Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

Give me all of it , he thought, bitterly. A man can never have enough guilt.

Tom turned and looked again at the television. The static danced before his eyes, threatening to take on forms, to twist into the shapes of dancing figures. He stared at the monochrome blur, narrowing his eyes. Could he see fists in that chaos of interference? Where they swinging, as if throwing punches on the other side of the screen?

Helen moaned: a soft, wordless noise.

A face seemed to loom forward from the screen, breaking away from the mass of dots. Its eyes were closed but its mouth was open, widening as Tom watched. Other, smaller faces poured out of it, dancing around the original features. He was tired, seeing things.

“Tom?” The picture broke apart at the sound of Helen’s voice, as though afraid to be witnessed by anyone but him.

“Yes… yes, it’s me.”

“Where’s Eileen?” She blinked into the darkness, the wash of TV light softening her features, making it look as if there were no bones beneath the skin, or like the bones there had melted.

“She went home. It’s late.”

“What time is it? I… I must’ve fallen asleep again. I’ve been very tired today. Exhausted, but I’m not sure why.” Her hands fidgeted on top of the bedclothes, exploring like pale stick insects. Her eyes were wide and wet and slightly imbecilic.

“It’s almost nine o’clock. I’m really sorry for staying out this long.”

Helen shivered. “No. It’s fine. You need to work, to bring in the money. I know that.” She looked like a plastic doll, rigid and unblinking.

“Just lie back down and go to sleep. I’ll clean up and have an early night myself. It’s been a long day. Tiring. I need to catch up on a lot of work tomorrow, so will probably be up and about early.”

One of her flailing hands settled on top of both of his. Her fat fingers enveloped them, spreading out across his knuckles like a jellyfish. “Okay, Tom. I love you.” Her voice was filled with a desperation that he found offensive, even frightening. She said it because she wanted him to say it back — she needed to hear him say the words, to reassure her, to put her mind at rest. He hated it when she got like this, and he despised himself for begrudging her the slight demonstration of affection.

More guilt for him to carry, and it always prompted him to give her what she needed.

“I love you, too,” he said, through tight lips. The words sounded like someone else was in the room, speaking for him.

She squeezed his hands and then relaxed her grip. He pulled his hands away, just about resisting the urge to wipe them on his shirt, as if she had left a residue, a taint that he could not bear to feel against his skin.

“I had a strange dream,” she said as she nestled her head back against the pillows. Her eyes were open. Even in the darkness he could see the pulse in the side of her neck jerking like a jumping bean.

“Don’t worry about that now. Just tell me in the morning, when we’re both less tired.”

“But I might forget.” Her eyelids were flickering shut. The pulse in her neck was slowing, its movement becoming less frantic. “What if I forget it, Tom?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, adjusting his position on the bed so that he could get up without disturbing her. “It’s nothing, just a dream. And dreams can’t hurt you.”

“The TV people told me.”

Tom felt his limbs stiffen. His eyes widened in the dark and his shoulders tensed.

“They said that you were with someone — another woman.”

He stared at her face, her slack cheeks and her closed eyes. Her small, hard nose. Her slit of a mouth and the multiple chins beneath.

“I don’t mind. I know you have needs. You’re a man, still a young man, really, and you can’t deny your desires.”

She was asleep now: he could see that she was. He knew her well enough, and had spent so many years by her side, that he could not fail to recognise when she was no longer awake. Yet her speech was crisp and erudite. She was speaking lucidly, unhurriedly. Her words were as clear as the sound of falling water.

“But they said she’s dangerous. The TV people. They told me that she’ll hurt you. Something’s going to happen, and everyone will suffer. We’ll all pay a price, a debt that’s owed. We’ll all get hurt because of her.”

She’s sleeping , he thought. Talking in her sleep . She does this all the time — don’t get freaked out. She knows nothing.

But he was freaked out. In fact, he was terrified. How could she know that he had been with a woman, and one whose very presence made him weak and senseless with desire? It wasn’t real, couldn’t be. This was some kind of fluke, a random circumstance. There was no way on earth that Helen could know, and there certainly were not any people inside the television to divulge the information.

He looked over at the screen, needing to keep an eye on it, to watch it more closely. The static was going crazy. It was like a swarm of monochrome bees trapped in a jar, bouncing off the glass walls, confused and trying to get out, get free, back out into the open.

“She’ll break everything. Cause damage. They told me this, the TV people. They had skinned faces and long, bent-back legs. There were tiny birds with bright wings hovering around them and landing on them, sitting in their open palms.”

The television screen bulged. Just once, like an air bubble. Then it went dark. Reflected for a moment in that jet black surface, Tom saw something that could not possibly be his father’s face, no matter how much it resembled the man’s features.

“She’ll open doors that should stay closed.” Helen’s voice was drifting now, growing weaker, quieter. “She’s going to let them out, and… she doesn’t know… it.”

Then she went quiet, apart from her ragged breathing, and the faint sound of her little snores.

Tom prepared to get up and leave the room. The face in the television screen — the one that he refused to acknowledge looked like his dead father — was no longer visible. He shifted his weight on the mattress, causing it to creak and rock slightly beneath him.

I’m seeing things , he thought. That’s all .

Helen sat bolt upright, her eyes open wide. They were all white: no pupil. Just big white marbles stuck into the pale dough of her face. Her mouth dropped open, her tongue lolling like a fat dead worm. “Kill me.” She said. “You deserve better.” Her eyes were normal now; the pupils were dilated but at least they’d gone back where they were meant to be. Her face had regained some of its firmness, and looked less like the face of a corpse. “I know you want to, Tom.” She slipped back onto the pillows, her eyes closing. “I know it’s what you want.”

Tom stood and backed away from the bed, terrified that he might disturb her and the whole performance would start up all over again. He moved towards the door, keeping one eye on Helen and the other on the dead television screen.

“Maybe I want it, too.”

He could not be certain that she said the words, but he heard them anyway, inside his head. The stale air in the room buzzed with energy, like the air before a storm. Helen’s statement — whether real or imagined — was stuck in his head, refusing to budge. The words hung there like dead animals nailed to a wall: a reminder of something bad, the first bloody act in a chain of events that could not be prevented from running its course.

He backed out of the room and tried to shut the door. He could not remove his fingers from the handle; they were glued there by fear. Perhaps if he remained where he was, with his hand on the door, then nothing Helen had predicted would happen? Perhaps he could stop the world, simply by standing there, unmoving.