“So much for the tearful reunion… Okay.” Marty put down his glass. “You’ve got it into your head that you can change the way you feel, the way you’ve always felt, if we all get together and talk about the past. If we can come to some kind of conclusion regarding what went on back then, you hope that it’ll free you and allow you to have a better future.” He paused, licked his lips. “I’m guessing there’s a woman involved. Maybe someone you think you should love but you can’t… and you blame the past for this. You think that if you can sever all ties with what may or may not have happened to the three of us, it’ll let you feel about this woman the way you believe you should.” He stopped, leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his stomach. “So, am I right or am I right?”
“Very insightful,” said Simon. “But you’re only half right. I do believe that the three of us need to confront our shared past, but I think we need to do it more literally.”
Brendan shuffled on his chair. He picked up his drink and held it, not moving it anywhere near his mouth.
Simon rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble growth. “I think we need to go in there together — the Needle. We need to make like it’s twenty years ago and march right the fuck in there, then shout and scream and force whatever the fuck held us in there to make an appearance.”
Marty sat forward again, his arms flexing and pulling his shirt tight. “And then what? Kick the shit out of it?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Simon. “At first I thought we were going to have to pull down the place, brick by brick, so I bought it from the council. Took me ages to convince them, and I paid well over the odds. Now I realise that won’t be necessary. Simply by coming back here, I seem to have triggered something. Whatever’s been hiding here, making its nest under the streets of the Grove, it’s waking up… it’s waking from a long sleep. Can’t you feel it?”
Marty did not reply.
“You’ve been having dreams, haven’t you?”
Marty nodded, but still he did not speak.
“Weird dreams that feel just like reality, but fucked-up, messed around. Apocalyptic visions, monsters from the past chasing you, things keeping pace with you in the dark?”
“Yes,” said Brendan, joining in at last. He was gripping his glass too tight; his knuckles were white. “Yes, that’s it. All of us… the three of us… we’ve been dreaming about the same things, the same place. Haven’t we?”
“Yes,” said Marty.
“Yes,” said Simon.
“Another drink?” Brendan slammed down his glass.
Marty laughed softly.
Simon shook his head. “Is that all you guys do around here, drink? I’ve not drunk so fucking much in my life since I’ve come back.”
“You’re out of practice,” said Marty. “And I’ll have the same again, thanks.” He glanced at Brendan, smiled, and let out another soft chuckle.
“It really is good to see you,” said Brendan. “Both of you.” When Simon looked over, he saw how pale Brendan’s face had become, and he felt such a great wave of pity that it pressed him down into his chair, pinning him there.
Before he could say anything, Brendan stood and went to the bar, fishing nervously inside his jeans pocket for his wallet.
“Is he okay?” Marty leaned in close. He smelled of whisky and expensive aftershave. And beneath that, a deep, musky odour that made Simon think of violence: of punches thrown and threats made, of kicked heads and split skin and spilled blood.
“I’m not sure. His kid’s ill. Last night, something strange happened. He went into some odd kind of shock, like a trance or something. Threw up and something… well, something really weird came out. A bird.”
Marty closed his eyes. “A hummingbird,” he said.
“How did you know? How the hell did you know about that?” Simon’s hand made a fist on the tabletop; his nails scratched against the damp wood.
“I don’t know. I… I just knew. When you said it, an image came into my head. Like a dream I once had but couldn’t remember until now. The hummingbirds are important — we saw them back then, too. Can you feel it?” His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. “It’s like doors are opening inside me. Connections are being made, loose ends tying themselves together in neat little knots. Something’s happening…”
Simon shook his head. “I wish I could say the same. It’s what I wanted, why I’m here. But I don’t… I don’t feel any of that. My brain feels like when you push your knuckles into your eyes to fight sleep: that same kind of bunched-up pressure, when the darkness behind your eyelids starts to spark. That’s all. I get nothing else.”
Brendan had returned with the drinks. He set them down on the table, beer spilling over the rims. “I feel it,” he said. “Just like Marty said. Cogs are turning; they’re moving together, starting up some kind of motion. It’s slow — very, very slow — but it’s happening. What happened to Harry is only part of it. We can stop it, if we try. We can put an end to this shit.”
Simon felt empty. Why was he the only one who could not feel the energies massing, the world reconfiguring and taking on a new shape around them? It wasn’t fair; it was not right. He felt cheated, as if he were the victim of a con or a grift. He, Simon, should be the one to feel it first, the man to set off the reaction. After all, it was he who had come back here, in search of the truth, so it was only fitting that he was the one who acted as a catalyst for whatever would take place when the Three Amigos banded together for a fight.
The music on the stereo had changed to soft rock, a power ballad. The volume was still low, but one of the barmaids was singing along quietly as she worked. Simon watched her as she glided the length of the bar, picking up glasses, washing them, rubbing them dry, and mouthing the words of the song.
“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t we try something? How about this: each of us talks about what we can remember from that time, when we were held in the Needle? I know it isn’t much, but maybe if we piece our memories together we might start to see a picture forming. It might help me to feel everything you’re feeling.”
Brendan looked nervous. He was biting his lower lip. “Do you think it’s worth it? I mean, will it actually achieve anything?”
Marty leaned forward again, his big arms pressing against the table. “Is this, like, our
“Exactly,” said Simon. “Are you in, Brendan?”
Brendan stared at the two of them, and then finally he nodded. “Okay.” He took a drink. “So who goes first?”
There was a slight pause, a silence within the greater silence that had surrounded each of them for two decades, and then Marty spoke: “I went back there, you know. To that grove of trees. After I had my bike accident. You know about that?”
The other two nodded.
“Well,” continued Marty. “I was in a coma for a while — not long, and it wasn’t too deep. But while I was unconscious I went back there, and I stood enclosed within that grove of old oaks. I remember…” — he closed his eyes — “I remember it was night, and the stars looked miles away, too high to be much more than pinpricks. I could hear that same clicking sound — Captain Clickety’s voice — but it was too far away to scare me. In fact, now that I think about it, the clicking sound was moving away, leaving me behind, and for a moment I felt abandoned. Then the trees and the bushes began to rustle. I felt that something was stalking me, or at least watching me from the undergrowth. I think it wanted me to follow it.”
The barmaid was still singing. The bar had emptied out; there were not many people left drinking, other than the three men at the table in the window. Sunlight lanced through the glass, making a dagger shape on the table.
“It was weird,” said Marty, “but I think I was looking for that girl — the one who spoke to us when we were tied up with branches in the middle of the grove of trees. I think… I think she saved us.”
“Hailey,” said Brendan in a whisper.
“Yeah, Hailey. The hummingbird girl. That was it. I could never quite remember her name. I was looking for
