wrecked buildings. Who knows? Who even cares?”
Abby nodded. The Gone Away Girls stood staring at the ruins of the Needle, as if watching a miracle. Each of them was weeping, but silently. He had a feeling they would never say anything again.
“Let’s go,” he said, reaching down to help Abby to her feet. “There’s a lot to be done. And a lot of other people to help.”
“Your wife…” She stood shakily, grabbing hold of him for support. “I think she’s okay. The baby, too. They’re both fine.”
Royle didn’t question this wisdom; he simply accepted it, just as he knew he must accept everything else that had happened over the past few weeks — and even longer, because hadn’t this been going on for centuries? If he doubted any of this for even a moment, he was afraid that he might lose his mind.
He held Abby’s hand as they left the Needle, heading towards the sound of sirens. Around them, new shoots began to grow. Saplings took root in the ruins; they rose towards the sky, growing quicker and stronger than any natural tree. By the time they had reached the way out, the entire area was knee-high in new trees. They walked away from this struggling new life. They did not look back.
The Gone Away Girls followed close behind them, a tight little bunch of lost souls that had somehow been found.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
SOMETIMES WHEN SHE won’t sleep, Royle puts his tiny fretting daughter in the car and drives out here. It’s a short journey, and one that causes him to experience mixed emotions. At one time he used to feel his skin crawling at the very thought of coming to this place, but now he embraces the darkness that waits for him here. As he drives through the empty streets at the outskirts of the Concrete Grove, past the crumbling buildings wrapped up in the calcified remains of trees, over the road surfaces cracked and treacherous, he remembers a time when this estate was filled with life… and when it was occupied by the Crawl, the horrible sensation that has not plagued him since the birth of his daughter.
He nods as he passes each checkpoint, flashing his official ID. The faces he sees here are impassive. The eyes are cold and hard, focused on nothing, and understand little of the strange environment over which they stand guard. There is a solemnity here, a sense of respectful awe.
He drives to the massive, circular concrete wall erected around what is now known as the ‘Green Zone’ and parks his car near the twenty-four-hour security station. The wall guards know him well; he was recently promoted to the newly created role of Green Zone Task Force Commander. The title makes the role sound far grander than it actually is. He is simply an attache. But he has a good relationship with most of the guards, and sometimes he plays a game of cards or just sits for a cup of tea and a chat.
The baby always falls asleep during the drive. He wonders if it is the movement of the car or some other, deeper feeling that sends the baby into a slumber.
The security lights are bright. It feels right that light is shone constantly onto the estate. Beyond the high walls and the razor wire, beyond even the reach of those arc lights, a vast darkness deeper than any other he has ever known lies in wait. Nobody is sure if the security guards are protecting this area from the outside or protecting the outside from its influence. The official stance is that they are just “keeping an eye on things”.
Sometimes, when conversation lulls in the security station, or if he decides to walk along the walls for an inspection, he can hear the muted rustling of leaves and undergrowth, the creaking of branches. Occasionally he thinks that he hears a faint clicking sound, like chattering teeth…
He has not seen behind those walls since they were erected, but he has been told that there is now a forest in there — and at its heart there stands a grove of ancient oaks whose leaves have turned black. The roads and houses outside the perimeter are half-buried relics; the concrete ruins are like the remains of a lost civilisation, choked by the calcified remains of trees. No flight paths are allowed in the airspace above the wall. Whatever is in there, they are still trying to keep it hidden, at least for as long as they can.
The wall follows the line of what used to be known as the Roundpath. It contains the plot where the Needle once stood. It’s just a small patch of land, and yet he has heard reports that the area contained within it goes on for miles. Part of him knows this cannot be possible; another part of him believes it implicitly.
Within the next few months, an expedition will be sent behind the wall. He hopes this isn’t a mistake. Whenever he stands here, looking up at the wall, he is reminded of the film
All the survivors of what happened a year ago were relocated. Many of them sold their stories to newspapers and magazines and appeared on TV chat shows and documentaries. Handheld footage from mobile phones appeared on YouTube. Blurred digital photographs were reproduced in newspapers and magazines around the world. Over the last twelve months so much has been said and written about those events in the Concrete Grove that sometimes he feels like it’s a fiction — and he is merely a character in a book that’s still being written, or has yet to be written.
Some of those survivors are dying. The official verdict is that it’s a form of cancer, but he isn’t so sure. He’s heard rumours of tumours formed on the skin like bunches of black leaves. Of bones transforming into what seem to be blackened twigs and branches and breaking through the flesh.
Whatever this is, it isn’t over. In fact, it might have just begun…
He thinks of the dead and what he owes them.
Most of all, he remembers Erik Best and Marc Price — who still has not been found.
And he thinks of Abby Hansen and how she now protects the ageless Gone Away Girls, taking care of them in an old orphanage up in Scotland, where the press and the public cannot touch them. He thinks fondly of the Girls themselves, and how they never age, never speak of what they have seen and done. They just sit there, staring patiently into the distance, as if they are waiting for something.
There are so many unanswered questions. A new world order is waiting to slide into place. Mankind can no longer feign ignorance of the numinous.
Perhaps one day the answers to all questions will be found beyond those thick, high walls — one of the regular expedition groups might even find something of use in that dense primeval land.
Whenever he drives back home from these nocturnal visits, usually with the first faint rays of the sun kissing the horizon, he returns to bed and holds his wife. He hangs on to her as if she is a lifeline. He doesn’t want to ever let go.
Every once in a while she mumbles something in her sleep: a word that he thinks sounds a lot like their daughter’s name. They called their baby Hope, because that’s what she represents.
He kisses his wife’s shoulder, her neck, and then whispers secret, wordless promises into her ear as she sleeps.
And he waits quietly for the darkness to pass.
‘The Concrete Grove’ by Gary McMahon
IT KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE…
Imagine a place where all your nightmares become real. Dark urban streets where crime, debt and violence are not the only things to fear. Picture a housing project that is a gateway to somewhere else; a realm where ghosts and monsters stir hungrily in the shadows. Welcome to the Concrete Grove.
This deprived area is Hailey’s new home, but when an ancient entity notices her, it becomes something much more threatening. She is the only one who can help her mother as she joins in a dangerous dance with loanshark Monty Bright. Only Hailey can see the truth of Tom’s darkest desires as he tries to become part of their family. And
