If this were a film, he would not be sitting naked on the bed, shining his shoes. He’d be buying some obscure book on demonology from a backstreet dealer, or hiring an exorcist. But real life wasn’t like the movies; reality was something you had to go through to fully understand the complexities, a series of obstacles that were meant to be endured. Sometimes passivity was the only option, and not everyone could be a hero. In real life, the monsters were often defeated by common sense and a blunt acceptance of the reality they presented. You didn’t always have to fight, to confront the thing in the closet, the leering face under the bed.
Some battles were fought in the mind. Some wars lasted forever.
He examined his shoes. They were as shiny as he would ever get them. He could almost see his face in the polished surface. As far as he could tell, his eyes were the same as always.
Brendan put away the cloth and set down his shoes at the side of the bed. He laid out the clothes he intended to wear to dinner and dressed in the others, tucking his T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. Jane hated that; she said it wasn’t trendy. But Brendan had never been a fashionable man. Sometimes — more often than not, if he were honest — he wondered what the hell she ever saw in him. He had never been her type. But maybe that was part of the appeal?
Simon had been her type, and he’d dumped her.
Crossing the room, he went to the wardrobe and stood on his tiptoes. He couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the box from under the bed, so he struggled on his tiptoes to reach the thing he was looking for. The acorn, when he brought it out, was dusty, its skin peeling back in thin, dry folds. It looked old, rotten and decayed: an empty husk, devoid even of terror. He held it between the palms of his hands and pushed the hands inwards. The acorn held at first, but as he pressed it began to burst, the sides caving in as he forced his palms together.
The acorn turned to dust in his hands.
The skin of his back twitched, just once.
Brendan clapped his hands together, rubbing and cleaning off the greyish dust. He splayed his fingers and stared at his palms. They were pale, bloodless. The lines looked faded, as if his hands were smoothing out, becoming babyish.
At last his fear began to show itself. He closed his eyes, closed his hands. His back crawled, as if a million tiny insects were marching from shoulder to shoulder.
Brendan wished he knew how he felt, or how he was supposed to feel. Perhaps if he could translate his emotions into words, he might stand a chance of surviving this season in hell. Or at least he’d die knowing what was happening to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SIMON APPROACHED THE Arcade with caution, wary that the kids who’d mugged him might be hanging around, laughing and still going through his wallet. He looked around, checking out the area, and moved slowly, like a man with something to hide. He was ashamed of his cowardice, but at the same time he knew that he’d been outnumbered. One on one, it would have been a different matter — he would have fought harder, better — but confronted by three young men, overpowered by the force of numbers, he hadn’t stood a chance.
He’d tried calling the mobile number Marty’s grandmother had given him, but it had led nowhere. All it did was ring out, an endless, monotonous tone. He’d even sent a text, identifying himself and asking Marty to get in touch, but had the feeling that any initial contact would need to be face-to-face, man-to-man. He got the impression that Marty was that kind of guy.
Shoppers slow-danced in and out of shop doorways. Middle-aged men in loose jogging bottoms hung around smoking and staring belligerently at passers-by. Simon sidled up to the front of the betting shop, trying to act as if he belonged here.
The large windows were covered with posters advertising races, fights and football matches, with betting odds listed in their alien language. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, feeling an oppressive atmosphere wrap its fingers around his body. He hated betting shops. His sports-obsessed father had spent a lot of time in this one, and others just like it, so Simon had a near-physical reaction whenever he was in the proximity of one of these places. He felt nauseous; his head began to pound.
Rows of flat-screen televisions lined the top of the walls near the ceiling, padlocked into metal frames. Other screens, smaller and lower down, showed a constant scroll of betting odds. Along the walls, between the lower television screens, were booths at which men stood writing out their bets on small slips of paper. Most of them looked deep in thought, a few of them looked wary, fewer still looked afraid.
Simon took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds. Then he moved to the back of the shop, towards the counter. There were three separate windows where people could place a bet, protected by bullet-proof glass screens. Behind the one on the left was a thin, pale-faced young man who kept biting his fingernails. The middle screen housed an obese old woman with frizzy brown hair, her spectacles too small for her swollen face. The final booth, on the right, was the one he needed. The woman behind the glass was young, slim, and rather beautiful. She looked out of place in these surroundings, like a pedigree dog stuck in a kennel for strays. Her black hair was held back in a loose ponytail, she wore too much make-up, and the skin of her face sported a familiar orangey fake tan… yet still, despite all of this, she was gorgeous. Scrape off that muck, allow the shop-bought tan to fade, and Simon had no doubt that she could pass for a model.
He walked to the window, taking the opportunity to approach her while everyone else inside the shop watched the numbers and horse names scroll down the screens.
She smiled.
“Hi.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“I… listen; I don’t want to put on a bet. I just want to talk to you.”
She smiled again. “I’m flattered, mate. Really I am. But do you know how many blokes ask me out every day, how many phone numbers get written on the back of spent betting slips, how many sad losers just come straight out and ask to see my tits?” Her face hardened; the smile slipped away. “I’m not interested.”
“No… no, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m a friend of Marty Rivers.”
Her entire attitude changed. Her posture straightened; the muscles in her face and neck tensed, making her look older, less attractive, and she leaned forward, towards the glass. “Marty? Did he send you?”
“Not exactly.”
She began to move away, her lips curling into a silent snarl. This wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d hoped for.
“But I have a message from him.” It was the first thing that came into his head. Simon knew that he was asking for trouble by lying to this woman, but what else could he do? “You are Melanie, aren’t you? Melanie Sallis?” He tried his final gambit: “Marty’s grandmother told me to come and see you. She said you were his girlfriend.”
She laughed softly. “That’s my name, yes. As for the other part… well, I’m not so sure. Maybe you should ask him.” Her eyes shone, with anger rather than sorrow.
“My name’s Simon Ridley. Could I speak with you, Melanie? Not here — somewhere else, where we can sit and have a proper talk. It’s important, I promise you. I won’t waste your time.”
She glanced over his shoulder, at the interior of the betting shop, and then her eyes took him in again. “Marty didn’t send you at all, did he?”
“No. No, he didn’t. But I really do need to talk to you, and it is about Marty. I promise.”
Her eyes flicked left, then right. She pursued her lips, and then opened them slightly. Her teeth were remarkably clean and white, unlike anyone’s he’d ever seen outside modelling or television. He wondered how much she’d paid for all that dental work.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’m due a break, anyway.” She looked right, at the obese woman. “I’m off for a fag break, Denise. I’ll be back shortly.”
Denise shrugged and turned away.
“Come on,” said Melanie. “I have the flat upstairs. We can talk in peace up there.” She grabbed a leather jacket from the back of her chair and opened the side door of the cubicle. There was a combination lock, and she spun the numbers without looking.
