Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) Read Free Page A

the cigarette machine; her lips mashed against his teeth and Marc caught a glimpse of her tongue as it snaked into her partner’s mouth.
    He wasn’t quite sure when he felt her gaze – even later, when he thought back to this moment, he could not be certain of the exact moment that he noticed her – but he gradually became aware of a vague warm sensation at the back of his head. Turning, he looked past the crowded bar and saw a tall, thin woman leaning against the wall by the jukebox. He’d caught her eye just as she looked away, but he knew that she’d been staring at him.
    The woman’s face was long and narrow, vaguely horse-like, with a long nose and a wide, appealing mouth. Like a lot of women on the estate, she had dyed blonde hair, but hers was pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her black suit was cheap and in need of ironing but the blouse she had on underneath the jacket looked as if she’d spent a bit of money on it back when it had been in fashion. She looked at him again but this time she didn’t look away immediately; she held his gaze for a long moment and a smile played at the edges of her broad mouth.
    “There you go.” Rose was back. He pushed a shot glass into Marc’s hand and slammed down two bottles of Becks on the table. “I dunno about you, but suddenly I feel like getting pissed.”
    Marc raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    T HE AFTERNOON WORE on in a comfortable haze of whisky and beer. The craving for tobacco was almost crippling at times, because Marc kept seeing people nip outside for a smoke. He was drawn to follow them, as if some invisible umbilical were tugging him in that direction. But he fought the urge and managed to get through the worst of it. He drank more alcohol instead. It seemed to numb the craving.
    He and Rose talked about a lot of things but they didn’t discuss anything of importance. Their conversation lurched between football and politics (Rose was a life long supporter of Newcastle United; Marc was a Sunderland fan. They both voted labour but Rose was in favour of a return to a more rigidly socialist doctrine), women and wine, friendships lost and broken and relationships renewed. The old man soon became maudlin and the effects of the whisky were showing. At some point after 3 pm, he announced that he was going to call a taxi and rose unsteadily to his feet.
    “Here,” said Marc, all too aware of the slurring in his voice. “Use my mobile.”
    “Thanks.” Rose thumbed the number and ordered a cab. He was told that it would arrive in about five minutes.
    “I should’ve left earlier. I can’t take the booze like I used to.” His face was loose on the bones, the skin sagging. “But I’m glad I had someone to drink with, Marc. You’ve saved me from an afternoon sat in a corner drinking alone and wallowing in self-pity.” He smiled and showed his teeth, which were so white and even they could only be dentures.
    “I’ll keep in touch,” said Marc. “Harry was a good man, and it would be a nice tribute if his death meant that we stayed friends.” He was surprised to find that he actually meant what he said.
    “I’d like that. I know I can’t take back what happened between me and Harry, but the fact that you spent time with him in his last days is comforting. Right then...” He stood, swayed, and steadied himself against the table, clattering the glasses. “I have to go. My cab will be here soon. I’ll speak to you next week?”
    Marc nodded. “I’ll give you a call. We can go for a pint.”
    He watched as the old man wove across the floor, managing not to walk into anyone, and then pushed through the door and went outside.
    Marc had about an inch of whisky left in his glass and the beer bottle was only half full. He knew that he should drink up and go, but the urge to keep drinking surged within him, a throwback to his younger days when he’d struggled with an addictive nature.
    Just one more, he thought . One