Gary McMahon - The Concrete Grove

“What do you want?” Her voice was an octave higher than she would have liked, and she hated herself for showing fear in that way. Fear was exactly what he wanted, what he thrived upon.

“Oh, Lana… Lana, Lana, Lana: you always want to get right down to business, don’t you? No small talk, no chit-chat. A man could quite easily get offended, you know.” His laughter was horrible. There was no other word for it. The sound provoked such a sense of horror within her that for a moment she felt like weeping.

“Tell me what you want or I’ll hang up the phone.” Her voice wavered again.

The laughter stopped abruptly. “I have her.”

Lana had no idea what he meant. “Listen, Bright, I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

“Time… ah, yes. Do you realise what time it is?”

Angry, afraid, baffled, she glanced at her wristwatch. It was 4:30 PM.

I have her.

Hailey should be home by now. Her High School was only a short walk away, in Far Grove.

I have her.

Even if she’d dawdled back from school, walking slowly and daydreaming in that way of hers… even then, she should be home by this time.

“Where is she… where?” Her hand gripped the receiver. Tom walked up beside her and raised his eyebrows: What is it?

“She’s safe,” said Bright. All trace of humour had left his voice. It was his turn to be ‘all business’. “Don’t worry about that. She hasn’t been harmed. Not yet.”

Lana’s stomach clenched; knots tightened inside her body.

“She isn’t here, with me, but she’s safe. One of my associates has her. He called me earlier to say that he had everything in hand. You remember Francis, don’t you? The big lad?”

The giant. Boater. Francis Boater. He was the one who’d spoken out — albeit briefly and ineffectually — when they’d all been down there in Bright’s basement room. It was a slim hope, but at least it was something: he’d shown signs of regret, remorse and doubt. Maybe he was keeping her safe, and hadn’t laid a hand on her young body. Perhaps this giant was in fact her best chance for safety?

“So what do you want?” This time her voice was steady. Quiet, but resolute.

Tom grabbed her wrist but she shook him off. She couldn’t deal with him now.

“I want you to come and see me, Lana. I know that’s what you had planned anyway, there’s not much I don’t know right now. I’m in a special position, with access to all kinds of information.” He chuckled softly. It felt like his breath was right in her ear. “I have friends in low places, you see. Very low places.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Midnight. The witching hour. It’s so appropriate, isn’t it? I’ll be here alone… well, apart from Terry and some friends that can’t really be classed as being here, not really. I suppose you could say they’re partway here, and partway somewhere else.”

“What will you do when I get there?” It couldn’t be sex, not this time. There was no reason for such extreme methods. Last time, she had gone too willingly. The friends he mentioned were not the ones from before. She suspected that he was talking about another kind of friend entirely.

“I think you and me need to have a proper chat. A wee talk about things. It’s about time we put our heads together and discovered all our common concerns.” He was almost whispering now.

“Common concerns?”

“Well, your daughter for one. She seems to have gained access to somewhere I’d like to go — a place I’ve been trying to find for a long time. I don’t know how she’s done it, or what she’s used as a key, but a door has opened to let her in. And I want her to do the same for me: to open it up and escort me inside so I don’t get hurt or killed or changed into a fucking werewolf.”

“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” She closed her eyes. The dream that had become her life was taking another violent twist, leading her down a road she wasn’t keen to follow.

“Oh, you will. Once we have our talk, Lana, you’ll understand everything.” He cleared his throat: a small cough, dry and delicate. “Until midnight, then. Then we can get this show on the road.”

Lana was about to speak again, but the line went dead.

“What did he want?” Tom stood there with his hands crossed over his belly, unsure whether to touch her or keep his distance.

“I don’t know what he wants, but I do know what he’s going to get.”

Tom backed away. Just a single step, but it was enough to tell her everything she needed to know about the balance of power in this relationship. Tom’s help was limited now; his strength was finite, and he had almost reached the end of his reserves. He was merely a helper, an assistant.

It was up to Lana now. She had to take charge.

“Come on, Tom. There’s something I need to show you.”

“Is it the thing you were going to show me earlier, before?” He looked away, embarrassed by his premature reaction before the phone had interrupted them.

Lana didn’t care. Not now. All that was over; there was something else to be done. “Yes, that’s right. I’m going to show you how we’ll kill that bastard and get my daughter back.”

“I WON’T LET anyone hurt you.” Boater stared at the girl, wondering if she’d ever wake again. “I promise…” She wasn’t moving. She hadn’t moved for what seemed like hours. He was pretty sure it was late — it certainly felt as if they’d been there all night, maybe even a lot longer than that. But the windows were covered with curtains of foliage and very little light was able to get through the dense green drapery.

When he’d followed her into the Needle everything he’d been feeling for the past few days had come into sharp focus. The vague yearning, the newly developed sense of shame, the fact that he no longer felt the urge towards violence… it all coalesced into a big ball of hurt inside him, at his core, and he had realised that he never wanted to hurt anyone again.

Somewhere deep inside the spirit of Francis Boater, a trigger had been pulled. Now all that remained was a delayed detonation: the single gunshot that would signal the completion of his redemption.

He’d had a long time to think about things, here in the seething darkness. He remembered his countless childhood agonies: his mother, the whore, who had made him watch while she entertained her clients; the constant struggle with his weight, and the fights he’d been in because of hurtful schoolmates. Then, after leaving school, there was the amateur boxing and the weight training that made him feel so alive and full of self-worth; the many emotionally-damaged women who’d been drawn to him because of his physical bulk and his capacity for violence, and then been repelled and ran from him for exactly those same reasons. And finally there was his time with Monty Bright, when he’d become a hired hand, a lump of muscle-for-sale: a Bad Man.

His entire life had been a tapestry of pain, an intricate pattern composed of interlinked traumas. Only now could he stand back and take in the full scarred picture. The girl had enabled him to see what had been so fucking obvious all along.

When he’d walked into the building she had slowed down until he was level with her, and then she’d taken his hand, encouraging him. They’d walked deeper inside, hand in hand, and Boater had felt a connection deeper than any other he’d experienced in his life. This girl, this small, vulnerable victim he had been sent to abduct, was his saviour.

They’d come into this room, and she had lain down on the floor, curling up her legs into a position that made her resemble a resting infant. Then, just as the shadows began to crawl across the walls and the sound of unseen trees creaking and leaves whispering in a wind he couldn’t feel started up all around them, she’d spoken to him: