Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

Her body went limp, her mouth hung open. She was dead. She’d hung on for as long as she could, until she could see him and pass on this oblique message. He was meant to go back to the Concrete Grove, to witness whatever the hell was going on there and somehow prevent events that he could not understand.

He had no idea why this all seemed to revolve around the Gone Away Girls, but it almost made sense. In terms of his failure to solve the case, it made a lot of sense. But still it was difficult to believe that his personal obsession should make such a tangible impact on the world. There was something larger than his own despair going on here, but he was only being allowed glimpses: tiny snatches, like weak light through a broken window.

Somehow he needed to suspend his disbelief and find some faith in himself, because if Wanda was right, the life of his baby depended on what he did next.

Royle closed Wanda’s eyes with a gentle stroke of his hand across her face. “Thank you,” he said, and left the room to try and take care of things — just as his wife had asked.

THE FIRST POLICE car arrived about fifteen minutes after the shot had been fired. Then, pretty quickly, the street outside Abby’s house was cordoned off and several more vehicles arrived on the scene — three more police cars, a Black Maria van and an ambulance.

Erik watched from the bedroom window as the TV news crew set up their cameras. Some pretty blonde woman in an expensive suit delivered a to-camera update. She kept turning to indicate the house, lifting her head, tossing her hair, and Erik started to realise that he was about to be famous.

“Don’t fucking move.” He stood before Abby, grinning. She couldn’t move, of course; he’d tied her to the radiator with packing tape after he’d watched her get dressed. Then he’d gone down to the car to fetch Monty. He hadn’t made a very good job of the bindings, because he’d been in a rush, but they had held her long enough for him to get back here.

He turned and left the room, ignoring for now the ruined shrine and the motionless bastardised figure that was standing in the corner, watching in silence. He went downstairs and checked the front door again. He didn’t want anyone coming in; didn’t even want them walking up the path to the doorstep. He knelt down, lifted the letterbox, and shouted to the gathered crowd: “Anyone comes near this door and she’s dead. I’ll shoot her in the fucking face.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it, but the proximity of Monty’s mutated remains made it difficult to focus. Everything was fuzzy, as if he’d been on a day-long alcohol binge and somehow managed to drink himself almost sober.

As one of the police officers outside started speaking through a bullhorn, Erik let the flap of the letterbox drop back into place and retreated further inside the house. He went into the living room and stared at Monty, who was curled up like an ugly house pet on the sofa in front of the television. Images of Erik’s face flashed across the screen. The text beneath the photographs described him as a ‘local gangster’, a ‘psychopath’ and a ‘danger to society’. Perhaps he was all of those things; perhaps he was none of them. It didn’t matter now, because events had begun to take on a momentum of their own, and nothing he did would matter.

“Is this what you wanted, Monty?”

It’ll do…

“What do we do next?”

Monty slithered off the sofa and across the floor, like a snake with a human face. We wait… that thing upstairs; it’s my way back to Loculus. We need to wait until it’s fully formed, and I can hitch a ride back there.

Even now, Erik wasn’t certain that he was actually hearing the voice in his head. He seemed to sense the words, to feel them, more than hear them. It was a strange experience, and not at all unpleasant. The voice was like a huge, warm hand stroking the rear of his brain. He could just sit back and let it tell him what to do.

He looked at the gun in his hand and wondered how it had got there. Not the physical act of picking it up, but the progression of events that had led him here, to this juncture, where he stood armed and dangerous with a police siege taking place outside the house.

Had it started with his friend Marty’s stabbing, all those months ago? Certainly things had changed soon after that. Marty had subsequently gone to London to help raise another man’s child, leaving behind him that same man’s corpse with a knife wound in its belly. Or had the catalyst been much earlier than that, when he’d gone into business with Monty Bright, a lost, damaged man who always seemed to be looking for something that didn’t exist, not in this world anyway?

So many different roads had brought him here, and he could have avoided none of them. Everything was sucked into the orbit of this big black hole. People, thoughts and memories, ideas… inexorably, it all ended up here, in the Concrete Grove, where it would be devoured by whatever monsters lived behind the scenes.

“Can’t I stop now?” He fell to his knees, cradling the gun like a baby.

No, it’s gone too far. You were never in charge, anyway. You were simply used, as we all were. Great forces have been wrestling over this site for centuries. Men and woman have tried to gain access to another world, a place where hummingbirds act as messengers, where trees are alive, and where ancient races of creatures once lived. Now it’s just a wasteland, a place of diminishing power… but whoever can harness what’s left of that power might be able to salvage something from it. That’s all I ever wanted… power, real power.

This was the longest the voice had spoken, and it made the inside of Erik’s head itch. It felt like there were insects in there, crawling around on the surface of his brain. He sensed the black hole at the centre of things flexing, opening up like a cosmic vagina to either ejaculate energy or suck it deep inside. He was no longer sure of which event would occur. But whatever happened, it would be a form of birth… of creation.

A phrase came to him, unbidden: the Concrete Grove is the doorway to Creation .

Where had he come across those words? Was it something he’d read, or something that had been said to him, long ago, like an old nursery rhyme whose meaning has been forgotten? The words resonated, vibrating along the channels of his being, turning to glass and shattering at his core.

He stood, holding on tightly to the gun. That’s what this was all about: creation. Not destruction. That would be too obvious, too easy. The true test of a man was his power to create, not his willingness to destroy.

Erik looked at the pathetic remnant of his friend and he made a decision.

“I don’t know what’s happening here, but it all has to end.”

Go back upstairs. Kill the woman. Let the other thing grow…

“No.”

He raised the gun, trying not to think about anything beyond the moment. All he had was his instincts. Let other men puzzle over what happened here after it was done. He would simply act as his gut told him.

No. This is wrong…

He pointed the gun at Monty; the small, twisted shape began to writhe on the carpet, its appendages flailing, grasping at nothing but empty air. The bond was broken — he could no longer influence Erik’s actions. Because Erik wouldn’t let it happen. In the depths of this darkness, he had finally found himself… and he knew exactly what was required of him.

No.

“Yes.” He pulled the trigger.

Monty’s tiny upturned face disintegrated into a cloud of red powder. The body bucked and writhed, the limbs and tentacles clenching, clutching, and then going limp. The small, compressed body began to change, flesh becoming fluid, changing into a succession of faces that screamed silently as everything withered, becoming as dust.