Simon nodded, then realised that Brendan couldn’t see him because he had his back to him, and answered. “Yeah, that was me. I did a little drive-by.”
“You should’ve come over. I would have put the kettle on.”
Simon sensed more untruths, but he was unsure whether or not Brendan was simply being cautious, afraid to open up too much because of the dead weight of years that stood between them.
“Come on. Let’s get this done.” Brendan pushed open the gates and stepped inside.
Simon followed him into the enclosure, feeling as if he were walking into a prison — or perhaps a complex trap. He knew that he was being impulsive by coming here right now, but he also realised that he couldn’t put off this confrontation indefinitely. It had to be done; he needed to face the past if he stood even a chance of unlocking its secrets.
The Needle glowered down at him. That was how it felt, as if the building were leaning over slightly and staring at the top of his head in silent rage. His skin itched; his vision swam. Simon considered himself a brave — and sometimes even reckless — man, but this was something different. This was madness. In his time, he had stood toe-to-toe with some of the most feared businessmen in London, negotiated with fierce adversaries over money, and once had even grabbed a renowned investor by the throat in a boardroom and threatened to break his nose… but those were safe battles. The numerous enemies he’d bested were made of flesh and blood, not brick and mortar and the essence of lost memory.
He had a flashback then, as he knew he would: a vision of oak trees, with soft, pale moonlight filtering like dust motes through the canopy of branches. Something moved beyond the perimeter of the circle of trees, slowly circling the three of them — Simon, Brendan, and Marty, whining and sitting with their backs to each other on the hard ground.
There was nothing more. That was it; all he was given.
“The trees,” he said, not even realising until it was too late that he’d spoken the words out loud.
“I remember that, too.” Brendan turned towards him, his face pale and devoid of any readable expression. “There was a circle of oaks… with us sitting terrified in the middle.”
Simon nodded. He rubbed his cheeks with the palms of his hands and felt the tough stubble as it rasped against his flesh. “Yeah… I haven’t thought about that for years. I’d forgotten about the trees. How could I ever forget something like that?”
Brendan smiled, and it seemed to split his face in two. “It’s because you weren’t here. You went away, and you broke a connection. The trees are one of the few memories I have. I dream about them. And I dream about being tied up by their branches.” He broke off then, as if he wanted to say more but had changed his mind.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” said Brendan. “It’s nothing.”
They walked on, towards the towering form of the Needle. Its grey walls were impassive; its dingy presence was a glimpse into another time and place. Simon felt the present shiver, as if the very fabric of time and space was straining at the seams and attempting to transport him back in time twenty years. The sky stretched above him like a thin sheet, the ground threatened to shift beneath his feet, and the landscape around him seemed like it was poised on the cusp of a change.
The day’s alcohol intake drained from him, leaving him cold and sober.
“This way.” Brendan walked to the main doors. They’d been exposed; the wooden boards that had once protected them from vandalism now lay in pieces on the ground beside them. Brendan reached out and unlocked the doors, opened them slowly, and stepped aside. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” And Simon was ready. At last he was ready to enter the tower block and reclaim at least a fragment of his childhood. He clenched his hands into fists, as if preparing for a fight, and stepped forward, walking stiffly up the steps and into the building. His skin went cold, hot, and then cold again; it felt like he was passing through different rooms, each with its own temperature. He’d never been so detached yet so curiously involved in a single moment. The muscles in his neck tightened and his head ached.
The ground floor was in ruins. Graffiti, broken concrete, piles of rubbish all over the floor. It was nothing like what he’d expected. The interior was a tipping ground for broken things, and it was only fitting that he and Brendan should be here: two broken men looking for a way to fix themselves.
“How does it feel?” Brendan’s voice sounded as if he were perched on Simon’s shoulder, speaking directly into his ear.
“Weird. I thought… I expected to be more afraid, but all I feel is tired and reluctant. It’s like a chore. Something I have to do. Does that even make sense?”
“No.” Brendan’s tepid laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls and giving it a false sense of vigour.
“Okay, okay… you know what I mean. It’s like an anticlimax. I’ve built this up so much, and for so long, that it’s almost disappointing now I’ve finally got here.”
“Yes,” said Brendan. “I do know what you mean — I had the same experience. I hadn’t been back here for years. Then, when I was twenty-one, I just broke in through one of the first floor windows and took a look around. I wasn’t afraid; it was just an empty building. Like I said, there are no ghosts here. You won’t find our childhood selves waiting for you in a cramped little room.”
Something scurried across the floor, and when Simon glanced in the direction of the movement he saw a mouse or a rat burrowing into a pile of old clothes.
“They’re the only monsters you’ll find here, mate. Plenty of vermin nesting in these old walls… they’ve made it their home.”
Brendan’s phrasing made Simon momentarily nervous, but he shrugged off the feeling. It was nothing; just words.
Then, gradually, he became aware of another sound — this one far off, coming from somewhere deep inside the building. It was like slow dragging footsteps, perhaps somebody moving lazily through the rooms, wandering aimlessly. He listened for a moment, trying to pick out the direction of the source of the noise, but he couldn’t be certain of where it originated. The sound seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Is there somebody else here?”
Brendan took a step forward, in front of Simon. “Not that I’m aware of.”
More lies. He’d always been able to tell when Brendan was lying; his voice lowered, he was unable to look whoever he was speaking to directly in the eye.
“This place is empty.” Brendan stayed where he was, with his back to Simon.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Simon, moving forward and placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s no need.”
Brendan shrugged off the contact, but did not turn around. He kept staring ahead, into the dusty shadows and along a narrow hallway leading off from the main reception area. “There’s nobody here. Or if there is, it’s just some kid mucking about.”
“Okay,” said Simon, unwilling to force the issue. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to get at you.” The shuffling sound had stopped. In its place, Simon could just about make out a low, soft humming, like air forced quickly through narrow pipes.
Brendan sighed heavily. “Just like old times. You always were a bit of a bully, talking us into things, convincing us to get into trouble.” His voice seemed to hold an element of humour, but it was only a sliver.
“That was then and this is now.” Simon backed away. He didn’t want to get into this, not now: not here. He’d lived with the guilt for twenty years, and it was too soon to bring it out into the open. He’d been the one who’d cajoled the other two into coming here, and following… whatever it was Brendan said he had seen. The clicking figure: the beaked man with the stick. Captain Clickety. Simon had been the one to come up with the idea, and despite the other Amigos’ reluctance, he’d forced the issue, calling them babies…