Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

Helen was having a rough time this week. She had developed minor abrasions that might turn into bedsores along one side of her back, and he was forced to roll her every hour or so to prevent this from happening. She screamed in pain whenever he moved her on the sheets.

Tom wished that she would just make an effort, try to get out of bed, before it was too late. She hadn’t left the bedroom for over two years now, and he was losing patience. The woman he had fallen in love with, had worshipped with his mind and his body, was now nothing but a shell. The doctors had told him that physically there was no reason she should not at least be attempting to move around the house, even if she remained in the wheelchair instead of transferring to the sofa or a dining chair. No, her problem was a mental one — she was terrified of shifting her arse from the mattress, just in case she injured herself.

He reached the No Entry sign and allowed himself to slow to a jogging speed. He’d run six miles — two more miles than he had planned — so could afford the luxury of letting his muscles relax a little.

Tom’s breathing was soon under control. He knew that fitness was all about recovery time, and his fitness was at a pretty high level. If nothing else, Helen’s injuries had helped him get in shape. The shame was, of course, that those same injuries had also ruined her life. Both their lives, if he was honest.

He moved steadily along the street and turned left, cutting through a narrow ginnel and into the heart of Far Grove. He didn’t like coming out here even in the early evening, hated straying this close to the place everyone called the Concrete Grove. It was a rough part of town, a Bad Area. Petty crime and anti-social behaviour were the norms, and Tom was not a man who believed in putting oneself in danger.

He increased his pace again, preparing to take the next side street and leave the Grove behind. Even on the outskirts, he could sense the hatred, the poverty, the basic lack of respect, for which the area was known. Even if this negative image was media-created, it was rooted in some kind of truth: the bad always outweighed the good in areas like this one.

The housing estate had been designed to form a series of concentric circles, each one bearing the word Grove in its title: Grove Street, Grove Avenue, Grove Terrace… one after the other, all the names similar and monotonous, just like the bland flats and houses and the sallow faces he saw whenever he did stray here.

Darkness was staining the sky; he’d been gone too long. Helen would start to worry.

Let her , he thought. I’m sick of worrying about her all the time .

He felt immediately guilty, almost as if he had landed her a physical blow. He knew it wasn’t her fault, not really. Ten years ago she had been in an accident with a man who was in all but name her lover. They had been on their way to a country hotel to consummate the relationship, travelling too fast in the rain. The road surface was poor and the tyres had lost their grip on a turn. A simple thing, a small accident, but one whose repercussions could be felt like shock waves even now.

Tom no longer felt a sense of betrayal regarding Helen’s illicit tryst, but still he could only think of the man who had been driving the car as That Man. He had become a symbol more than a human being, and his death in the accident was only fitting.

The accident had left Helen emotionally as well as physically damaged, and Tom realised that there was a possibility she might not ever again be the person he had married. No, that wasn’t right. She would never be the same, it was a certainty. Too much time had passed with too little improvement. He was stuck with her like this forever, or at least until she decided that enough was enough and stopped wanting to carry on with what was left of her life.

As Tom approached a row of asbestos garages — surely the council should have demolished them, in the name of Health and Safety? — he glanced across the road to examine the grass verge opposite. There was a metre wide strip of what should have been green but was actually brown, with a footpath on the other side. Lying on the ailing grass and curled up into a tight ball he saw what looked like a large rag doll, or perhaps a Guy — but it was nowhere near Bonfire night, so the shape couldn’t be an effigy of Guy Fawkes, England’s most beloved terrorist…

Once again, Tom slowed his pace. He jogged to a point where he was level with the doll, or heap of clothes, or rolled up carpet… then he realised that he was looking at a person. A small, crumpled person. A child, in fact.

He looked both ways along the street and saw no sign of anyone else in the vicinity. Even the lights in the houses were off. A handful of the doors and windows — even this far out of the heart of the estate — were covered with wood or metal security shutters, and the rest, those still occupied, were shut up tight for the evening.

The sky was growing darker. A couple of birds flew overhead, one of them letting out a sharp squawking noise as it glided over a low house roof. He heard a faint buzzing sound, like flies swarming nearby.

Tom crossed the road, slowly, carefully. He had heard stories of people pretending to be injured so that they could mug an unwitting Samaritan. Granted, these possibly apocryphal tales had been reported in the seedier redtop newspapers, but still it paid to be cautious. These days, caution was the byword. You couldn’t just rush into these kinds of situations acting like the big hero, not anymore. That way you risked being beaten or stabbed. Only a few weeks ago there had been an incident where a man coming to the aid of a young woman being abused by her boyfriend outside a pub had been turned on by the couple and beaten so badly that his skull had been fractured in five places.

“Hello.” His voice was low. Small. He felt ashamed at how frightened it made him sound. “Hello there. Can I help?”

The body — the child — did not stir.

“Are you okay?”

As he moved closer, Tom realised that it was a girl, probably in her mid-teens. She was wearing a grey school blazer and a crumpled black skirt. Her black tights were dirty and torn; one of the ripped tight-legs had rolled down to the ankle. There was a smear of mud on one exposed knee.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said that, but it had seemed right, a small reassurance. If the girl had been mugged or raped then it stood to reason that she must be scared, and she might even be pretending that she was unconscious until he went away. “I can help.”

He was now standing roughly two metres away from the girl. He could see the knots in her dirty brown hair and the pale skin of her cheek. Her small hands were clutched into fists, her arms drawn inside and held tightly against her chest.

Tom moved closer and went down onto his haunches, feeling his knees creak a little. Sweat dripped from his brow and into his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of one hand.

The girl moved, just an inch. She turned her head slightly, her nostrils flaring, one eyelid fluttering.

“My name’s Tom Stains. I was running… I saw you here. Can I help you?” He felt idiotic, stuck there and not knowing what to say. All he could do was repeat the same tired lines, like an actor in a bad television play.

The girl’s eyes flickered open. They were blue. Like cornflowers. The blood rushed back into her cheeks, colouring them a warm shade of pink. She opened her mouth, worked her jaw and tried to sit up.

“Let me.” Tom went over and grabbed her by the arm, trying to help her to her feet. She looked up and smiled. Her lips were dry; the skin was chapped. He was amazed that he was able to make out such intimate details.