by Gary McMahon
“Can I have your number?” Again, he wished he’d never asked.
She stared at him, her eyes boring into his, her lips parting slightly. “Are you sure? Are you really sure you want it?” She was challenging him, making him prove that he was man enough.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
She nodded. There was a fruit bowl in the centre of the table. As far as he could tell, it contained nothing but a couple of apples and several dried-out tangerines. She reached into it and withdrew a stubby little betting shop pen, then wrote down her number on a slip of paper she produced from her dressing gown pocket — as if she’d been carrying it around with her for this exact moment.
Marc stepped forward and held out his hand.
She placed the folded paper on his palm. “Give me a call,” she said. “But remember what I said.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t try to save you.” He could see by the look in her eyes that she didn’t believe him, but she was willing to give him a chance.
“I’ll call you a taxi,” she said, standing. Her dressing gown gaped below the waist, flashing her narrow thighs, the unkempt patch between her legs. Marc felt himself grow hard again.
He gritted his teeth. “No thanks. My car’s parked near the Unicorn. I can walk over and get it.”
“Whatever,” said Abby, and turned away.
They stood in the hallway, standing with their backs against opposing walls, facing each other, with a foot or two of carpet between them. Even in her bare feet, she stood a few inches taller than him. Marc wanted to reach out his hand and unbuckle her dressing gown. She didn’t say a word; she just watched him, her eyes examining every inch of his face, his eyes, his mouth, his throat… looking for his all-too-visible flaws.
Marc was lost in the moment, falling into her seedy little world and drowning in whatever it was he found there.
“Well,” he said, softly.
“Yeah,” she replied.
He left the house without saying anything more, and did not look back. He couldn’t. If he turned around and saw her there, standing on the doorstep in her short white dressing gown, he might just turn back and go inside. But he wasn’t ready for that; he needed to think things through, to decide if he really did want to use the number she’d given him.
He walked in the direction of the Unicorn and read the number. Abby had not written a message, only the digits. Finally he turned his head and looked back. She was still standing in the doorway, a tall, white figure with painfully thin legs.
She lifted her left hand, waved once, and then turned around and went inside, slamming the door behind her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ERIK BEST SAT in his car and watched the man leave. He gripped the wheel with his scarred hands, staring through the windscreen. The man moved away slowly, as if there was all the time in the world. Erik knew otherwise; experience had taught him that time was a limited resource and had to be used sparingly.
Just before the man reached the end of the street, he turned back to look at Abby. She was standing on the doorstep waving, her free hand clutching her dressing gown at the throat. She turned and went inside. The door slammed shut.
He remembered when he used to love her, and wondered what those feelings had now changed into. What he felt for Abby these days wasn’t love; he had no idea what it was. He supposed it might even be described as a form of hate. He couldn’t stand seeing her but he always went back; he hated the way she looked these days but he kept dreaming about making love to her, lying with her beneath clean satin sheets. Nothing made any sense. His emotions were like the colours in a kaleidoscope, constantly changing and blending and making new patterns.
“Bitch,” he said, starting the car. He pulled out from the kerb and slowly followed the man around the corner, staying far enough back that the bastard would not guess that he was being followed.
He reached out and switched on the radio — a local station discussing the big Premiership match in a few days. Erik shook his head and changed the channel. He’d stopped caring about football when the game changed so much that it was barely a contact sport, and all the players became prancing millionaires. He preferred boxing, or martial arts. Sports in which real men challenged for dominance, not overpaid prima donnas with overactive libidos.
Erik watched the man climb into a boxy little Nissan and drive away. He followed the Nissan off the estate and towards the A1. He had no idea where it was heading, but he was going to follow until it got there. He’d grown up in this area, knew its roads and highways by heart. Wherever this car stopped, he would be familiar with the location in some way. He’d probably done business nearby. Erik Best had done some kind of business everywhere in the northeast.
The Nissan eventually headed into Gosforth, along the High Street towards the Gosforth Hotel pub, where it turned right and continued up the slight hill. Erik had a couple of mates who drank regularly in the pub, and he’d enjoyed some good nights there, getting pissed and picking up women, often getting into a fight after last orders was called at the bar and they were forced to relocate to some other late-night drinking establishment.
The Nissan pulled in at the kerb outside a small terraced house with dingy curtains. The tiny patch of garden outside the front door was overgrown with weeds. The door itself was dirty and weathered. There was a To Let sign stuck in the tiny patch of soil underneath the front window, as if nobody had bothered to take it down because these properties went up and down for rental so often.
Erik stopped the car a little further along the street and waited, watching in the rear-view mirror as the man got out and started fumbling in his pocket for his house keys. He was about medium height, but skinny. Erik would have no trouble with this one. He gripped the wheel with his hands and emptied his mind of distractions. This was it: he needed to be turned on, tuned in, and ready to dance. This was his comfort zone; he only ever felt at home when he was about to do violence.
He got out of the car and walked briskly towards the man. He’d done this so many times before, and his timing was always immaculate. Just as the man inserted his key into the lock, Erik glanced behind him, just to check on the surroundings. The street was clear. Nobody was standing outside their house or at their front door, watching the street. There was a sense of quiet abandonment, as often there was in suburban streets in the early morning.
The man opened the door; Erik increased his pace and went right up behind him, pushing him against and then through the opening door and into a cramped hallway beyond. He reached behind him and shut the door, forcing the man right inside. He said nothing. He let his muscles do the talking.
The man staggered, regained his footing, and turned to face Erik. He looked shocked but still under control. He had no idea who he was looking at.
“Hello,” said Erik, smiling. He’d practised the smile for hours in front of the mirror when he was younger, and knew that it made an impression. The smile made him look slightly insane, but just about sane enough to make whoever it was turned upon do whatever he said. At least until the shock wore off.
It was the smile of a killer, and he was proud of being able to summon it to order.
“Go inside. I’m right behind you.” He made the smile wider. “Don’t try anything silly.”
The man did as he was told, walking slowly but tensely along the hallway and through a door on the left.
Erik entered the small living room behind the fucker, stopping in front of the door, blocking the exit. Behind the man — who had turned to face Erik as he entered — there was another doorway that led into a sunken galley kitchen. There would be a back door in there, one that led out into the yard, but it would be locked. Even if this dude bolted, he wouldn’t get the door open in time.
“Who are you? What the fuck do you want?” The man was regaining his composure. He clearly felt embarrassed about obeying a stranger’s orders in his own home. Bravado was beginning to take hold.
“My name is Erik Best. Now shut the fuck u
p and tell me your name, and what you’re doing with Abby Hansen.” He waited, staring at the man. Still smiling, his hands open but ready for action.
“I don’t have to tell you anything. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”
Erik sighed theatrically and looked over at the phone. “Go on,” he said. “Try it. I reckon that phone’s about ten yards from where you’re standing. I’m five yards away from you. If you think you can make it across the room, pick up the phone, and tell them what’s going on before I get to you… well, you’re welcome to try it. I could do with the workout.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was done for effect, but it also made him feel ready to pounce, like an animal in the wild. His leather shoes creaked. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.
The man shifted his gaze away from the phone and looked back at Erik. “My name’s Marc Price. Now, would you please just leave?”
Erik shook his head. “I’m not planning to hurt you, Marc. Not this time, anyway. All I want is information. Understood?”
Price nodded. He backed away; just a step, but it betrayed his intense fear. “I don’t know what you’re after, but I have no money. Look at this house — it’s a shithole. I don’t even own it. There’s nothing of value here.”
“Right, let’s just relax. Now tell me what you’re doing hanging around Abby Hansen’s place, marra. Can you do that?”
“We… she… we’re friends.” He looked down, at the top of his shoes. His cheeks flushed. He’d been caught out and he knew it.
“So you picked her up last night, went back to her place and had a good shag?”
Price nodded. He didn’t look up.
“It’s okay. Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you. This is simply a warning. Okay, marra?”
Silence; the slow tick-tock sound of the clock on the wall; the gentle creak of leather as Erik took a soft step towards the other man, his feet moving lightly across the carpeted floor.
Price looked up. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open, the lips slightly apart. Those lips were trembling.
“Leave her alone, marra. She’s had enough trouble over the years and doesn’t need any more. You don’t know her. You have no idea what she’s been through. She doesn’t need fly-by-night fuckers like you stuffing one up her and taking the piss out of her grief.”
Price tried to inflate his chest. He took a deep breath. “Listen, mate, I’m sure Abby can make her own decisions. She’s a big girl. She doesn’t need someone like you looking after her. Let me guess… are you the ex-boyfriend that came round there earlier? Maybe one of those sad bastards she told me about, the ones who won’t take no for an answer.” There was sweat on his brow and his upper lip. “The kind of bloke who follows her around like a lost puppy, trying to catch a sniff of her so he can wank about it later.”
Erik sighed; he shook his head.
Was he going to have to use violence after all, simply to get his point across to this idiot?
He planned the moves in his head: a brisk step inside, throw a quick, short uppercut to the chin; step back out again, deliver a hard right hook to the side of the head. Easy, so fucking easy… The kid wouldn’t get back up for a long time.
He smiled. “This is a friendly warning, marra. Next time I won’t be as gentle.” He clenched his hands into fists, raised them to stomach level. It would be good to knock the fucker out, but that wasn’t his purpose today, not if he could help it. “Next time I won’t come to your house. I’ll wait somewhere else for you, the place you’d least expect to see me. In fact, you won’t see me. You won’t even feel it when it comes.”
“I don’t want any hassle.” Price’s posture was loose now; he’d finally lost his nerve. He wanted to run; it was obvious in the way he was carrying himself. No violence was required, after all. “We just fucked, mate. That was all. It was a one-night stand. I believe she’s had a few others in the past… that’s what she told me. I’m not the first… no way will I be the last.”
Erik winced, and he hated himself for showing his emotions to this stranger.
Abby was so easy; she always gave herself away so damned cheaply, and to men who didn’t even realise how special she was. He clenched the muscles in his jaw, ground his teeth together. “Just let that one fuck be the last, and then we won’t have any problems, you and me. Got that, marra?”
Price’s gaze flickered back and forth, as if he were looking for a weapon. Part of Erik hoped that he spotted one and tried to use it. He didn’t like the way the bastard was talking about Abby; he showed no respect for her, as if his night in her bed had meant nothing.
“Yeah…” Price’s shoulders relaxed. He deflated fully; his shoulders slumped, his chest shifted inward. The bravado was fading; the fight was leaving him quicker than it had arrived. “Yeah, okay. I don’t need this shit. Not for the sake of an opportunist fuck.”
“Now, tell me what you’re doing sniffing around the Grove.”
Price ran a hand through his hair. He was a good-looking guy. This made Erik dislike him even more. “Listen, I’m a freelance reporter. I’ve been researching a book. That’s all. Nothing suspicious about that, is there?”
Erik laughed. “You’re writing a book about the Concrete Grove?” His anger dissipated; there’d be no blood spilled today. He wasn’t even in the mood. “Jesus Christ, marra, that’s a good one.”
“No, no… Not exactly. I’m writing a book about the Northumberland Poltergeist. Ghosts are back in fashion — I’m just trying to jump on the bandwagon and make some quick cash.” He shrugged, still afraid but calming down a little, realising that he was not going to be beaten up.
Erik shook his head. “Man, that’s fucking priceless… The Northumberland Poltergeist. I haven’t heard that name in years.”
“Now,” said Price, raising his open hands, pointing at the door. “Would you mind getting the fuck out of my house? You’ve done what you came here to do: I’m scared. I’m terrified, actually, if it makes you feel any better. I won’t be messing around with Abby again. Now, just leave me alone.”
Erik paused, and then he turned and walked out of the room. When he reached the door he opened it, turned around, and said “Remember what I said. Oh, and don’t even think about doing anything daft, like phoning the police.” He took the silence as an affirmative response and shut the door behind him as he left the house.
Walking back towards his car, he looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark, troubled. He knew how they felt. His entire life was nothing but trouble — one long succession of bad things, queuing up to make their mark. Situations like this one happened to him all the time. It often felt as if he was dogged by bad things, like stray cats following him in a line along the street.
Erik unlocked the car and got inside. He turned on the engine and killed the radio, and then just sat there, staring at the sky, at those grumbling clouds, waiting for more trouble to come for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARC TOOK A bottle of whisky from the cupboard in the kitchen and opened it. His hands were shaking; his mouth was dry. He didn’t like violence, never had. Before the accident, his old man had been quick with his fists, especially on points of honour. He’d even hit Marc a few times when he was a small boy, but he was certain it didn’t run in the family.
Some people thought of Marc as a coward, but that wasn’t quite true. Hadn’t he just stood up to that psycho who’d forced his way inside the house? Well… sort of. Until his nerve had gone.
No, he wasn’t a coward. He just hated physical violence. He was terrified of it. He’d seen the results of true violence a lot in his job, particularly when he’d worked on the crime pages. Beatings, murders, suicides… he’d reported all kinds of messy situations. He knew what a gunshot wound looked like, and had examined stab wounds at close range. Once he’d even stood there while a young woman who’d thrown herself in front of a truck on a busy motorway was scraped up off the road by policemen armed with snow shovels.
&nb
sp; He poured an inch of whisky into a glass, and then added another inch because he knew the first wouldn’t last long. He took a swallow and felt the pleasing burn in his throat. It felt good, purifying. He’d always liked the taste of good malt whisky, and right now it tasted even better than ever. The drink was good medicine for whatever ailed him.
He thought about Abby Hansen, and asked himself if she was really worth this kind of hassle. The answer, he was sad to discover, was yes. He tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, but it was no use: he was becoming mildly obsessed with her.
But what was it about her that drew him? Why could he not stop thinking about the woman? She wasn’t his usual type — he liked hefty, athletic brunettes with big thighs and even bigger chests — and she could hardly be described as a great beauty. Her hair was badly dyed and in terrible condition; her skin was dry; her body was wracked by alcohol and the effects of borderline malnutrition.
So why the hell was he so keen to go back there, to see her, to fuck her again — no matter what Erik Best had told him? Why did he want to climb back into her bed and spend another night with her, clinging to her slender form in the darkness of her grotty little house?
He drifted from the kitchen to the living room, running a hand across the dust on the top of the television. There was a photo on there, held in an expensive frame. It showed Marc aged six; and there were his parents, flanking him and smiling at the camera. His dad looked stocky and aggressive, even when he grinned. His mother just looked tired. She’d always looked that way, right up to the day that they both died. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t looked exhausted.
He recalled the day he’d lost his parents as if it were only yesterday: the memory was imprinted on his brain, too perfect, as if it had been put there by someone else.
He’d been in the car with them, strapped into the back seat and reading a comic — Superman, of all things. The car had skidded on the wet road. It had been nobody’s fault, just one of those fluke accidents that happen every now and then, as if God was getting a bit bored and needed some entertainment, so he decided to wipe out somebody’s folks in the rain.
