Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

He wished he’d been the one to coin the term Gone Away Girls. It was a classic, the kind of epithet that lasted, sank deep into the consciousness of everyone interested in the case. He didn’t even feel bad about his envy. He was used to having thoughts like these, and so familiar with the mercenary thought processes of journalism that he’d moved far beyond any vestigial sense of shame years ago.

He put away the clippings and closed the file. Abby was still staring at him. Her eyes were flat; her mouth was a tight little line. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Abby unfolded her arms. She reached down and took the file, clutching it tightly against her chest. “Just remember my little girl’s face, and appreciate that I don’t need saving.” She turned back to the cupboard and put away the file, pushing it right to the back. When she straightened up again, she turned around and leaned the small of her back against the work bench.

They stared at each other in silence.

Somebody began to knock on the front door, quietly at first but with increasing vigour.

Abby glanced over towards the open kitchen door, and the hallway beyond. The knocking continued. Marc looked along the hallway. At the front door, he could see the fuzzy outline of a head beyond the frosted glass.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

She shrugged. Her fingers were fidgeting with the buttons on her dressing gown. She crossed her legs at the ankle, one over the other.

Marc finished his coffee.

The knocking grew louder. Then a man’s voice said, “Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

Marc pushed his chair a few inches away from the table, wincing as the legs screeched across the cheap laminated floor covering. He stood and turned towards the back door. “Maybe I should go.”

“No,” said Abby. “No, it’s okay. I’ll deal with this. You just sit down and have another cup of coffee.” She reached for the kettle and flicked the switch to set the water to boil again. “I won’t be a minute.” She moved quickly across the room, closing the door on her way out. The edge of the door bounced when it hit the frame, opening again, but just a couple of inches. He moved across the front of the table, positioning himself so that he could see through the gap. He watched Abby’s white-gowned figure as she approached the door. She smoothed the gown across her hips, flicked her head to shift the hair from out of her eyes, and opened the front door.

Marc couldn’t quite see the man clearly. The doorstep was set down lower than the hallway floor, and Abby’s thin body further obscured his view. They spoke quietly. The man must not be annoyed after all. Perhaps he was merely concerned. Abby glanced over her shoulder a couple of times, as if she were talking about him. The man attempted to manoeuvre his way past her and through the doorway, but she angled her body to block him.

“Come back later,” he heard her say. “I’m busy.”

“Who’s in there?” The man’s head, with his close-cropped hair, bobbed up and down, back and forth, trying to see past her and into the house. He had a thick neck. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad through the shoulders.

Marc jumped in shock when the kettle clicked off. He turned and watched the steam as it rose in a smooth line from the spout. He walked over and made himself another cup of instant. His hands were shaking. Behind him, the door slammed shut. Footsteps padded along the hallway, towards the kitchen door.

Let her be alone, he thought. I don’t want any trouble.

When he turned to face the door, she entered the room and sat down at the table. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, or fighting tears. Her face was white but there were pink streaks on her cheeks.

“Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She looked up, trying to smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”

“Who was that?” He wished he hadn’t asked, but the reporter’s instinct never let him down: he always, always asked the questions that came into his head, as if he did not possess a mental cut-off switch.

“Just an ex-boyfriend… He pesters me sometimes, wants me to have him back.”

“Oh.” He blew on his coffee. Suddenly he didn’t want the drink.

“Listen, I’m sorry but that bastard’s upset me. Can you go?”

He put the mug down on the work bench and stepped away. Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his empty hands. “Yes, I’ll go. Give you a bit of peace.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if she really meant it.

“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.

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.