Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

Marc followed her inside, trailing her into the living room. The lamp was on but the main lights were off. The curtains were open, letting in the light from the streetlamps.

“How about a drink?”

He could see that she’d already been drinking: a wine bottle, half empty, was resting on the table.

“Yeah, cheers.”

She left the room and returned with another wine glass and a new bottle, the belt on her dressing gown hanging loose, a flash of grubby thigh exposed under the flap. She topped up her own glass and then filled his, killing the first bottle. She sat down without tightening the belt.

“So how come you couldn’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

He nodded. “I can sympathise. What about?”

“My daughter.” She sipped her wine. Her face was so pale that it looked bloodless. Her long fingers seemed to lack meat; they were all bone.

“I’m sorry… it’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” she said, standing. “Fancy some music?” She moved over to the stereo without waiting for a response and switched it on. Classical music came through speakers that were set high up on the wall, mounted on brackets in the corners of the room.

“I wasn’t expecting that.” He smiled.

“We’re not all hopeless fucking chavs, you know. I realise that people like you — journalists, the middle class, all you wankers — like to cast us in a set role, but a few of us have experienced culture.” She sat back down, drank from her glass.

He ignored the remark about class. He didn’t want to get into that now. “Shit… that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t realise you were into classical music.”

“I like to read, too. Dickens, Emily Bronte, Mary Shelley, George Orwell… surprised, aren’t you, that a fuckwit like me even knows who Orwell is?” Colour rose back into her cheeks, her eyes flared, challenging him.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m a dick. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Just because I live on a shitty estate, drink too much and sleep around, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

He was unable to tell now if she was rattling his chain or being serious. She was a mystery, this woman. Perhaps that was part of the reason he was so drawn to her, why he found her so damned irresistible. Why he wanted to fuck her, even when he didn’t want to be near her.

“Sit down. You’re cluttering up the room.” She patted the sofa next to her, those long fingers twitching like the limbs of a pale mantis.

He sat down, took a mouthful of wine, wincing at a slight bitterness. She was much more animated than the last time he’d seen her, and he liked this version of her better. There was passion here, the type of which he had not even been aware of before. A fire burned deep inside her, but obviously she rarely let it out on show.

“I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you.”

She turned to face him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t get too cocky. Yours was the first number I could think of to call. All the other guys I know, they’d read too much into this. I was lonely. I got scared because of the nightmare. I just want some company, okay?”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Just don’t fall in love with me. They fucking all do that, and I hate it.”

He stared at her profile, once again wondering what on earth it was that he saw in this hard-faced bitch. “Don’t worry. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. Company sounds good to me… just the right deal. I promise not to get too clingy.”

She shook her head, her mood softening. “So what kept you up late tonight?”

“I was going through some of Harry Rose’s things. I’m staying there. His brother gave me the key.”

“I thought you managed to get here quickly. That explains it. What kind of stuff? Like, his will?”

“No, it was nothing like that. Just some old records… books and files, notebooks he’d kept about the Northumberland Poltergeist and something called Captain Clickety.”

Abby giggled. Then, softly, she began to chant a rhyme.

“Captain Clickety, he’s coming your way. Captain Clickety, he’ll make you pay. Once in the morning, twice in the night. Three times Clickety will give you a fright.”

“What’s that?”

“Just an old skipping song. We used to sing it when we were at school.”

“The Pollack children called their ghost Captain Clickety.”

She laughed, quietly, humourlessly. “He’s like a catch-all around here, our own little bogeyman. Everything gets blamed on good old Captain Clickety.”

Marc took another drink of wine, leaned his head back against the sofa. “I’m starting to think that Captain Clickety might be a lot more than some colourful local urban legend.”

“What do you mean?” her hand strayed to his thigh, rested there, gripping him lightly.

“I think he really existed. In Harry’s notes, I found a name. Terryn Mowbray. He was a plague doctor, back during the time of the Black Death.”

“Really?” She sounded drowsy. The wine was affecting her.

“Yeah. Not a very nice man, by all accounts, and he went missing in the grove of oak trees that used to be where the Needle was built. Two hundred years later, someone by that name also turned up at a colony of settlers in America. They went missing, leaving behind strange words carved into trees. I think the trees were oaks and rowans… English trees, not native to America. The same name was mentioned, but I’m certain it wasn’t the same guy… I mean, it couldn’t be. That’s impossible.” His mind was racing again, struggling to put together a puzzle to which he only possessed a handful of pieces.

“Sounds like a fairy story to me,” said Abby, stretching her spine, like a tired cat.

“Yeah. Yes, it does.” He closed his eyes and saw a beak-faced man standing unmoving in the darkness behind the lids.

Abby set down her glass on the floor, turned, and lunged at him. Her dressing gown gaped, exposing her breasts. She rammed her tongue between his lips, bit at his mouth, grabbed at his cock. She smelled of loam and wood smoke: the aroma of autumn.

“Whoa,” he said, pulling back. “At least let me get warmed up first.”

Five minutes later they were upstairs, fucking like banshees.

Afterwards they lay side by side in bed, finishing off the wine. Abby rested her head on his chest and he stroked her dry, brittle hair. He ran his fingers along her long, smooth throat, and cupped one of her breasts.

She stirred, moaned, pulled up her head and kissed his chest. Then she turned her attention to the tattoo on his left bicep. She leaned on one elbow and traced the outline with her other hand.

“What is it?”

“A flower.”

“I can see that, you idiot. What kind of flower?”

“It’s a daisy, I think.”

“You think?” She kissed it, the tip of her tongue flicking lightly at his flesh.

“Yes… it’s a daisy.”

“Does it mean anything? Anything particular, like?”

He shook his head. “No, not really. It just means I was pissed when I got it. See the weird black lines around the petals? I liked the look of it. I had it done when I was eighteen, after an all-day drinking session with a few mates. Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit. In retrospect, I wish I’d got something more profound.”

“Like a British bulldog?”

“A Union Jack or a football badge… perhaps a scroll with the word ‘mother’ on it.”

She laughed softly. Pulling away from him, she lay on her back with her breasts exposed. The nipples were standing up like bullets. Her skin was corpse-white, apart from the few faint mucky smears he’d noticed earlier.