Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

“Let’s go,” said Simon, striding towards the main doors of the tower block and brandishing his keys like a weapon. “Let’s get this thing done.”

The door opened onto blackness. Not a dim area or a room without light, but utter, perfect darkness. When they stepped inside, Marty felt like he was walking into water; it flowed over and around and into him, filling his lungs and making his eyes sting. Fathoms deep, he stood there blinking and trying to get his bearings. He heard the doors close behind them, and the breathing of his companions. Then, struggling against the tide of darkness, he shuffled his feet along the floor and tried to move forward, deeper into the building that now felt like a wide open space.

Groping blindly at his side, he felt a small, cold hand grip his own.

Whose hand is this ? he thought, as it squeezed his fingers, the grip tight and unwilling to let go.

“Keep hold of each other,” said Simon. “Somebody grab my hand. I’m moving it around, by my side. Try to grab it.”

“Don’t I have hold of you?” Marty felt panic welling up inside him; he wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Every direction was just another pathway deeper into this pitch blackness.

“No, that’s me,” said Brendan, close to his ear. “You have my hand.” The grip slackened; the fingers twitched.

Thank God , thought Marty, feeling slightly more relaxed.

“Okay, then. Do you have my hand, too?” Simon’s voice sounded slightly farther away, as if he’d moved along a passage of some sort.

“No,” said Brendan.

Voices: this was all they had in the dark.

“Me neither.” Marty sounded hoarse; his throat was dry.

“Fucking hell… then whose fucking hand am I holding?” Simon’s voice sounded weak, as if he were struggling to contain his terror.

Then, in answer, there was a soft clicking noise in the darkness, and a short burst of childish laughter.

“It’s gone,” said Simon. “It’s fucking gone… my hand… it had hold of my hand… and its fingers were hot.” Footsteps grated on the concrete floor, everyone’s breathing was heavy, laboured, as if they were climbing an incline.

“Let’s just… move forward.” Simon again, sounding breathless.

“But which way is forward?” said Marty.

“This way.” Brendan was taking charge. “Just follow my voice, Simon. I have your hand, Marty. Come with me. I think I can see light up ahead. I know the layout of this place. I think I have my bearings.”

The clicking sound was still audible, but only just. Marty couldn’t tell if it was behind them, up ahead, or off to the left or the right. Space had taken on alarming new qualities; the dimensions of this room were meaningless, a strange geometry had taken over. He could be inside a tiny room or lost in a vast, endless void. He wasn’t sure; it all felt the same, limited and limitless.

This is how it feels to be lost , he thought. Truly lost. Cut off even from yourself. This must be how it feels all the time… that thing. The Underthing.

He wasn’t quite sure where the word had sprung from, but with it came a suggestion of pity. He felt emotionally wrong-footed, shoved off centre. Was it even possible to feel sorry for a monster?

Brendan tugged on his hand and Marty allowed himself to be pulled slowly in one direction, trusting that it was the right way to go. The air was thick and heavy, like damp towels laid across his face, and that clicking sound kept waxing and waning in and out of the range of audibility, as if it kept crossing a threshold of some kind and then rushing back, just to remind them that it was still there, keeping track of them. He smelled burnt rubber and Parma violet candies: aromas from childhood, which produced within him a longing for things lost or left behind. The sweet, harsh taste of the sweets — like perfumed soap — was on his tongue, making his mouth water.

“This way,” said Brendan, tugging harder on his hand. “We’re almost there.”

Almost where? The statement felt bigger than had been intended, as if it encompassed something beyond words: the time they’d spent wandering in their own darkness since the last time they’d been here together, the roads they had taken, the wrong turnings they’d made, the people they’d left behind.

Almost there…

They were almost somewhere, that was true enough. But was it somewhere they wanted to be? Whatever the answer to that question, Marty knew that it was probably where they needed to be, if any of them was to stand a chance of moving on from here and salvaging their lives.

He became aware of a light source up ahead, glimmering softly, like an underwater lamp. The light was greenish, swamp-like, and it did not look comforting. It was, however, more promising than this massive darkness through which they were currently trawling, like deep-sea divers cut off from their rope tethers.

They pushed on, and as the light became closer — that’s how it felt; like the light was drawing near to them, rather than the other way round — he felt Simon’s hand flailing at his own before grappling with his fingers and gripping him tightly.

“It’s okay, mate,” he said, not feeling okay at all. “I’ve got you.” Yes, he had. Simon and Brendan had him… but who the hell had Brendan? Was he also holding somebody’s hand? Someone who was not one of them? Was he being dragged towards the green light, trusting in some spectre to lead them to safety?

The three men stumbled into the green light, as if they’d entered a doorway and emerged from the sea onto dry land. Marty expected to be dripping wet. He even ran a hand across his shaved head, as if he were drying his scalp.

“Where are we?” Simon voiced the question for the three of them, much as he’d been the self-appointed mouthpiece of the gang in his youth.

Around them, all they could see were trees. A thick, dense screen of leaves and interlocking branches, through which was filtered that odd green light. Marty glanced around him; the patch of concrete they were standing on was surrounded on all sides by mirrors, reflecting trees that were not there: ghost trees, a phantom forest, a wilderness of the imagination.

“This can’t be real.” Brendan sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “It’s not… it’s a dream.”

“I can’t speak for you two,” said Marty, “but I’m wide awake.”

As Marty watched, a shape flitted through the trees. Or, more precisely, it moved quickly through the open space beyond the trees. He could not make out what it was, but the shape was small and agile. When he saw it again, he became convinced that it was standing upright, on two legs. Yet it did not seem entirely human.

Almost there…

“Jesus.” He was afraid, yes, but beneath the fear was a sort of relief: they’d come a long way for this, and if they had encountered something normal, something natural, it would have been anticlimactic. To confront the weird, the magical, made sense. This was what they’d all expected, after their nightmares had gradually worn away at their sense of reality over the past few days.

“Where are we?” This time it was Brendan, and he sounded like a child, a little boy lost in the woods.

The clicking sound had stopped as soon as they’d entered the green light, and it had not resumed. Perhaps this was a place of safety, somewhere they could regroup and think about what they should do next. The light shimmered, as if the branches shifted in a breeze, and despite the feeling of being shut in, and the mirrored screens, Marty felt certain that they were near a portal that would allow them to enter another place, a place that was outside.

But how can that be? he thought. How can we be outside and inside at the same time?