Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

He’d be home soon. In half an hour he’d reach Morpeth. From there it was less than twenty minutes to the Concrete Grove, where God knew what was waiting for him.

The Angel receded in his rear-view mirror as he drove further north. It did not move, nor did it register his departure. It was just a hunk of metal parts. A grim angel of broken promises standing at the border of a land whose dreams had always been dark and restless.

BRENDAN WAS DOING the hourly rounds. His lower back ached from sitting in his chair and he was feeling sorry for himself because of the way Jane had been acting earlier that evening, but the work had to be done. The work always had to be done.

He walked one more circuit of the Needle, feeling the rash across his shoulders bristle as he stepped into the tower block’s night-time shadow, and then turned back towards the squat, modular grey shell of the Portakabin that served as the on-site security station. The stars looked impossibly tiny in the black night sky, and the moon hung there like a polished silver coin left underwater: vague, almost ghostly.

Brendan heard a sound behind him, coming from the tower block. He turned, waving his torch at waist level so that the beam skittered across the base of the structure. Nothing moved. He saw rampant weeds hugging the concrete, debris and litter on the uneven ground, and a lot of building material that had been dumped over the years when previous refurbishment or development projects had been abandoned.

The sound came again. This time it was louder, and he thought that he might be able to pinpoint its source. One of the ground floor windows — the ones with steel security shutters over them. Several of the shutters had been replaced when the site was shored up and the perimeter fence erected, but others had been randomly removed. He wasn’t sure why; it seemed a silly thing to do, especially in this rough and rundown area, where putting up a barrier was tantamount to an invitation to break and enter for the local street kids.

“Hello?” He felt stupid saying it, but what else could he have called?

There was no reply.

Brendan walked slowly towards the Needle, his torch beam slicing through the darkness to illuminate parts of the whole: a sealed door, a barred window, a cracked wall, a plastic bin leaning against a pile of bricks.

“This is private property. I’m legally obliged to remove you from the premises.” More empty words. He wished that he had a dog with him, but the security firm wouldn’t pay for him to do the dog-handling training, even though he’d asked them countless times. When he’d asked for a partner to accompany him on the night shift, his boss had just laughed and told him to “man up” and “grow a pair.”

They were real investors in people, Nightjar Security Services…

Hearing nothing but the late-night urban lullaby of barking dogs, distant voices and revving engines, Brendan moved closer to the side of the building. He flashed his torch across the wall, looking for an aperture by which someone might have gained entrance to the place. The graffiti was illuminated briefly: swear words and sex words and obscure gang tags sprayed in blood-red paint. None of the security shutters had been interfered with; everything seemed secure. He walked along the wall, then turned and advanced along the side of the Needle. He did another complete circuit before finally coming to a halt beside the main doors.

Brendan stepped forward and tried the handle. He wasn’t expecting the door to open, so when it did he simply stood there, staring at his hand as it pulled the door wide.

“Shit,” he muttered, wondering if he had forgotten to lock it.

Now that he’d discovered the way in, he knew that he couldn’t walk away without inspecting the interior of the building. He didn’t like it in there. Apart from the fact that it was a spooky old building, and he was alone here at night, there was the part of his past that he never liked to think about. The time when he and two of his friends had come here, and everything since had turned sour.

Everything.

Sometimes he felt that whatever had happened to them that night had stained his life, each day that followed becoming steadily darker as a direct result of them coming here, to the Needle. And the end point, the final blackness, lay just up ahead, at the end of his days, waiting for him like an open mouth.

Brendan’s throat was dry. He tried to swallow but it was difficult.

There came another sound from deep inside the building: a short, sharp impact, like something being thrown against the wall.

“Shit.” He said it louder this time, but the curse brought with it little bravado. Brendan was scared, and there was no way of ignoring that fear. So instead he embraced it, tried to take strength from his terror. For a second he could even pretend that it was working.

Brendan had been inside the Needle many times since the childhood experience that even now he struggled to remember; he had fought long and hard to conquer his fear of the place, and had finally arrived at a state of compromise. He was physically able to enter the tower block, but he would never feel truly at ease within its walls: his psyche began to tremble whenever he walked there, and he knew the footsteps he heard echoing around him as he did so were not necessarily his own.

Brendan pushed through the main doors, feeling as if he were taking a step backwards through time, drawing close to an event that he could never quite grasp and claim as his own. A soft breeze stroked his cheek; dust drifted in the dimness; tiny sounds seemed to move towards him from all sides.

“If you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m calling the police. There’s a fast response time. They’ll be here before you can even get past me to the door.” He tried to sound brave, to make his words seem fierce, but all he felt was small and lonely, like a little boy trying to act like a TV tough guy. He didn’t even have his two-way radio; he’d left it back in the security cabin.

More sounds emanated from the depths of the building. There was definitely someone else in there, moving around on the ground floor. He tightened his grip on the torch, the only weapon in his possession. It was heavy, rubber-coated, and once, on another job, he’d knocked someone unconscious with a blow to the head. He’d been trained in subduing an opponent, but wasn’t what anyone would call a natural fighter. He knew some basic technique, but that was all. If he came up against a hard man who knew what he was doing, then Brendan would have no chance.

He peered into the dimness, trying to make out shapes. There was evidence of someone staying here: an armchair, a row of old television sets, all turned to face the wall, several heaps of what looked like clothing, a burst mattress, the remains of a kebab and its wrapper scattered across the floor. The walls, when he flashed the torch beam across them, were covered with graffiti: gang tags and obscure band names, phone numbers that you could call if you wanted a blowjob. The air smelled of hops and old cannabis fumes. The floor was covered with all kinds of loose material, and for a moment he caught a whiff of what smelled like shit.

He stared at the doorway ahead of him, and it was only after the figure crossed the space from left to right that he realised he’d seen someone.

Brendan twitched in shock; a delayed reaction, a strange little side-step because his body was unsure how to react. “I’m armed!” He gripped the torch even tighter, hoping that he would not have to use it — or if he did, that he managed to get in the first blow and it was hard enough to count.

The figure crossed the doorway again, a dark silhouette moving this time from right to left. It moved with a staggering gait, as if whoever it was had been drinking heavily.