The Concrete Grove

Lana’s hands were shaking. She stuffed them into her coat pockets to try and still them, but as soon as she did so her legs began to tremble. The fear she had managed to repress earlier that evening, when she’d given herself to those men, was now finding a way out into the open. This surreal journey through insanely shifting streets had somehow uncorked the feelings she had forced down into the deepest part of herself.

It was almost a kind of relief.

“I’m going to kill you.” The words, when they came, sounded like they were being spoken by someone else. “I will kill you, Monty Bright.” She hadn’t even known she was going to say these things until she opened her mouth, and even that felt like it was beyond her control, an impulsive act rather than one she had thought about beforehand.

“Kill you.” She didn’t feel ashamed by the threat, or even frightened by the depth of her conviction. She felt strong now that she’d made the decision and confirmed it out loud. The night seemed to steal her words, taking them and stashing them away in some secret nook or cranny made of pure darkness. Those words would remain there, resting on a shelf of night, until the act was done; and only then would they be returned to her, like a promise or prophecy sent home to roost.

As if borne by her newfound sense of righteousness, Lana made her way out of the circle at the centre of the estate, cutting along Grove Lane until she saw the mini roundabout adjacent to The Dropped Penny. She crossed the quiet road, glancing at her watch as she made it to the kerb on the other side. It was 2:30 AM. She felt like it should be close to daybreak, but it was still deep in the early hours of morning, and a long time before most of the denizens of this place would even stir in their beds or even think about waking. The dreams here lay as thick as clouds above the houses; when she glanced up, at the sky, she could almost see their formless gyrations above the rooftops. The Needle stood behind her. She felt as if it were bending forward to mock her while she had her back turned, but nothing could have forced her to turn around and take a look.

She made her way to the Grove Court flats, fumbling with her key as she walked along the path to the main door. Once inside she stood with her back against the door, glad that she had some kind of barrier between her and the labyrinth through which she’d been stumbling like a lost child. She paused there for a while, trying to control her breathing. Finally the shakes had come, and the asthmatic reaction of delayed fright.

“I’ll kill you,” she said again, between rushed breaths. “Kill. You.”

Once she felt calmer she climbed the stairs and entered the flat. The lamp was on in the living room, there was a small black and white television playing on mute. Hailey must have borrowed it from one of her few friends. She couldn’t imagine any of her neighbours dropping it over for them to use. This wasn’t the kind of place where you helped each other out. People kept to themselves, and hid behind their doors at any hint of trouble.

She watched a giant white cat as it tried to climb the Post Office Tower on the tiny screen, and realised that it was a late-night repeat of an old comedy programme from the 1970s: The Goodies. She’d loved the show when she was a young girl, and had never missed an episode. The sight of that stupid cat — a bad special effect from a dated TV show — brought her close to tears for the first time that day.

She exhaled and turned away from the television, heading into the kitchen. She poured herself a large whisky in a tall glass, added a couple of ice cubes from the freezer (there were two left, looking sad and fluffy in the plastic mould), and stood leaning against the workbench as she drank. It was pointless going back into the other room to watch the rest of the show. There were no chairs to sit on, and her lower regions ached too badly to sit on the hard floor.

Tears poured down her cheeks as she finished her drink, but she refused to acknowledge them. If she ignored them, they didn’t exist. She poured another tall drink and drank it without ice — there was none left anyway, and she didn’t feel like scraping it off the inside of the freezer. She was desperate but she still had standards.

She laughed out loud, wiped her face with the back of one hand and used the other to tilt the glass against her open lips and tip the remaining whisky down her throat.

“Mum?”

Hailey’s voice pulled her out of the state of hysteria she’d been dangerously close to embracing. She put down the glass on the bench and pushed herself into the middle of the kitchen. “Hey, baby. Yes, it’s me. I’ve been out for a late drink with Tom.” She smiled but knew it was fooling nobody — not Hailey, and certainly not herself. “What are you doing awake at this time?”

“Mum, something’s happened. Something weird…” The girl was standing at the end of the short hallway, partially inside the living room. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe that was hanging open, the belt undone. Her belly was loose and wrinkled, like a fleshy bag, and it hung down over her waist. There was blood on her thighs. It looked dark in the lamplight, like deep red ink.

“Hailey. What’s wrong? What happened?” She moved quickly, grabbing a couple of tea towels from the top drawer beside the sink and kneeling down in front of her daughter. “What the fuck’s happened, Hay?”

“They’ve come,” said Hailey, her pale face turned slightly upward. “I asked for help, and help’s arrived.”

“Talk to me, Hailey. Tell me what you’ve done.” Frantically, she checked her daughter’s arms for signs of self-harm or needle marks. Then, finding nothing but smooth white flesh traced with delicate blue veins, she turned her attention to Hailey’s lower anatomy.

She’d given birth, that much was obvious. Her belly was hanging in such a way that it was clear something had recently vacated it. She pushed the loose flesh aside, inspecting the area beneath. There was blood on Hailey’s pubes, and stringy matter pasted to the inner surfaces of her legs. The blood was congealing; it was not running fresh. Whatever had occurred, it was over. The damage was done.

“You’ve had a baby?” She could not believe that she was saying the words.

Hailey laughed. It was an awful sound: empty and uncomprehending. “No, Mum. Not a baby. I’ve deliveredsomething, but it certainly wasn’t a baby.” Hailey’s voice sounded strange, like she was a grown woman and not a little girl. She spoke like an old crone, battered and beaten by life’s traumas but not yet ready to lie down and quit.

Lana decided to change the course of the conversation, to give Hailey some room in which to find her focus. “Where did the TV come from, honey?” She rubbed her daughter’s forearms, as if she were trying to warm them up, to help circulate the blood in her veins.

“Tessa’s mother brought it over. Late on, after you’d gone out.”

Lana had no idea who Tessa was.

“That was nice of her.” She kept rubbing Hailey’s arms. She couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry, honey. Mummy couldn’t make it better.” Tears ran down her cheeks and she stroked Hailey’s cold wrists. “I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t manage it. I’m sorry for your illness, I’m sorry for the things we’ve seen and done. I’m sorry your daddy isn’t around to see how beautiful you are.”

Hailey’s eyelids flickered, and then her eyes slowly closed and opened again. They were completely white, without a trace of pupil or iris. She opened her mouth and a trail of saliva ran down her chin. She was having some kind of fit. Another one.

Lana grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Hailey?”

Hailey’s body began to shake. Lana was almost used to this by now, but combined with everything else she was going through it seemed much worse this time.

“Oh, Hailey. Oh, honey.” Lana cradled her child in her arms and reached out to something she didn’t believe in. If there was a God, or some kind of greater power that watched over the fallen, then why would it not answer her pleas? The doctors were useless; they didn’t know what was wrong. None of them could make a proper diagnosis. Maybe all she had left to rely on was whatever might be listening to her prayers.

The shuddering motion stopped. Hailey pushed herself out of her mother’s embrace. Her eyes were normal again. White flecks of spit speckled her chin.

“The Slitten,” said Hailey, her voice low and cold and even. “They’ll help us. Just ask. Ask.”

After everything she’d seen lately — and all the horror she’d experienced in Monty Bright’s basement room — Lana was ready to believe in anything. Any slim hope offered to her looked appealing, even the private fantasy belonging to a damaged teenager. She let go of Hailey and shuffled backwards on her knees, clasping her hands in a clumsy prayer. She lowered her head and gathered whatever energy still inhabited her battered body.

“Just ask.” Hailey’s voice was a whisper, an echo.

Lana stared at her hands, clasped before her in an idiot’s plea. Suddenly this seemed like an absurd