The Concrete Grove cg-1

by Gary McMahon

  They were gorgeous. Their plumage was radiant — green, red, yellow and gold. The colours bled and mingled as she watched, lighting the darkness and forming a shimmering mirage of sad beauty in the bottom corner of that wardrobe.

  There were a lot of them in there. Each one was tiny, the size of a baby’s hand, and they were clustered in the corner as if they were all feeding from the nectar of a single bunch of flowers. Hailey watched them in silence, feeling a sense of awe creep along her arms, then climb to her neck, where it rose higher and flushed her cheeks.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  And that one word was enough to break the spell.

  The flock of birds seemed to undulate, shifting as if their natural rhythm had been disturbed or even broken. They turned to Hailey as one, their little black eyes peering at her from the corner, their sharp little red beaks glinting in the shadows. Then, as if dancing, they flowed out from their hiding place, breaking apart their formation to hover before her, creating a brightly-hued screen between her and the interior of the wardrobe.

  Spellbound, Hailey reached out a hand… her fingers opened, then closed. She tried to grab one — just one — of the hovering miracles, but they all flowed away from her, breaking ranks and forming an opening. She looked through the gap they had made and into the cupboard. And she saw what it was they had been eating, and why their beaks were so red, like they’d been carved from ruby.

  The dead dog was folded into the corner of the wardrobe, its legs broken and twisted, its head crushed. The fur of the dog’s jaw, and along its neck, was red, tattered, and the corpse had been punctured thousands of times. By countless tiny little beaks. Red beaks. Like rubies.

  Hailey tried to scream but the hummingbirds were stealing her air, sucking it from her throat. She backed away, flailing out at the suddenly obscene creatures. Their wings moved faster than she could see; the buzzing sound was louder than anything she had ever heard. She knew that she would fall before it even happened: the image flashed through her mind, clear as a frame from a film.

  Walking backwards, panicked and unable to take a breath, she felt her legs tangle and then she went down, hitting the concrete floor hard. She cried out in pain and shock and fear, and the hummingbirds swooped backwards, allowing a small space to open up between her and them. She drew breath; her cheeks swelled; her throat opened. Finally, and with great relief, she opened her mouth and screamed.

  The birds backed away as one hovering mass: their colours were like spilled paints, their motion was nightmarish. Where Hailey had first perceived beauty, she now witnessed horror of a kind that she barely even understood.

  She scrabbled on the floor, turning around and rising to her feet, pushing away and heading for the door.

  Then she saw what the birds were moving away from.

  Her scream had not caused them to flee. It was something else. A thing so alien, so unlike anything she had ever imagined, that it took on a strange kind of beauty — a beauty tinged with horror and darkness, and with tears and blood and sweat. Hailey’s belly began to cramp; she felt moisture between her legs.

  “What?” she said, and it was the only thing worth saying, the only question she could have asked. She tried to move back the way she’d come, towards the birds, but was caught between two extremes. Her legs skidded on the smooth concrete floor, her skirt riding up to show her dirty, slashed tights. The floor was cold on her exposed flesh. The backs of her legs turned to stone.

  Hailey glanced down at the exposed parts of her legs: her scuffed knees, the smooth patches of thigh visible through her ripped tights. Then she looked back at the small, ragged shape that was blocking her escape.

  Something vague, dusty and tattered shifted in the shadows near the doorway. Then, as if responding to her whispered question, it began to chuckle.

  Others joined the creature, spilling from the joints in the walls and ceiling, squeezing through the plug points and light-fittings. Then, clustered together in a dense and leering pack, they came streaming towards her, aiming for a point directly between her open legs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TOM RAN AS if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

  It was an old phrase — one his mother had been known to use whenever she needed to get a move on, if she was late for work or an appointment she needed to keep. The hounds of hell. Tom hadn’t heard those words in years, never mind used them, so when they came into his head now, as he sprinted between lampposts on a street two miles away from home, he felt a twinge of grief somewhere deep down inside, like a guitar string snapping.

  Tom’s mother had died when he was twenty-one. She had never seen him finish university and get his first proper job, or even had the opportunity to meet his wife, Helen.

  He ran faster, closing in on the crooked No Entry sign he was using as a marker.

  Fartlek — it was Danish for ‘speed play’.

  The training method was one of Tom’s favourites; it helped rid him of the formless anger he often felt burning up his insides. The technique involved sprinting for prolonged periods between two fixed points — usually street lights or concrete bollards — and it helped improve speed and stamina. In Tom’s case, he would run at a steady pace for ten minutes, and then vary this by increasing his pace for a set distance. He only ever used the method when he was feeling particularly low. Today was one of those times.

  Helen was having a rough time this week. She had developed minor abrasions that might turn into bedsores along one side of her back, and he was forced to roll her every hour or so to prevent this from happening. She screamed in pain whenever he moved her on the sheets.

  Tom wished that she would just make an effort, try to get out of bed, before it was too late. She hadn’t left the bedroom for over two years now, and he was losing patience. The woman he had fallen in love with, had worshipped with his mind and his body, was now nothing but a shell. The doctors had told him that physically there was no reason she should not at least be attempting to move around the house, even if she remained in the wheelchair instead of transferring to the sofa or a dining chair. No, her problem was a mental one — she was terrified of shifting her arse from the mattress, just in case she injured herself.

  He reached the No Entry sign and allowed himself to slow to a jogging speed. He’d run six miles — two more miles than he had planned — so could afford the luxury of letting his muscles relax a little.

  Tom’s breathing was soon under control. He knew that fitness was all about recovery time, and his fitness was at a pretty high level. If nothing else, Helen’s injuries had helped him get in shape. The shame was, of course, that those same injuries had also ruined her life. Both their lives, if he was honest.

  He moved steadily along the street and turned left, cutting through a narrow ginnel and into the heart of Far Grove. He didn’t like coming out here even in the early evening, hated straying this close to the place everyone called the Concrete Grove. It was a rough part of town, a Bad Area. Petty crime and anti-social behaviour were the norms, and Tom was not a man who believed in putting oneself in danger.

  He increased his pace again, preparing to take the next side street and leave the Grove behind. Even on the outskirts, he could sense the hatred, the poverty, the basic lack of respect, for which the area was known. Even if this negative image was media-created, it was rooted in some kind of truth: the bad always outweighed the good in areas like this one.

  The housing estate had been designed to form a series of concentric circles, each one bearing the word Grove in its title: Grove Street, Grove Avenue, Grove Terrace… one after the other, all the names similar and monotonous, just like the bland flats and houses and the sallow faces he saw whenever he did stray here.

  Darkness was staining the sky; he’d been gone too long. Helen would start to worry.

  Let her, he thought. I’m sick of worrying about her all the time.

  He felt immediately guilty, almost as if he had landed her a physical blow.
He knew it wasn’t her fault, not really. Ten years ago she had been in an accident with a man who was in all but name her lover. They had been on their way to a country hotel to consummate the relationship, travelling too fast in the rain. The road surface was poor and the tyres had lost their grip on a turn. A simple thing, a small accident, but one whose repercussions could be felt like shock waves even now.

  Tom no longer felt a sense of betrayal regarding Helen’s illicit tryst, but still he could only think of the man who had been driving the car as That Man. He had become a symbol more than a human being, and his death in the accident was only fitting.

  The accident had left Helen emotionally as well as physically damaged, and Tom realised that there was a possibility she might not ever again be the person he had married. No, that wasn’t right. She would never be the same, it was a certainty. Too much time had passed with too little improvement. He was stuck with her like this forever, or at least until she decided that enough was enough and stopped wanting to carry on with what was left of her life.

  As Tom approached a row of asbestos garages — surely the council should have demolished them, in the name of Health and Safety? — he glanced across the road to examine the grass verge opposite. There was a metre wide strip of what should have been green but was actually brown, with a footpath on the other side. Lying on the ailing grass and curled up into a tight ball he saw what looked like a large rag doll, or perhaps a Guy — but it was nowhere near Bonfire night, so the shape couldn’t be an effigy of Guy Fawkes, England’s most beloved terrorist…

  Once again, Tom slowed his pace. He jogged to a point where he was level with the doll, or heap of clothes, or rolled up carpet… then he realised that he was looking at a person. A small, crumpled person. A child, in fact.

  He looked both ways along the street and saw no sign of anyone else in the vicinity. Even the lights in the houses were off. A handful of the doors and windows — even this far out of the heart of the estate — were covered with wood or metal security shutters, and the rest, those still occupied, were shut up tight for the evening.

  The sky was growing darker. A couple of birds flew overhead, one of them letting out a sharp squawking noise as it glided over a low house roof. He heard a faint buzzing sound, like flies swarming nearby.

  Tom crossed the road, slowly, carefully. He had heard stories of people pretending to be injured so that they could mug an unwitting Samaritan. Granted, these possibly apocryphal tales had been reported in the seedier redtop newspapers, but still it paid to be cautious. These days, caution was the byword. You couldn’t just rush into these kinds of situations acting like the big hero, not anymore. That way you risked being beaten or stabbed. Only a few weeks ago there had been an incident where a man coming to the aid of a young woman being abused by her boyfriend outside a pub had been turned on by the couple and beaten so badly that his skull had been fractured in five places.

  “Hello.” His voice was low. Small. He felt ashamed at how frightened it made him sound. “Hello there. Can I help?”

  The body — the child — did not stir.

  “Are you okay?”

  As he moved closer, Tom realised that it was a girl, probably in her mid-teens. She was wearing a grey school blazer and a crumpled black skirt. Her black tights were dirty and torn; one of the ripped tight-legs had rolled down to the ankle. There was a smear of mud on one exposed knee.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said that, but it had seemed right, a small reassurance. If the girl had been mugged or raped then it stood to reason that she must be scared, and she might even be pretending that she was unconscious until he went away. “I can help.”

  He was now standing roughly two metres away from the girl. He could see the knots in her dirty brown hair and the pale skin of her cheek. Her small hands were clutched into fists, her arms drawn inside and held tightly against her chest.

  Tom moved closer and went down onto his haunches, feeling his knees creak a little. Sweat dripped from his brow and into his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of one hand.

  The girl moved, just an inch. She turned her head slightly, her nostrils flaring, one eyelid fluttering.

  “My name’s Tom Stains. I was running… I saw you here. Can I help you?” He felt idiotic, stuck there and not knowing what to say. All he could do was repeat the same tired lines, like an actor in a bad television play.

  The girl’s eyes flickered open. They were blue. Like cornflowers. The blood rushed back into her cheeks, colouring them a warm shade of pink. She opened her mouth, worked her jaw and tried to sit up.

  “Let me.” Tom went over and grabbed her by the arm, trying to help her to her feet. She looked up and smiled. Her lips were dry; the skin was chapped. He was amazed that he was able to make out such intimate details.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was dry and croaky. She lurched upright, holding on to him for support. Her grip was tight, her fingers digging into his biceps. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Let’s just get you on your feet.” Tom was painfully aware of his bare legs, his ridiculous running shorts and the T-shirt with the silly logo that said “If Lost, Return to the Beer Tent.” For some reason he wanted to impress this teenage girl, to make her feel safe. She invoked a strange paternal instinct that took him by surprise as well as a faint erotic charge: a curious set of feelings that he had not realised he was capable of experiencing.

  “I’m okay,” she said, still leaning against him. He prayed that he didn’t get an erection, and deliberately ignored the sight of her thighs, visible through the rips in her tights.

  Still sweating, but now for a different reason, Tom led the girl over to a low garden wall. She sat down, finally relinquishing her grip on his upper arm, and rubbed her face with her hands. She had a long, graceful neck. The top three buttons of her blouse were undone.

  Stop, thought Tom. Just stop it.

  “Are you… are you injured?” He kept his distance, still feeling silly in his shorts and T-shirt.

  The girl looked down at herself, seeming to inspect her body for signs of damage. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “What happened? Were you attacked? Mugged? Did they take anything?” Tom licked his lips. His throat was dry.

  “I dunno. I think I just passed out, like. Fainted. You know?”

  Tom nodded. But he didn’t know; he didn’t have the slightest clue as to why a healthy young girl might faint. “Are you ill, or something? Is that why you passed out?”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t know why it happened. It just did. I was walking around near the Needle, next thing I know I’m waking up here.” She smiled, but it looked forced, as if she were trying to convince him of something.

  “The Needle? That’s all the way over there, isn’t it?” Tom turned his head due north, raised a hand to point but dropped it before it even reached waist level. Everybody knew where the tower block was; it was visible from just about everywhere on the estate.

  “I know. Weird, eh?” She smiled again. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tom. Tom Stains. I’ve been running…” He glanced down at his legs, lifting his arms away from his body in an almost apologetic manner.

  “Yeah. Whatever.” She glanced along the street, dismissing him.

  “What’s your name? I should take you home; get you back safe and sound to your parents.” God, he sounded like an old man.

  “I’m Hailey. I live a few streets away. I’ll be fine.” She pushed away from the wall, but stumbled a little. Steadying herself, she grinned. “Or maybe not.”

  “Come on, Hailey, let’s get you home. I’m sure your parents will be worried.” He took a step towards her but did not touch her. It wasn’t appropriate, not now. She could walk by herself, unaided, and if he grabbed her she might get the wrong idea — or he might.

  “Mum. It’s just me and Mum. But, yes, she will be worried. She worries about me all the time round here. It’s n
ot like where we used to live.” She turned and began to walk along the street, her strides slow and uncertain.

  “I see.” Tom fell into step alongside her, ready to catch her if she stumbled but not willing to offer his arm unless she asked. “Just you and your mother, eh?” Something turned inside him, like a key in a lock or a tumbler falling into place: some hidden mechanism within the chambers of his heart. Tom didn’t believe in fate or destiny, he clung to no god. But there was something about these events, a sense that the picture was not what it seemed. Beneath the surface, under the façade of reality, something was happening, changes were taking place.

  Unbeliever that he was, Tom was confused to think that the steps he was taking now were in fact the beginning of some kind of journey. The destination was unclear, the aim unknowable, but he had willingly taken a turn off the beaten track and allowed himself to be led astray.

  Somehow these thoughts failed to trouble him. In fact, he felt more alive than he had in years. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had embarked upon anything that might be considered an adventure.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NIGHT WAS FALLING in slow shades as they walked along Grove End, past the dark hulk of the primary school, and headed towards the Grove Court flats. The long nights were drawing in. It would soon be Christmas. Tom hated Christmas.

  He was so aware of Hailey strolling along at his side that he could think of nothing else, not even the things he hated. He knew that Helen would be expecting him home to prepare dinner, but he could barely even picture her face. All he could see was the girl.

  Tom realised that after the initial near-sexual thrill he’d experienced his feelings towards Hailey had faded to something more like fatherly concern. The girl was in some kind of trouble, that much was certain. He didn’t believe her story about fainting and not knowing how she came to be lying unconscious at the side of the road, half a mile away from where she’d been roaming.