being tied up by their branches.” He broke off then, as if he wanted to say more but had changed his mind.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” said Brendan. “It’s nothing.”
They walked on, towards the towering form of the Needle. Its grey walls were impassive; its dingy presence was a glimpse into another time and place. Simon felt the present shiver, as if the very fabric of time and space was straining at the seams and attempting to transport him back in time twenty years. The sky stretched above him like a thin sheet, the ground threatened to shift beneath his feet, and the landscape around him seemed like it was poised on the cusp of a change.
The day’s alcohol intake drained from him, leaving him cold and sober.
“This way.” Brendan walked to the main doors. They’d been exposed; the wooden boards that had once protected them from vandalism now lay in pieces on the ground beside them. Brendan reached out and unlocked the doors, opened them slowly, and stepped aside. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” And Simon
The ground floor was in ruins. Graffiti, broken concrete, piles of rubbish all over the floor. It was nothing like what he’d expected. The interior was a tipping ground for broken things, and it was only fitting that he and Brendan should be here: two broken men looking for a way to fix themselves.
“How does it feel?” Brendan’s voice sounded as if he were perched on Simon’s shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.
“Weird. I thought… I expected to be more afraid, but all I feel is tired and reluctant. It’s like a chore. Something I have to do. Does that even make sense?”
“No.” Brendan’s tepid laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls and giving it a false sense of vigour.
“Okay, okay… you know what I mean. It’s like an anticlimax. I’ve built this up so much, and for so long, that it’s almost disappointing now I’ve finally got here.”
“Yes,” said Brendan. “I do know what you mean — I had the same experience. I hadn’t been back here for years. Then, when I was twenty-one, I just broke in through one of the first floor windows and took a look around. I wasn’t afraid; it was just an empty building. Like I said, there are no ghosts here. You won’t find our childhood selves waiting for you in a cramped little room.”
Something scurried across the floor, and when Simon glanced in the direction of the movement he saw a mouse or a rat burrowing into a pile of old clothes.
“They’re the only monsters you’ll find here, mate. Plenty of vermin nesting in these old walls… they’ve made it their home.”
Brendan’s phrasing made Simon momentarily nervous, but he shrugged off the feeling. It was nothing; just words.
Then, gradually, he became aware of another sound — this one far off, coming from somewhere deep inside the building. It was like slow dragging footsteps, perhaps somebody moving lazily through the rooms, wandering aimlessly. He listened for a moment, trying to pick out the direction of the source of the noise, but he couldn’t be certain of where it originated. The sound seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Is there somebody else here?”
Brendan took a step forward, in front of Simon. “Not that I’m aware of.”
More lies. He’d always been able to tell when Brendan was lying; his voice lowered, he was unable to look whoever he was speaking to directly in the eye.
“This place is empty.” Brendan stayed where he was, with his back to Simon.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Simon, moving forward and placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s no need.”
Brendan shrugged off the contact, but did not turn around. He kept staring ahead, into the dusty shadows and along a narrow hallway leading off from the main reception area. “There’s nobody here. Or if there is, it’s just some kid mucking about.”
“Okay,” said Simon, unwilling to force the issue. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to get at you.” The shuffling sound had stopped. In its place, Simon could just about make out a low, soft humming, like air forced quickly through narrow pipes.
Brendan sighed heavily. “Just like old times. You always were a bit of a bully, talking us into things, convincing us to get into trouble.” His voice seemed to hold an element of humour, but it was only a sliver.
“That was then and this is now.” Simon backed away. He didn’t want to get into this, not now: not here. He’d lived with the guilt for twenty years, and it was too soon to bring it out into the open. He’d been the one who’d cajoled the other two into coming here, and following… whatever it was Brendan said he had seen. The clicking figure: the beaked man with the stick. Captain Clickety. Simon had been the one to come up with the idea, and despite the other Amigos’ reluctance, he’d forced the issue, calling them babies…
Back then, as now, he’d always kept pushing until he got his way.
Pushing… it was his major skill, the thing he was best at. That was how he’d made his first million; it was the one trait that had kept him going while others had fallen away, giving up when things got too difficult. But not him: no, not Simon Ridley. He just kept pushing and pushing until something gave, and then he pushed some more, just for the hell of it.
The curious humming sound waxed and waned; it was still audible, but only just. Was it an old boiler? Faulty air vents?
Simon had already decided that he would not push now. He’d pull back and rein that tendency in, because sometimes pushing was just a quick way to fall off the edge. That was the real key to his success — the knowledge that although brute force and focus could often get you places, there were times that called for a soft touch, situations in which a gentle nudge was more effective than a hard shove if you wanted to open a door.
The humming sound moved away, becoming fainter and quieter as it shifted deeper into the body of the building
Sometimes, Simon knew, a whisper could be louder than a scream.
TWENTY YEARS AGO, WHEN THE DAYS WERE MUCH BRIGHTER…
THE TREE HOUSE is coming along nicely. It will be the den of the Three Amigos, when it is finished, and each of the boys is prepared to do whatever it takes to get the job done.
The light is fading slowly from the day. Daytime animals are being replaced by their nocturnal counterparts in the dense shrubbery. The sky has taken on all the shades of evening; the clouds scatter and dark patches show like great bruises against the heavens, and the sun is poised coyly at the tip of the horizon.
Marty is sitting on a makeshift wooden joist, high up in the branches of the chosen tree, hammering in six- inch nails. His face is a study in concentration; his body moves fluidly, as if he was born to the task. Simon watches his friend work, feeling a shiver of pride, but also a slight tug of jealousy. Marty is physically strong, good-looking and a great fighter; he is popular among the girls, and most of the boys at school are terrified of him. Simon can only dream about commanding that kind of respect.
Brendan is dragging more wood from the pile they’d made earlier, his thin body struggling with the load. Simon walks over silently and begins to help. Brendan smiles, but at that exact moment the sky darkens a little more and the smile looks pained, almost fearful.
Brendan swore that he saw a figure earlier: a tall man wearing a beaked mask, and with things that must have been false legs hanging down past the hem of his Halloween coat. Having now recovered from the initial shock, the boy still seems fragile. He wears his fear like the badge of a pop band he is ashamed to like.
The two boys drag an old plywood wardrobe door over to the tree where Marty is still hammering. They position it below the partially-built platform, and stand looking up at their friend. After a short time, Marty stops
