Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

None of us are , he thought. Not ever .

The skin of his back and shoulders started to prickle; then it spread along his arms, reaching round to his chest, almost hugging him. The Crawl — it was here, even here, where he had mistakenly thought there might be safety. Somehow it had reached out, following him from the Grove, and managed to grasp hold of the rest of his life, tainting everything, polluting his thoughts and even his dreams.

He opened the door and got out of the car. A gust of wind blew along the street, buffeting him, almost knocking him off his feet. Then, a second later, the air was calm and still; there was not a trace of the wind he’d felt. Royle stared back along the street, in the direction he’d come. The darkness twisted, corkscrewing. He half expected to hear disembodied laughter.

Something’s coming , he thought, but he had no idea where the thought had come from or specifically what it meant. It’s on its way .

Someone crossed the street, turning their head to glance in his direction. It was a small girl. She was wearing a dress but no coat. It was much too late for children to be out, unless they were up to no good — and this one didn’t look like the kind of kid who hung out on street corners, smoking fags and drinking cider with her mates. She was too sensibly dressed, and there was a sense of innocence about her that he could make out even from this distance.

The girl stopped in the middle of the road and stared at him. She lifted her arms as if she were about to take flight. Darkness webbed in the space between her arms and her body; black gossamer wings unfolding. Royle took a step forward, and the girl’s image seemed to waver, like a faulty piece of film.

He shook his head, closed his eyes. Opened them again.

The girl was no longer there. Wind gusted but he could not feel it. A soft clicking sound, like someone running a stick along metal railings, moved away from him along the dark street, fading into the distance. It was a sound he’d heard before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. He never could; it was like some kind of primal echo, a memory from a time that was lost to him.

Royle turned away and headed towards the house, the lights, his wife and unborn child. He opened the gate and walked up the path, flanked on either side by tiny lawns, flower beds Vanessa kept looking neat and tidy, even during the winter months. He took a few panicked breaths, trying to calm down, and then knocked sharply on the front door. Waiting, he gazed through the glass panel in the door and saw a wide, blurred figure approaching along the hallway.

The door opened and she stood there, an engorged angel, on the threshold.

“Hi Craig.” She smiled.

“Hi.” He stared at her narrow, pretty face, the bright maternity dress, the bulge she was massaging softly with both hands.

“Come on in.” She turned and walked into the house; he followed her, close to tears, tottering on the edge of absurdity.

The house smelled of beef casserole and Vanessa’s coconut body lotion. He glanced up the tight staircase as they passed alongside it, wishing that he could stay the night, sleep in their bed, hold on tightly to the woman he loved, had always loved, would never stop loving. Like a shadow of the past (or the future?), he saw a faint image of himself walking across the upper landing, heading for the bedroom they’d once shared.

“How are you today?”

She sat on the sofa as he entered the living room, stretching out her legs and resting her feet on the leather pouffe. “I’m achy.” She smiled. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes were heavy-lidded, but still she was beautiful. “Had a few cramps, several hard kicks or punches in the stomach. I think this one’s going to be a kick-boxer.”

Royle sat down in the armchair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Anything I can do for you, or get you?”

She shook her head.

He tried not to look at the framed photographs on the mantelpiece, the pictures on the walls, the magazines in the rack. Each ornament reminded him that he no longer lived here; every new knick-knack on a shelf was another barb in his heart because she’d bought it alone, without him.

“What about you? What kind of day have you had?”

“Weird,” he said, without thinking.

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

He shook his head, scratched his right knee with his index finger. “Somebody’s playing silly games on the Grove estate, leaving scarecrows in people’s gardens. Nothing major, just stupid stuff. Some kind of wind-up.”

“I see,” she said, leaning back on the sofa, her interest having dried up and blown away. “I’ll serve up dinner shortly. It’s beef casserole… your favourite dish.” She narrowed her eyes when she said it, as if to make clear that she meant nothing by the gesture. It was just a meal, nothing more.

“That sounds good. Really good actually. I’m starving.” He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, or even what he’d eaten. Probably some kind of junk food: a burger, a TV dinner warmed up in the microwave. Had he even taken breakfast this morning? But why the hell was he thinking about food when he should be down on his knees begging Vanessa to take him back, to give it another go? It was an indication of how his life was unravelling. Nothing was straightforward, every road had too many bends and he always got caught up watching the scenery.

Vanessa stood and waddled across the room to the kitchen door.

“Need any help?” He began to follow, but she turned around.

“No, I’m fine. I can still serve a meal. You just sit down and I’ll call you in when it’s ready. I’d offer you a drink… but…”

He smiled. “I’ll be happy with a glass of water with the meal.”

She nodded. “I’m pleased to see you’re making an effort.” Before he could add anything more, she vanished into the kitchen.

Royle was too restless to sit, so he walked to the window, glancing out at the street. The old stone wall opposite the house held back a line of trees whose branches flapped and twitched in the breeze. The sky was black and distant. No traffic passed by; the road had always been quiet, hardly ever used except by the people of the village. He stared at the swaying tree branches, their leaves gone; they resembled spiny fingers grasping at the air, trying to gain purchase in the world. Some of those leaves had fallen to the ground, and they looked black in the darkness.

“Okay, you can come through now.”

He reached out and shut the window blind, then turned away from the window. He walked across the room and opened the kitchen door. Vanessa was already sitting at the big dining table, pouring water from a clear glass jug into two glasses. Large bowls of casserole sat steaming on the table.

“Looks good,” he said, sitting down opposite her.

“Thanks. You always say that.”

They started to eat and said nothing. There was a strange tension between them, as if they barely knew each other. Perhaps they didn’t; maybe that was the problem. They’d never known each other, not properly, and now the cracks were starting to show.

“So you’re keeping off the drink?”

Her question took him by surprise but not enough to faze him. “Yes,” he lied. “Well, as best I can, anyway.”

She stopped eating, put down her spoon. “What does that mean?” Her eyes were wide. In their depths, he saw everything: the life they’d had, the way things had been cut short because of his behaviour, the possible future they had together if only they could work things out. Behind this, pulsing in the darkness, were so many questions that had so far remained unasked.

“I keep slipping, a bit. I’ll go for days without even thinking of drink, but then I’ll suddenly find myself in a bar, or sitting at home with a glass in my hand. It’s nothing major. Not like it used to be…” He reached for his glass, gulped down the water, and refilled it. “Need a top-up?”