Free Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) by Gary McMahon Page A

years.”
    “Now,” said Price, raising his open hands, pointing at the door. “Would you mind getting the fuck out of my house? You’ve done what you came here to do: I’m scared. I’m terrified, actually, if it makes you feel any better. I won’t be messing around with Abby again. Now, just leave me alone.”
    Erik paused, and then he turned and walked out of the room. When he reached the door he opened it, turned around, and said “Remember what I said. Oh, and don’t even think about doing anything daft, like phoning the police.” He took the silence as an affirmative response and shut the door behind him as he left the house.
    Walking back towards his car, he looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark, troubled. He knew how they felt. His entire life was nothing but trouble – one long succession of bad things, queuing up to make their mark. Situations like this one happened to him all the time. It often felt as if he was dogged by bad things, like stray cats following him in a line along the street.
    Erik unlocked the car and got inside. He turned on the engine and killed the radio, and then just sat there, staring at the sky, at those grumbling clouds, waiting for more trouble to come for him.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
    M ARC TOOK A bottle of whisky from the cupboard in the kitchen and opened it. His hands were shaking; his mouth was dry. He didn’t like violence, never had. Before the accident, his old man had been quick with his fists, especially on points of honour. He’d even hit Marc a few times when he was a small boy, but he was certain it didn’t run in the family.
    Some people thought of Marc as a coward, but that wasn’t quite true. Hadn’t he just stood up to that psycho who’d forced his way inside the house? Well... sort of. Until his nerve had gone.
    No, he wasn’t a coward. He just hated physical violence. He was terrified of it. He’d seen the results of true violence a lot in his job, particularly when he’d worked on the crime pages. Beatings, murders, suicides... he’d reported all kinds of messy situations. He knew what a gunshot wound looked like, and had examined stab wounds at close range. Once he’d even stood there while a young woman who’d thrown herself in front of a truck on a busy motorway was scraped up off the road by policemen armed with snow shovels.
    He poured an inch of whisky into a glass, and then added another inch because he knew the first wouldn’t last long. He took a swallow and felt the pleasing burn in his throat. It felt good, purifying. He’d always liked the taste of good malt whisky, and right now it tasted even better than ever. The drink was good medicine for whatever ailed him.
    He thought about Abby Hansen, and asked himself if she was really worth this kind of hassle. The answer, he was sad to discover, was yes. He tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, but it was no use: he was becoming mildly obsessed with her.
    But what was it about her that drew him? Why could he not stop thinking about the woman? She wasn’t his usual type – he liked hefty, athletic brunettes with big thighs and even bigger chests – and she could hardly be described as a great beauty. Her hair was badly dyed and in terrible condition; her skin was dry; her body was wracked by alcohol and the effects of borderline malnutrition.
    So why the hell was he so keen to go back there, to see her, to fuck her again – no matter what Erik Best had told him? Why did he want to climb back into her bed and spend another night with her, clinging to her slender form in the darkness of her grotty little house?
    He drifted from the kitchen to the living room, running a hand across the dust on the top of the television. There was a photo on there, held in an expensive frame. It showed Marc aged six; and there were his parents, flanking him and smiling at the camera. His dad looked stocky and aggressive, even when he grinned. His mother just looked tired. She’d always looked