precursor to an ocean of nightmare that would drown all who stood in its path.
“Are you coming?”
He turned his head at Rose’s voice, which was coming from beyond the other open door. He pulled free his hand, backing away from the library, and allowed his body to turn around, too. He was beginning to feel hemmed in. Claustrophobia had never been something that had bothered Marc, but right now he felt trapped.
He stepped into the other room. The window blind was closed but Rose had turned on a small table lamp that was positioned on the floor in the far corner. It cast dim light across the room, creating a creepy atmosphere that wasn’t helped by what was waiting at the centre of the room.
On a large plinth or table, and taking up most of the room, there was a scale model of the Concrete Grove estate. Marc stood and stared at it, hardly able to believe what he saw. He remembered a boyhood friend whose father had been obsessed with model railways. The man had created a system of tracks and fields, and even a small village, in the basement of their house. As a boy, Marc had been fascinated by the sight; as he grew older, he began to think it was all a bit sad and obsessive.
This reminded him of that guy and his model railway. A similar level of detail was displayed here, but possibly to an even greater degree of ambition. He recalled Harry’s milk-bottle-top replica of the Needle. Had it been a practice model, a warm-up or a template he’d completed before tackling the real thing?
He moved towards the model, unsure of what to do in the presence of such a thing.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
He glanced at Rose, nodded. “Yes… and it’s a bit scary, too. He must’ve spent hours in here, working away at this thing. It’s
“Yes, I do. It’s creepy. Nothing like this should exist. It’s… It’s unhealthy.”
Marc leaned across the table and reached out towards the replica of the Needle, the ugly tower block that stood at the centre of the estate. This one was not constructed from foil bottle tops.
“I think it’s made out of cement, or maybe even proper concrete. He must’ve cast it himself, mixing the materials, constructing a little mould…”
Marc’s hand had paused in mid air. He moved it forward, brushing his fingertips against the side of the tower. It was hard and rough, unpleasant to the touch.
Rose sounded troubled. “Cardboard I could understand. Even balsa wood. Perhaps some MDF off-cuts from a DIY store. But cement? That’s going a bit too far.”
Marc remained silent as he inspected the model. He didn’t know what to say.
The estate was designed to form a series of concentric circles, each street wrapping around the one before. The plan view, looked at in this way, was weird. It looked like a magic circle, or a form of pentagram. Marc knew this was nonsense, but his gut instinct suggested otherwise. Why build the estate in such a specific layout? What was the purpose behind the circular pattern?
There was no furniture in the room; no shelves on the walls; no carpet on the floor. Just bare plaster and varnished boards. The model took centre stage. It was the reason this room existed. Nobody but Harry Rose had ever been in here until it had been discovered by his brother — Marc could sense it. The man had worked on his model every night, adding and subtracting tiny elements, making repairs and replicating alterations carried out in the real world by builders or council workmen. It was an ongoing project; his life’s work. He must not have told anyone about the model. It was his secret. He had kept it all for himself.
But now that Harry Rose was dead, the seal had been broken: eyes other than his had taken in this small- scale urban wonder.
Some of the houses were made from the salvaged parts of plastic model kits. The vehicles on the streets were almost certainly bastardised toys and model kits; the tiny people were plastic toy soldiers that had been moulded and altered by the application of heat and a sharp craft knife, then dressed in perfect little clothes that Harry had fashioned from scraps of material.
The grass, when he touched it, felt like pieces of Astroturf. White lines had been painted by hand onto the road surfaces; drainage gullies and gutters had been fitted into the kerbs. No detail had been missed. Marc had no doubt that Harry’s model matched the real thing down to the tiniest detail. He could tell by the painstaking work the man had put in that there was little margin for error. It was obvious how much love, dedication, and sheer hard work had been carried out in this room.
Then he noticed the flags.
They looked like minuscule versions of the kind of flags found on a golf course, the ones used to mark the holes. Or football corner flags. A cocktail stick topped off with a triangular cutting from a sheet of cotton had been used for each pole. As he looked closer, he saw that each of the flags had a name and a number written onto the material.
Connie 7
Alice 8
Fiona 9
Tessa 10
He knew what these were immediately. They were the names and ages of the Gone Away Girls, and each flag was positioned in the place from which they’d vanished. He made a mental note to look up the information, just to collaborate his hunch, but he knew he was correct.
Connie’s flag was stuck in the grass at the sorry excuse for a children’s playground the locals called Seer Green.
Alice’s flag was in the car park of the small supermarket to the east of Grove Lane.
Fiona’s flag had fallen over and lay flat inside the skateboarding park.
Tessa’s flag stood forlorn and lopsided on the pavement outside a sweet shop near Grove Corner.
“What does this mean?” Marc turned and looked at Rose.
“I’m not sure. I think I’m too scared to even think about it.”
“You noticed the names?”
Rose nodded.
“Do you know what they are? Do you know who those flags are meant to represent?”
“I do. It’s those poor little girls, the ones that went missing.”
Marc licked his lips. He didn’t even want to think about this too deeply, but he needed to ask the question. “Do you think… do you really think that Harry could have been involved in their disappearances? Is there any way that he could have been responsible, or at least that he might have known who was?”
Rose didn’t speak for a few seconds. He stared at Marc, then looked quickly away and examined the model. When he looked at Marc again, his eyes were moist. “In all honestly, I don’t really know.”
BACK DOWNSTAIRS, IN the small, neat kitchen, they drank coffee and stared at each other across the table.
“Here.” Rose reached into his jacket pocket and took out a key. He placed it on the table in front of him, alongside the keys to the attic rooms. “It’s for the front door. Use this place as you please. I have a feeling all that stuff upstairs might help you with your book, and if you can shine any light at all on Harry’s possible involvement with those kids, I’d be grateful. I can’t stay here — can’t even come here. It feels… wrong.”
Marc nodded and sipped his coffee. He reached out and took the keys, making a fist around them. “Thanks. I’m not sure what your brother was into, but I’ll be honest — my muse is sitting up and begging for more.”
“Just keep me posted. Let me know what you find out. I… I can’t stay here. It’s too much for me. I’m not a young man. I need to get out and breathe.”
Marc nodded. “I understand. And I appreciate this, I really do.” He opened his hand and looked at the keys. “I’ll find out what I can and keep in touch.”
Rose didn’t take his eyes off Marc’s face. “Let’s just hope you find out that Harry wasn’t involved.”
“What do we do if… well, if he
Rose set down his cup. He placed his hands, palms down, on either side and made them into fists. “I don’t know. Let’s just see what you dig up first, eh? We’ll face that problem if it
