Harry was asleep. Isobel was at school, and then later she was going to a hastily arranged sleepover at a friend’s house on Far Grove Way.
The twins used to share a room when they were very young. She’d tried to separate them when they got older, and it had caused an uproar, with stamping feet and infant tantrums. She’d relented, but eventually they’d have to be separated again, and she knew that it would cause more trouble. They hated being apart, even when they were asleep. All the things you hear about twins had proved to be true.
Not for the first time she wondered about the origin of the twins; how Brendan had almost been a twin, so the genetic makeup was there, in his DNA, that someone on his side of the family could produce a multiple birth. But wasn’t it meant to skip a generation? She supposed it had, in a way, because Brendan’s twin had died in utero, not even given the chance to form into a proper foetus. It had been just the size of a thumbnail, probably even smaller. No eyes, no nose, no features of any kind. A floating being, without even a soul...
But Jane didn’t believe in the soul. She was an atheist. The lure of religion had not drawn her to its flame, not in the way that it had her mother. Jane’s mum had seen God as a way out of an abusive marriage; Jane had seen God as a convenient crutch for the weak to lean on. Where had God been when her father had beaten her, trying so hard not to touch her in the same way that he’d touched her sister? Where was the Holy Ghost when she’d lain awake at night, listening to his footsteps as he roamed the house, drinking and muttering and talking himself out of raping his own daughter? Some might say that it was God who had kept him away from her, but Jane preferred to think that it was the threat of going back to prison; he’d served three years for sexual assault when he was in his early twenties, and the experience had scarred him enough that he could not ever face another visit.
She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside. The curtains were closed, but dim light penetrated the cheap material. The room looked as if it were filled with dust; the air shuddered as she moved through the space. Harry was a motionless mound in his red plastic Lightning McQueen bed with the Ben 10 quilt pulled over his head. His toys were dotted a
round his side of the room, on shelves and cupboard tops, and scattered across the floor. Isobel’s side was much tidier; she had inherited her mother’s eye for neatness and formality.
Harry didn’t seem to be moving at all. She was worried that he’d stopped breathing. She knew that she was being silly, that the doctors had given him a clean bill of health, but still... when you were a parent, it paid to be just a little bit paranoid.
Slowly she crossed the room and stood at the side of the bed. She reached down and pulled back the quilt, revealing the sweaty top of Harry’s head. His hair was soaking. She tugged the quilt down past the back of his knees (he was sleeping on his belly, as always). Still Harry did not move.
“Hey, kidda. You okay?”
He did not even stir.
Jane’s heart felt as if it were gradually climbing her chest, inch by inch, making its way towards her throat. She swallowed; her throat ached. She heard a strange humming sound, but it was only inside her head.
“Harry?” Her voice was croaky.
She reached down and nudged his shoulder, just a little, barely hard enough to move his little body. Then she did it again – harder this time, applying more pressure, easily enough to wake him.
Harry was still.
“Harry... baby... wake up for Mummy.”
She dropped down onto her knees at the side of the bed. Her hands ran over his back, feeling beneath his armpits to see if he had a temperature. His skin was cold; too cold. Not icy, not quite, but cold enough to be of concern. She rolled him over, onto his back.
