Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

Then he realised what it was: he felt like he was being watched. He was experiencing that sensation of eyes upon you when you walk across a room; the sense that someone is peering at you but you can’t see them, not yet. A painting’s eyes following you across a gallery floor; or the heat of a person’s gaze burning a hole in the middle of your back from across a room.

Watched.

He was being watched.

Hacky bent over and tugged at the end of the tarpaulin sheet. He did it half-heartedly at first, as if he really didn’t want the sheet to come off, but then he used both hands and pulled hard, shuffling backwards as he did so. The sheet slid away, dropping to the floor. Beneath it was a large glass tank with a heavy lid, the kind of container that was used for keeping tropical fish, or exotic lizards.

“What’s the story with that tank, then?” Erik didn’t move.

Hacky stepped further away, not taking his eyes from the tank. “Years ago, when I was little, I used to keep snakes in there. I had a couple of pythons. Dad got hold of them from some mate. The police came and took them away. They weren’t legal, like…” He kept staring at the tank. “Dangerous, they reckoned…”

Erik paused for a moment, unwilling to move closer to the tank, and what might be lurking inside it. The shadows kept its contents hidden; all he could see was a large dark glass receptacle, with something bulky nestling behind the glass. It could have been discarded clothing; it might have been a dead animal. A cat or a dog.

Then the thing moved: a slight twitch, like a muscular spasm.

“It’s alive,” he whispered.

A snake?

“We thought it was dead,” said Hacky. “We found it down on Beacon Green, in a little ditch, half-covered by leaves and shit. We were looking for a bag of pot we’d stashed there a few nights ago.” Still he stared at the tank. Whatever was in there coiled lazily, moving a little like one of the pythons the kid had claimed to have owned before they were seized by the authorities.

“What is it?”

A snake…

Finally Hacky looked away from the tank. He turned to face Erik, and his features remained in shadow. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. Darkness writhed across his face like tar. “Honestly, I haven’t a fucking clue.”

Something thumped wetly against the other side of the glass, shifting again inside the tank. There was a moist slithering noise as it adjusted its position.

“Fucking hell,” said Erik, and his feet moved forward as if they weren’t under his control. He wanted to stop them but they refused to obey. He was walking towards the tank, and the living thing that was imprisoned inside.

“Is it one of those snakes of yours?”

Hacky didn’t answer. He’d already gone back outside, too afraid to stay and watch.

IT WAS LUNCHTIME and Marc was craving a protein fix. He’d been drinking a lot lately — much more than usual — and seemed to exist with a constant hangover, seeing the world through a thin layer of gauze. He hoped that Vince Rose hadn’t been serious about having a few cans of lager and instead wished for a nice cup of tea. A splash of milk. A spoonful of honey. Lovely.

He parked his car at the kerb and stepped out onto the street outside Harry’s house. Even though the old man was dead, Marc couldn’t help but feel as if he was waiting inside, watching through the net curtains, as he always used to when he had visitors.

Glancing at the grubby nets, he accepted the reality that Harry would no longer be there; his tall, thin form would never again stand in the window, looking out at the street and scowling at passers by.

“Hey, Marc!”

He turned around and saw Vince Rose walking along the street, a blue carrier bag clutched in each hand. He raised the bags to waist level and smiled. “Lunch.”

“Good to see you, Vince.” Marc moved towards the man and grabbed one of the bags — the one that looked heaviest — and stood to the side while Rose walked past him. He fell into step alongside the other man.

“I didn’t get any booze. I hope that’s okay. I’m trying to cut down and… well, if it’s there, it’s a temptation, right?”

Marc nodded. “Thank God for that. I’m thinking about going on a month-long detox because of all the drink I’ve been having lately. It’s getting crazy.”

They reached the front door and Rose set down his bag on the doorstep, took a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket, and opened the door.

“It’s weird coming here when Harry isn’t around.” Marc stared through the open doorway, into the gloomy hall. “I’ve never been inside this house without him inviting me inside. He would always wait in the window, watching, and as soon as I got near the door it would open. He’d say ‘Why don’t you come in for a while?’ and walk back inside, leaving me to follow.”

“He’s still here,” said Rose. “In one way or another. You’ll see.” He stepped inside and walked towards the kitchen, bumping the carrier bag against the wall.

For a moment Marc didn’t want to go inside. It wasn’t the same; it wasn’t right. This was Harry’s house, and Harry needed to be there, to give his usual greeting and put the kettle on. There was a space inside this house, and its shape was that of Harry Rose. The old man had been cut out of the world but his absence was still here, permanent, like a scar in the fabric of existence.

When he stepped over the threshold and into the house, the sunlight seemed to pull back, moving away from him. He felt the temperature drop and the daylight vanished. The lack of Harry Rose was a ghost, a forlorn spectre. In that moment Marc realised that most so-called hauntings were not about what was there, but what was no longer in place. It was not the remains that mattered, but what had been taken away, removed from the living world and placed somewhere else, where nobody could see them.

Ghosts , he thought, are simply absences made solid . They’re holes in the world, holes that will never be filled again .

He nudged the door shut with his shoulder, using his foot to make sure that it fitted properly into the frame. When the lock clicked, he followed Rose down the hallway and into the small kitchen, where the other man was putting away the shopping.

“I got ham and cheese. Is that okay? Some nice bread: fresh stuff, from the bakers.”

“That sounds great,” said Marc. He put the carrier bag on the table and sat down in one of the dining chairs. He blinked, trying not to draw attention to the fact that his eyes were moist. Not quite real tears, but almost… he missed his friend. He wished that Harry were still here, bustling around in the tiny kitchen, moaning — as he usually did — about some real or imagined slight.

“How do you take your tea?”

Marc shifted in the chair, turning to face his host. “White, one sugar, thanks. I usually take it with honey, but Harry used to laugh at that and call me a snob.”

“Aye,” said Rose, shaking his head. “The old bastard had some funny ideas about stuff like that. For years, he called me a traitor to my class simply because I attended university and went to work in insurance. He never let me live that down… never failed to twist the knife, either.”

The kettle made a popping sound, signalling that the water had boiled. Steam filled the air between the two men, making it seem like a fog had crept into the room.

Rose didn’t move. He stood there, veiled by steam, staring at nothing.

“Erm… the kettle’s boiled.” Marc made to rise, but when his host snapped back into the moment, lurching towards the kettle, he pretended that he’d simply been shifting his position on the seat.