Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

“ Well? ” She was amazed that she still possessed enough strength to raise her voice. She certainly wouldn’t be able to raise her hands to defend herself if one of the men chose to slap her again. Such physicality was beyond her right now, at least until she started to bruise.

“For now,” said Bright.

Terry laughed softly, but when Bright glanced at him he fell silent, and then lowered his head and left the room. He shut the door quietly behind him, as if that one look had caused him to fear even the slightest sound.

The games were over.

Bright was once again wearing his suit, but was not wearing any shoes. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a fat cigar — probably Cuban, thought Lana, madly, focusing on absurd details rather than the larger canvas of the picture taking shape before her. He lit the cigar and took a long drag. Smoke trailed from his lips; Lana thought it moved too slowly to be real.

“What do you mean?” Her hands dropped to her sides. She felt boneless, as if the men had filleted her on the bed. “You promised.” But she knew that any promises made by such a man were subject to the whims of his fancy. She’d been a fool to let herself believe that this would make any difference to her situation, but what else did she have to cling to other than foolish belief?

“I promised you nothing,” said Bright, looking at the cigar in his hand. The tip glowed bright red, like a single devilish eye. “Consider this visit a down payment. The way I figure it, you’ll have your debt cleared in, say, six to eight months. Even quicker if you bring the girl along next time. Nice and tight and pretty, isn’t she? I’ve seen her through the school gates, playing with her little friends. I think my friends would like to play with her very much.”

Lana knew that she should rush him, maybe go for the throat, the eyes: attack the soft parts, just like a cornered rat. But it was futile. He was too strong, and had always possessed the upper hand. Right from the start, he’d played her along, upping the odds until she came to him and offered him exactly what he wanted and could have taken at any point, if that had been his choice.

But Monty Bright did not want to take; it was the very act of offering that turned him on, made him shine.

Where’s your compassion?” she said, failing to penetrate his armour. “Where’s your basic human decency?” She hated the desperation she heard in her weakened voice, but it was all she had left to offer, the only thing she could dredge up from inside her poor, defiled wreck of a body.

Bright walked towards her. He was shorter than she remembered; he barely came up to her shoulder now that she’d put her pumps back on. His skin looked soft, malleable, and his eyes protruded like boiled eggs from a face as flat and round as a polished plate. Bright’s shoulders were hunched; his posture was awkward, as if the years of self-abuse disguised as exercise had mutated his basic geometry. He slowly raised his hands and began to slip off his shirt. He still wore the wetsuit underneath, as he had done during her ordeal, and she stared in horror as he slid his fingers under the neck of the garment and began to peel the material downwards, as if he were calmly removing a layer of skin. He extracted his arms from the rubbery suit and rolled it down towards his waist.

“For that, dear Lana, I’d have to be human.”

The blindfold and the wetsuit had prevented her from seeing anything before, and most of the time her arms had been pinned down or back behind her, but his naked torso was a mass of lumps and abrasions. More and more of this was revealed as he continued to drag the garment down over his belly. The malformations looked like ripe tumours: they dangled in grapelike clumps from beneath his armpits, clustered around his nipples and made a ribbed embossment down the faint seam of his hairless belly.

Even now, after everything she’d gone through, Lana felt sick to the stomach.

There were small mouths in there, amid the globules and curlicues of flesh, and bright little eyes that blinked uncomprehendingly. A nose or a sex gland twitched; snot or semen spilled from its shiny, puckered end. Here was a whole community of beings, perhaps even the physical representation of the souls of people he’d consumed as repayment for debts even greater than her own, loans whose rate of interest was infinite.

“Bring the girl next time,” he said, smiling around his cigar. “I’ll show her a whole new world of hurt.” The cigar’s fiery red eye winked: just once, but it was more than enough to ensure she got the message.

“SO, FRANCIS, DO you have anything you’d like to tell me?”

They were back in Monty’s office. Boater was standing on one side of the desk while his boss poured two glasses of fifteen year-old Glenlivet on the other side, from the comfort of his chair.

“No,” said Boater. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

Monty raised one eyebrow, finished pouring the whiskies, and then looked directly at Boater. “Well what was all that about, downstairs? Why did you want to leave before the fun started?” He slid Boater’s glass across the desk, and then leaned back, raising his own glass to his lips.

Boater wasn’t comfortable; he hated confrontation unless it involved extreme and sudden violence. He was not a talker: he was a puncher, a kicker, a head-butter, a stomper-of-heads. Social intercourse was not one of his strengths, but kicking the shit out of people was.

“Well, Francis?” Monty put down his glass and smiled. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind. We’re not animals, we’re men. And men should be able to reason with each other.”

Boater reached for his glass. His hand was shaking. He was twice the size of the other man, and probably weighed three times as much, yet he was afraid. It wasn’t that he was scared of Bright physically, not really. What instilled him with this wholly unreasonable fear was the thought of Bright’s madness. He knew that now; he could see it at last. His boss, the man he had served without question for almost two decades, was fucking insane.

He took a large swallow of the whisky. It burned his throat, but as the liquid travelled down the intense burning sensation changed to a gentle heat that helped calm him. “I just feel different these days, Monty.” He licked his lips, getting a second taste of that hot, sweet mouthful. “It’s been happening for a little while. I’ve started to hate what I do, what I am. The things I’m capable of… they make me feel… fuck, I dunno. I can’t use words like you can.” He looked down, ashamed of his lack of vocabulary, his inability to express himself as clearly as he would have liked.

“The things you do have begun to repel you.” Monty stood and walked around the desk. “Is that it, Francis? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Boater nodded. He raised his head. He felt tired, so very tired.

“Look around you, Francis. Look at my walls.”

Boater turned his head and stared at the framed pictures and photographs. He’d seen them all, many times before. He didn’t know who any of the people in the portraits were, and the other stuff — sketches and diagrams of weird objects, buildings and places — left him cold. He didn’t appreciate art or culture. His idea of a good night out was to drink until he fell over, and the only films he liked featured lots of car chases and gunfights.

“That man over there. See him?” Monty walked over to the portrait in question, which hung next to a strange three-panelled print of demons cavorting in giant teacups and fragments of broken egg shells. The painting showed the face of a man with thinning hair and fleshy features. A funny-looking bloke , thought Boater. I bet he didn’t get much fanny .