Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

When she emerged from the opposite end of the alley she found herself this time at the south end of the Embankment. She’d been heading east, yet somehow she had ended up facing south. This was wrong; it couldn’t be possible. She felt like she was becoming lost in familiar streets, and each time she tried another route the arrangement of the maze reconfigured itself to strengthen the delusion.

Down on the disused railway line, far enough away that he probably couldn’t even see Lana on her raised vantage point, a man was walking what at first she assumed to be a large, shaggy dog. As the moonlight and the wash of pale illumination from the streetlamps highlighted these figures, Lana saw that the animal was not a dog at all. It was something unusual, an animal she was unable to identify. Its furry body was close to the ground and it possessed far more short, thin legs than was necessary — like a nightmarish cross between a bear and a centipede. Then, as she strained her eyes to make the image clearer, the man and his companion slipped into a patch of shadow and failed to come back into view. She tried to tell herself that the man had not been so thin that he resembled a fluttering paper cut-out. Nor had his arms been so long that his hands reached down past his knees.

Fighting panic, she walked south, along the lip of the Embankment, and then crossed the empty road to walk the fence line of the old factory units. Grove Drive lay on the other side of the blackened factories, and if she walked to the end, then doubled back on herself, she could approach the block of flats where she lived from a different angle entirely. Maybe that way she could solve the puzzle and find her way home.

But when she turned the corner onto what should have been Grove Drive, she found herself back on Grove Road, one of the central rings of the main circle of streets at the heart of the Grove.

It was impossible. She should not — could not — be here. But here she was.

Lana’s hands were shaking. She stuffed them into her coat pockets to try and still them, but as soon as she did so her legs began to tremble. The fear she had managed to repress earlier that evening, when she’d given herself to those men, was now finding a way out into the open. This surreal journey through insanely shifting streets had somehow uncorked the feelings she had forced down into the deepest part of herself.

It was almost a kind of relief.

“I’m going to kill you.” The words, when they came, sounded like they were being spoken by someone else. “I will kill you, Monty Bright.” She hadn’t even known she was going to say these things until she opened her mouth, and even that felt like it was beyond her control, an impulsive act rather than one she had thought about beforehand.

“Kill you.” She didn’t feel ashamed by the threat, or even frightened by the depth of her conviction. She felt strong now that she’d made the decision and confirmed it out loud. The night seemed to steal her words, taking them and stashing them away in some secret nook or cranny made of pure darkness. Those words would remain there, resting on a shelf of night, until the act was done; and only then would they be returned to her, like a promise or prophecy sent home to roost.

As if borne by her newfound sense of righteousness, Lana made her way out of the circle at the centre of the estate, cutting along Grove Lane until she saw the mini roundabout adjacent to The Dropped Penny. She crossed the quiet road, glancing at her watch as she made it to the kerb on the other side. It was 2:30 AM. She felt like it should be close to daybreak, but it was still deep in the early hours of morning, and a long time before most of the denizens of this place would even stir in their beds or even think about waking. The dreams here lay as thick as clouds above the houses; when she glanced up, at the sky, she could almost see their formless gyrations above the rooftops. The Needle stood behind her. She felt as if it were bending forward to mock her while she had her back turned, but nothing could have forced her to turn around and take a look.

She made her way to the Grove Court flats, fumbling with her key as she walked along the path to the main door. Once inside she stood with her back against the door, glad that she had some kind of barrier between her and the labyrinth through which she’d been stumbling like a lost child. She paused there for a while, trying to control her breathing. Finally the shakes had come, and the asthmatic reaction of delayed fright.

“I’ll kill you,” she said again, between rushed breaths. “Kill. You.”

Once she felt calmer she climbed the stairs and entered the flat. The lamp was on in the living room, there was a small black and white television playing on mute. Hailey must have borrowed it from one of her few friends. She couldn’t imagine any of her neighbours dropping it over for them to use. This wasn’t the kind of place where you helped each other out. People kept to themselves, and hid behind their doors at any hint of trouble.

She watched a giant white cat as it tried to climb the Post Office Tower on the tiny screen, and realised that it was a late-night repeat of an old comedy programme from the 1970s: The Goodies . She’d loved the show when she was a young girl, and had never missed an episode. The sight of that stupid cat — a bad special effect from a dated TV show — brought her close to tears for the first time that day.

She exhaled and turned away from the television, heading into the kitchen. She poured herself a large whisky in a tall glass, added a couple of ice cubes from the freezer (there were two left, looking sad and fluffy in the plastic mould), and stood leaning against the workbench as she drank. It was pointless going back into the other room to watch the rest of the show. There were no chairs to sit on, and her lower regions ached too badly to sit on the hard floor.

Tears poured down her cheeks as she finished her drink, but she refused to acknowledge them. If she ignored them, they didn’t exist. She poured another tall drink and drank it without ice — there was none left anyway, and she didn’t feel like scraping it off the inside of the freezer. She was desperate but she still had standards.

She laughed out loud, wiped her face with the back of one hand and used the other to tilt the glass against her open lips and tip the remaining whisky down her throat.

“Mum?”

Hailey’s voice pulled her out of the state of hysteria she’d been dangerously close to embracing. She put down the glass on the bench and pushed herself into the middle of the kitchen. “Hey, baby. Yes, it’s me. I’ve been out for a late drink with Tom.” She smiled but knew it was fooling nobody — not Hailey, and certainly not herself. “What are you doing awake at this time?”

“Mum, something’s happened. Something weird…” The girl was standing at the end of the short hallway, partially inside the living room. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe that was hanging open, the belt undone. Her belly was loose and wrinkled, like a fleshy bag, and it hung down over her waist. There was blood on her thighs. It looked dark in the lamplight, like deep red ink.

“Hailey. What’s wrong? What happened?” She moved quickly, grabbing a couple of tea towels from the top drawer beside the sink and kneeling down in front of her daughter. “What the fuck’s happened, Hay?”

“They’ve come,” said Hailey, her pale face turned slightly upward. “I asked for help, and help’s arrived.”

“Talk to me, Hailey. Tell me what you’ve done.” Frantically, she checked her daughter’s arms for signs of self-harm or needle marks. Then, finding nothing but smooth white flesh traced with delicate blue veins, she turned her attention to Hailey’s lower anatomy.