Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

One of his little lapdogs; a scruffy kid on the Grove estate he sometimes paid to keep an eye on things. One of the many; just another small cog in the mighty Best machine, each one oblivious of the rest yet working in harmony to protect him and to keep the wheels of commerce nicely greased.

“What is it, Hacky? I’m busy, so this had better be fucking good.”

A pause; then someone whispering in the background, rushed and excited. “Aye, it’s good. I think it is, anyway. For you, like. The thing is, I’m not even fucking sure what it is…” Another pause, this one longer.

“Go on, Hacky. Tell me about it.” He settled back into the chair and closed his eyes, still thinking of Abby Hansen. But not as she was now, all thin and haggard and defeated; no, Abby as she had been a few years ago, before grief got hold of her and turned her into a listless punch bag. The Abby who had always been the boss in bed and who’d never put up with any of his shit.

“You know you always tell me to ring you if I see something weird?”

“What do you mean by weird, Hacky?”

“You know. Weird . Dead strange, like. Anything out of the ordinary on the estate… you always tell us that however small it might seem, a weird growth can sometimes have long roots. That’s what you say, innit?”

Erik sighed. “Yes, son. More or less.”

“Okay, then. I got summat weird. One of them things… the things you want to know about.”

Erik opened his eyes. He glanced again at the crack in the wall. It was just the same; it hadn’t grown, or moved.

Moved? How the hell could it do that?

His mind wasn’t straight. He was drifting off into irrelevant areas, focusing on stupid, pointless concerns. He needed to concentrate, to live in the now and not the back then. “Come on, marra, spit it out, will you? I have better things to do.” But did he? Did he really?

“The thing is… the thing … oh, fuck, man. Listen, if I tried to describe it you’d think I was tripping or summat.”

“And are you?” Erik leaned forward, ready to end the call and organise a little beating for Hacky, just to warn him not to waste Erik’s time. “Were you laying it on a bit heavy last night, you and the boys? Did one of you cook up a batch of cheap smack?”

“Nah, I’m clean. Had a few beers and a smoke round me brother’s place, but nowt else. Nowt daft, like.” He sounded proud, as if this short period of abstinence meant something important in his broken life.

“Listen, Hacky, tell me what the fuck this is all about or I’ll have your legs broken.”

This time the pause was longer and held an intensity that had not been present before. Erik listened to the static on the line. He thought for a moment that he could make out other voices in there; voices and a soft slow clicking sound, like distant maracas. But then it faded.

“Remember Monty Bright?”

That got Erik’s attention. “Yes. Of course I remember Monty.” They’d been friends and sometime enemies, comrades and occasionally business rivals. Theirs was always a complex relationship, but one that often created a lot of mutual wealth. Monty had run a loan sharking business, and Erik had been known to fund some of Monty’s bigger deals. They’d been silent partners many times, mostly in security companies and anything where hired muscle was required. They’d drawn blood together, fought hard men, and shared slutty women. They’d even organised a few boxing bouts, matching local fighters for a cash prize. On the level. Everything above board. Just for the hell of it.

“It’s got something to do with him… with Monty.”

“Monty’s dead, Hacky. He died in the fire when his gym burnt down, remember? My gym, now, that is if your fucking brother and his mates hurry up and get that fit-out job finished.”

“Just come to the estate and take a look. Meet us at the gym. There’s nobody working there today. You really need to fucking see this, man. It’s… it’s… shit, I don’t know what the fuck it is, man. It’s weird. Weird, with fucking long roots…”

Erik checked the time; it was past lunchtime but he hadn’t eaten a thing. He wasn’t even hungry.

He had nothing better to do. It was a depressing thought, but it was true.

“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour. If this isn’t good, you’d better run hard and run far, Hacky my boy. If I’m wasting my time here, it won’t just be your legs that get broken. And I might just break your brother’s, too, for slacking on the job.”

“I know,” said the kid on the other end of the line. “Just come and see.” Then he ended the call.

Erik’s mind was still on Abby Hansen. If he had business on the estate, then it wouldn’t be out of order to maybe pay her a little call. See how she was. Find out if she needed anything. He knew that he was being stupid, that she’d pussy-whipped him without even trying, but still he could not stay away. She was like a drug; he needed her, even if it was like this: brief, unwanted visits, during which she usually verbally abused him. Stolen time. Tense, bruising moments spent in her company when she didn’t even want him there, not now.

He locked up the house, checked the dogs — two border collies; Rocky and Apollo — in their kennels and set off for the Grove. On his way there, through the winding roads of the Northumberland countryside, he wished again that Abby would wake up and see what it was he had to offer, how good it could be for them both if she dropped her guard, let him back in.

Erik had never lived on the Grove. He’d been born in Byker, in the east end of Newcastle, and from a very young age had demonstrated that he could take care of himself. His father had enrolled him in a boxing academy when he was five years old. He’d beaten everyone they put in front of him, and graduated through the age and weight classes with ease.

His teenage years had seen him go off the rails and he began street fighting rather than using his craft in the ring. Erik was always bright enough to know that, unless you were truly dedicated, the fight game would never make you rich. He lacked the application and willpower to become a champion; his skills were purely natural, and a wide lazy streak coupled with habitual indiscipline meant that he could not stick to any kind of training regime.

So he used his skills in other ways.

Years ago he’d realised that he didn’t have to fight every battle himself. He surrounded himself with tough guys, men who were strong and fast but lacked his cunning and intellect. He set up illegal fights and made a fortune. When he’d made enough money he bought an old farmhouse a few miles from here and started hosting bare-knuckle bouts in the Barn, a small outbuilding with thick stone walls and neglected horse paddocks — he’d employed Hacky’s brother and his gang to do the building work there, too.

He also ran a security firm that provided pubs and clubs with trained door staff, big blokes who knew exactly what to do if trouble started. Erik saw himself as a primitive renaissance man; a facilitator; an entrepreneur: he was the Donald fucking Trump of the mean streets and even meaner housing estates.

Now, at the age of fifty-one, he was what his younger self would have considered wealthy. He owned a large, beautiful home, several other properties, two well-trained dogs, had three cars in the garage, but lacked someone to share it with. There was a time when Abby Hansen would have walked over broken glass to live with him, but that time was long gone. These days she’d rather cut herself on the scattered shards than stand by his side.

The Concrete Grove… why would she want to stay here? Their daughter wasn’t coming back; she would never come home. This place was the dark centre of a universe Erik could barely even understand. He cruised through it, that alien universe, and he used it and its denizens for personal gain, but he had no idea how it really worked. Like a black hole, it sucked everything towards it, bleeding them dry: Monty Bright, his absent friend Marty Rivers, the once beautiful Abby Hansen… all of them drawn inexorably towards the black centre of this place, screaming silently as it ate them alive.