Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

“Well, well, well. This is nice.” Marty had a pint of lager and a whisky chaser. He sipped the lager, his eyes unmoving, seemingly unblinking. His face was unreadable. “All of us here like this, having a friendly drink.”

“It’s good to see you,” said Brendan. It was a feeble opening gambit, but it was better than saying nothing. “I mean, after all this time… I was never quite sure if you were dead or alive, or if you were even still based in the northeast.”

Marty swallowed. “Yeah, this is a regular fucking reunion, isn’t it? Just like in the movies. Like The Big Chill , only with added psychological damage.”

Simon smiled. He couldn’t help it. Marty’s comment wasn’t exactly funny, not really, but in that instant it seemed it. “So you’re a film buff, then?”

Marty winked over the rim of his pint glass. “I love films, me. I’m a regular cinephile. Odds are, if I haven’t seen the film I’ll have at least read the book.”

Simon was taken aback by the distance between the three of them. There were years separating the three men, yes, and lifestyle choices too, but there was also some uncommon kind of magic that had kept them apart — and right now, as they sat and drank in a riverside bar, that magic was weakening. He was aware of walls coming down, of barriers tumbling, and for the first time in longer than he could calculate, he felt at home in his own skin.

“So you got my messages?”

Marty smiled. “Yes, I did. I suppose we can dispense with the social niceties and get right to it.”

Simon nodded. “So you know why I’m here, and why we need you?”

“I can make an educated guess.” Marty took a long pull from his beer and then a small sip of whisky.

“Go on, then,” said Simon. “Be my guest.”

“So much for the tearful reunion… Okay.” Marty put down his glass. “You’ve got it into your head that you can change the way you feel, the way you’ve always felt, if we all get together and talk about the past. If we can come to some kind of conclusion regarding what went on back then, you hope that it’ll free you and allow you to have a better future.” He paused, licked his lips. “I’m guessing there’s a woman involved. Maybe someone you think you should love but you can’t… and you blame the past for this. You think that if you can sever all ties with what may or may not have happened to the three of us, it’ll let you feel about this woman the way you believe you should.” He stopped, leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his stomach. “So, am I right or am I right?”

“Very insightful,” said Simon. “But you’re only half right. I do believe that the three of us need to confront our shared past, but I think we need to do it more literally.”

Brendan shuffled on his chair. He picked up his drink and held it, not moving it anywhere near his mouth.

Simon rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble growth. “I think we need to go in there together — the Needle. We need to make like it’s twenty years ago and march right the fuck in there, then shout and scream and force whatever the fuck held us in there to make an appearance.”

Marty sat forward again, his arms flexing and pulling his shirt tight. “And then what? Kick the shit out of it?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Simon. “At first I thought we were going to have to pull down the place, brick by brick, so I bought it from the council. Took me ages to convince them, and I paid well over the odds. Now I realise that won’t be necessary. Simply by coming back here, I seem to have triggered something. Whatever’s been hiding here, making its nest under the streets of the Grove, it’s waking up… it’s waking from a long sleep. Can’t you feel it?”

Marty did not reply.

“You’ve been having dreams, haven’t you?”

Marty nodded, but still he did not speak.

“Weird dreams that feel just like reality, but fucked-up, messed around. Apocalyptic visions, monsters from the past chasing you, things keeping pace with you in the dark?”

“Yes,” said Brendan, joining in at last. He was gripping his glass too tight; his knuckles were white. “Yes, that’s it. All of us… the three of us… we’ve been dreaming about the same things, the same place. Haven’t we?”

“Yes,” said Marty.

“Yes,” said Simon.

“Another drink?” Brendan slammed down his glass.

Marty laughed softly.

Simon shook his head. “Is that all you guys do around here, drink? I’ve not drunk so fucking much in my life since I’ve come back.”

“You’re out of practice,” said Marty. “And I’ll have the same again, thanks.” He glanced at Brendan, smiled, and let out another soft chuckle.

“It really is good to see you,” said Brendan. “Both of you.” When Simon looked over, he saw how pale Brendan’s face had become, and he felt such a great wave of pity that it pressed him down into his chair, pinning him there.

Before he could say anything, Brendan stood and went to the bar, fishing nervously inside his jeans pocket for his wallet.

“Is he okay?” Marty leaned in close. He smelled of whisky and expensive aftershave. And beneath that, a deep, musky odour that made Simon think of violence: of punches thrown and threats made, of kicked heads and split skin and spilled blood.

“I’m not sure. His kid’s ill. Last night, something strange happened. He went into some odd kind of shock, like a trance or something. Threw up and something… well, something really weird came out. A bird.”

Marty closed his eyes. “A hummingbird,” he said.

“How did you know? How the hell did you know about that?” Simon’s hand made a fist on the tabletop; his nails scratched against the damp wood.

“I don’t know. I… I just knew. When you said it, an image came into my head. Like a dream I once had but couldn’t remember until now. The hummingbirds are important — we saw them back then, too. Can you feel it?” His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. “It’s like doors are opening inside me. Connections are being made, loose ends tying themselves together in neat little knots. Something’s happening…”

Simon shook his head. “I wish I could say the same. It’s what I wanted, why I’m here. But I don’t… I don’t feel any of that. My brain feels like when you push your knuckles into your eyes to fight sleep: that same kind of bunched-up pressure, when the darkness behind your eyelids starts to spark. That’s all. I get nothing else.”

Brendan had returned with the drinks. He set them down on the table, beer spilling over the rims. “I feel it,” he said. “Just like Marty said. Cogs are turning; they’re moving together, starting up some kind of motion. It’s slow — very, very slow — but it’s happening. What happened to Harry is only part of it. We can stop it, if we try. We can put an end to this shit.”

Simon felt empty. Why was he the only one who could not feel the energies massing, the world reconfiguring and taking on a new shape around them? It wasn’t fair; it was not right. He felt cheated, as if he were the victim of a con or a grift. He, Simon, should be the one to feel it first, the man to set off the reaction. After all, it was he who had come back here, in search of the truth, so it was only fitting that he was the one who acted as a catalyst for whatever would take place when the Three Amigos banded together for a fight.

The music on the stereo had changed to soft rock, a power ballad. The volume was still low, but one of the barmaids was singing along quietly as she worked. Simon watched her as she glided the length of the bar, picking up glasses, washing them, rubbing them dry, and mouthing the words of the song.

“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t we try something? How about this: each of us talks about what we can remember from that time, when we were held in the Needle? I know it isn’t much, but maybe if we piece our memories together we might start to see a picture forming. It might help me to feel everything you’re feeling.”