The Concrete Grove cg-1

by Gary McMahon

  “This stuff isn’t going to eat itself,” she said. Then a look of concern crossed her face. “Are you okay? You look… well, you look shocked. Or scared.”

  Tom knelt down on the blanket, reached for a sandwich. “Sorry. I was just thinking — thinking about my late father.”

  And then he was frightened all over again, because it was true: he had been thinking about his dead father, but without even realising he was doing so. Those fists — those images of violence — had been all that was left of the man, a representation of his will. His ghost, his phantom, was nothing more than a snatch of unfocused aggression, a flock of fists fighting against something unseen.

  After they’d eaten — sandwiches with cheap fillings, freezer-shop-bought vol-au-vonts, mini sausage rolls, flattened cheese spheres wrapped in red plastic jackets — Hailey walked across the grass and then started to stroll along the side of the rampart. She bent over to pick up a stone, threw it, and then ran her hand along the weather-worn surface of the wall.

  “She was a twin, you know.” Lana smiled, but her eyes were flat. “Her brother was stillborn. Thirty-seven seconds after I had Hailey, I delivered a little corpse.”

  Tom didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent. He stared at Lana’s face, at the way her hair fell across her cheek and she kept pushing it out of the way; an unconscious gesture, but somehow sad and beautiful.

  “I haven’t told anyone that,” she said, glancing at him, and then down at the ground. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you.” She shook her head. “Hailey doesn’t even know she almost had a brother.” She smiled again, and this time it was better, stronger, almost real.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom waited for her to answer; there was no rush, they had all day. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “I’m worried about her,” said Lana, turning to stare at her daughter’s back.

  Tom moved round on the blanket so that he was sitting right next to her on the rock. He could feel the heat of her body, even through their fleecy jackets. A flash of sunlight lit the sky above them, and then dimmed but did not vanish. “Why? Is she still having those fainting spells?”

  Lana shook her head. She lifted a hand and pushed the hair from out of her eyes. “No, she seems to have stopped those. But there’s something else, something wrong.”

  Tom placed his hand on her knee.

  She glanced at him and smiled, but the expression didn’t last. “I think she might be pregnant.”

  “Ah… okay. Has she said anything?” He squeezed her knee, but this time she failed to respond.

  “No, it’s nothing she’s actually said. But sometimes when I look at her, when she’s wearing thin clothing, her belly seems swollen. Then, the next time I look, it’s flat. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it isn’t right. It could be a tumour, or something. It might not be natural at all. I think I should take her to see a doctor, but if I tried I know she’d fight me.”

  The landscape was silent; not even the birds sang. Not a living soul was visible. The sky trembled.

  “This all sounds a bit strange,” said Tom, unsure of what she wanted him to say. “Her belly — you say it looks like she’s pregnant one day, and then the next it looks normal?”

  “No,” said Lana. “Not normal. On those other days she looks too thin. Skinny. Like she’s starving to death. Her skin’s all dry, her breath smells, and she’s passing blood when she goes to the toilet. She says she’s never even been with a boy. I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t handle it if she was seriously ill.”

  Tom remained silent. He wanted to help, to offer support, but this was something in which he had little experience. He’d never been a father; his marriage had not produced a child.

  “I’m sorry.” She hitched closer again, so that her thigh brushed against his leg. “I shouldn’t be burdening you with this. All my troubles, my fucking woes.” She tried to laugh but it didn’t quite work: the sound was shrill, pitched almost at breaking point. “It’s just that everything seems to be turning bad, and I have nobody else to talk to.”

  Tom held her hand. It was warm, despite the chill. “Listen, I’m here for you. I don’t know what it is, but we have a connection here. I’m married, you have your own responsibilities, yet we’re drawn together. Or am I reading this all the wrong way, and you just need someone to lean on? I can be that, too… if that’s all you want.”

  She shook her head. The movement was vigorous, as if she were trying to convince more than just Tom of her motives. “No, that’s not all I want. I need someone to hold me in the night, to make love to me and make me remember that I’m a woman and not just a single mother, a statistic struggling to cope. I need… I need. That’s all.”

  Her hand ran along his thigh, moving into his lap to cup him there. She squeezed, softly at first and then harder, and Tom felt like he was about to burst apart at the seams.

  “I think I need you, Tom.” Her eyes were wet, but she did not cry. Her neck blushed red; her cheeks took on a little of that colour.

  “We’ll work something out. I promise. Because I think I need you, too.”

  They both looked over at Hailey at the same time, as if she had called out to them.

  The girl was standing motionless, turned slightly away from them but with the side of her face still visible, about a hundred metres along the wall. Her hand was outstretched, the palm held flat, and a tiny red and gold bird was perched at its centre. Hailey’s lips were moving, as if she were talking to the creature. Then, as they both watched in silence, the brightly-hued bird rose and hovered inches above Hailey’s hand before skimming off across the top of the wall, where it disappeared into the shuddering dimness beyond.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LATER, AS HE drove away from the Grove, Tom thought about what a strange day this had been. Nothing had seemed to go right on the surface of things — the junkie trying to rip off his own face, the tense mood once the three of them had finally reached Hadrian’s Wall, the revelations regarding Hailey’s problems, and that odd, insightful moment with what had looked for all the world like a hummingbird — but underneath all this, he felt that it had all been so perfect he wanted to wrap up his memories of the day and lock them away inside a little box.

  He had wanted nothing more than to stay for a while at Lana’s place, but Hailey’s mood had soured once they got out of the car and he thought it best to leave them, to give mother and daughter some time together. It was getting late anyway: they’d remained at the site longer than expected, leaving reluctantly only when the sun began to set. And he had promised Eileen Danby — the neighbour who was keeping an eye on Helen for the day — that he wouldn’t be back too late. He had already broken that promise, just like all the others he had broken simply by spending the day with Lana.

  He drove slowly through Far Grove, trying to prolong his time away from home, but deep down inside he knew that wherever he went and however long he stayed away, he would always have to return to his wife. It was his duty, his penance. His entire life had been lived in the shadow thrown by an obstacle he could never quite define, and now he was facing the punishment for so many lost years and wasted chances. There wasn’t even anyone to blame, not really. Because That Man had not been a monster, just another human being making mistakes like everyone else.

  He turned into their street and parked the car on the drive. Then he sat behind the wheel for a while, filled with a dark regret. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. They looked old, wrinkled. He imagined that in a few years’ time liver spots would appear, marking the onslaught of death.

  The radio was playing a song by Otis Redding, and despite the hi-tempo beat the tune filled Tom with a sense of regret. Why could he not have met Lana, or someone like her, when he was still young enough and sharp enough and free enough to take advantage of the opportunity? Why had it happened now, when he was already resigned to spending the remainder of his years looking after a wife he hated?

  Hate.
It was such a strong world… but in rare honest moments, like this one, he knew it to be true.

  “They call me Mr. Pitiful,” he said, smiling, looking for humour in a situation where there was none. His eyes, when he looked at his face in the rear-view mirror, were dull and flat and lifeless, like pennies thrown in a pond to rust, corroded by dreams so heavy that they could not be lifted from the bottom.

  He got out of the car and walked slowly along the drive. The lights were on downstairs — Eileen, the neighbour, must still be in there, watching over Helen as she lay sweating in her bed. He paused outside the front door, wishing that he could turn back, run away, and head off into some movie-scene sunset. Then he opened the door and walked inside.

  “Tom?” Eileen Danby appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a mug and her face was drawn, tired.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” said Tom, taking off his coat. “I hit some bad traffic.”

  “It’s okay.” Eileen smiled, and when she did so her tired, heavy face lost at least a decade. He recalled that many years ago, before her husband had left her, she was an attractive woman. “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind. It’s Helen… she’s had a bit of a bad time.”

  Tom glanced towards Helen’s room. The door had been left ajar. The handle looked like a weapon, but before he could puzzle over this thought and where it had come from, Eileen was speaking again. “She got a little paranoid.” She tightened her grip on the mug, wrapping her fingers around a faded comedy decal of Bugs Bunny dressed as a French Maid. “She seems to think that you’ve been doing something wrong, or visiting a place you shouldn’t.”

  Tom’s stomach seemed to drop into his knees.

  “I couldn’t really be sure what she meant. Her voice, her words. It was all just gibberish.” She smiled sadly.

  Tom looked down at the floor, at his walking boots. Dried mud was spattered on the toughened toe caps. “I’ve been with a client. We went for a walk near where he lives, had lunch in a nice rural pub. There’s nothing else.” He felt like crying. He always felt like crying.

  “I know that, Tom — God knows, you’ve been loyal to her, caring for her when a lot of men might have walked away. You’re a good man, a saint. I know how tough it must be for you.”

  He felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and screaming into her startled face: I’m not a good man, I’m a bastard. I’ve been thinking about nothing else but fucking another woman all day!

  He nodded. “Thank you, Eileen. I really appreciate that.”

  She took a few steps closer and reached out, one hand still clutching the mug and the other grabbing his hand, groping it before finding purchase. “A very good man.” Her fingers were hot and clammy.

  Tom could not raise his head; he was unable to look up, into her eyes. He knew that Eileen Danby had been attracted to him for years, and that attraction had grown since Helen’s injuries. She’d made a blatant pass one New Year’s Eve, about seven years ago. Her husband had left her the Christmas before, and she was feeling lonely and neglected. They’d been sitting on the steps at the back of her house, listening to the revellers inside — this was back when Helen was still willing to get around in her wheelchair, so even she was present at the party.

  Eileen had placed her hand on his knee, moved it almost casually up his leg. Then, without uttering a word, she’d undone his zip and masturbated him. Right there on the doorstep, smelling of beer and cigarettes and staring away, across the garden, as if the act was separate from her, a part of something else she was thinking of.

  And Tom had let her do it, enjoying being complicit in such a blatant act of sexuality.

  “I’m not a good man,” he whispered. “Never was.”

  Afterwards, when he was breathing hard and spots of light were scattered across his vision, Eileen had wiped her hand on a paper tissue she’d produced from the breast pocket of her blouse. She kissed him on the cheek, stood up and went back inside the house, all without speaking, without acknowledging in any way what she had done. Tom had sat there for another ten or fifteen minutes, drinking his beer and wondering what the hell had just happened.

  They had not spoken of the event since, pretending that it had never happened. Those scant few moments on the back doorstep were like a shared wet dream, something that might vanish if they confronted its memory.

  “You know where I am if you ever want to talk.” She pulled her hand away, placing it behind her back, as if to hide the evidence of her touch. She always said the same thing, and not once had he taken her up on the offer. But he knew it was there: he still felt the pressure of her grip on his penis, even all these years later, as if she had never really let go.

  “I know, Eileen, and it’s really appreciated.” At last he raised his eyes from the floor, glancing at her. She had stepped back, and her face seemed unable to fix on a single expression. “Thanks.”

  Eileen smiled, nodded, and then frowned. “She’s sleeping now. She slept most of the day, to be honest.” She put down her mug on the table near the stairs and grabbed her coat from the hook on the wall. “I’ll leave you to it. Tell her I’ll pop in on Tuesday, as usual, to see if she wants any shopping.”

  Tom remained where he was as Eileen let herself out — she’d had a key for years now, and came and went as she pleased whenever Tom asked her to help out while he was away on business. She never overstepped the mark of their unspoken agreement, and had not once given him reason to think that she might have an ulterior motive for doing what she did. Eileen had been a good friend to Helen, despite that one slip at the New Year’s Eve party. She had also been invaluable to Tom whenever he needed support. She’d never again strayed beyond these personal boundaries, but the unspoken offer was out there, whether he wanted it or not.

  “See you, Eileen.” The door slammed shut on his words.

  He walked across the hallway and pushed open the door to Helen’s room. Every time he did this, stepped into her darkened room, he thought of that film, The Exorcist. The one with the possessed girl in an upstairs bedroom, strapped to a bed in the dark. The way the visiting priests’ breath misted in the icy air; the oppressive pressure of the silence in the room, apart from the ragged sound of her breathing.

  “Helen? You awake, Helen?”

  He could hear her breathing, just like the demonic teenager in that film. It was low, heavy, asthmatic, and punctuated by soft little snores.

  “I’m home. Sorry it took longer than I thought, but the guy wanted a full report on how I’m planning to save him money on last year’s taxes.” He hated lying like this, but the demands of his accountancy work were a gilt-edged excuse. Helen knew he had to visit clients, to keep them sweet and reassure them about their money and investments, so she rarely questioned his motives when he left the house for a day, and she always enjoyed Eileen Danby’s company.

  “No.” Her voice was thick; he could tell immediately that she was still asleep.

  “It’s okay, pet. I’m here. I’m home. There’s no need to fret.” He approached the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. There was a jug of water by the bed, half full, and a crumb-covered plate containing half a slice of buttered toast and a folded chocolate biscuit wrapper. “No need to worry, now.”

  The television at the foot of the bed was switched on, but there was no picture, just a silent screen filled with surging static.

  The top of Helen’s head, along with part of her face, was visible above the covers. He could see the sweat glistening on her forehead like crushed ice. Her eyes were closed but her eyelids twitched, holding back a dream. The bedclothes covered her mouth, but he could see by the movement of the muscles in her jaw that she was grinding her teeth and mumbling in her sleep — something she often did when she was uneasy, when she was feeling disturbed or anxious.

  He reached out and stroked her forehead. The skin was warm and wet; each furrow or crease was filled with greasy moisture. Tom held back a wave of nausea, feeling guilty for the way he disliked to tou
ch his wife.

  “What did you do?” Her voice was louder this time. The covers shifted down a few inches, exposing her open lips. Her teeth were large and discoloured. “What did you do with her?”

  “Hush now, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong. I’m home…” He was running out of things to say, and knew that she probably couldn’t hear him anyway.

  “Bastard!”

  She did that too, sometimes: swore at him, abused him as she slept. Once he had fallen asleep beside her, curled up on the bed, and woken to find her hands around his neck, tightening, trying to choke him. It had been the last time he’d ever allowed himself to doze in her room. After that he made a point of heading upstairs as soon as he felt tired. Something else she had spoiled; another thing for him to feel guilty about, but on her behalf: a sense of guilt by proxy.

  Give me all of it, he thought, bitterly. A man can never have enough guilt.

  Tom turned and looked again at the television. The static danced before his eyes, threatening to take on forms, to twist into the shapes of dancing figures. He stared at the monochrome blur, narrowing his eyes. Could he see fists in that chaos of interference? Where they swinging, as if throwing punches on the other side of the screen?

  Helen moaned: a soft, wordless noise.

  A face seemed to loom forward from the screen, breaking away from the mass of dots. Its eyes were closed but its mouth was open, widening as Tom watched. Other, smaller faces poured out of it, dancing around the original features. He was tired, seeing things.

  “Tom?” The picture broke apart at the sound of Helen’s voice, as though afraid to be witnessed by anyone but him.

  “Yes… yes, it’s me.”

  “Where’s Eileen?” She blinked into the darkness, the wash of TV light softening her features, making it look as if there were no bones beneath the skin, or like the bones there had melted.