Beyond Here Lies Nothing (The Concrete Grove Trilogy) by Gary McMahon

razors, a half-used bottle of aftershave, and some shaving foam. He wondered who they belonged to, or if in fact they were there for anyone who needed them. For some reason, Abby didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who said no often. He recalled the comment he’d heard in the pub yesterday, when that pissed-up bloke had told him that she’d sleep with anyone who bought her a drink.
    He stared at his face in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were red, the skin around them swollen. His lips were dry and his teeth looked yellow.
    “Morning, handsome,” he said, tilting his head and grinning.
    He brushed his teeth, took a piss that seemed to last forever, and left the room. This time he’d managed not to look over at the other bedroom door. He went straight for the stairs and walked down them silently, as if afraid to be heard.
    He turned at the bottom and saw her through the kitchen doorway. She was bending over the table, setting out a couple of plates and some cutlery. Her short dressing gown had hitched up over her thighs. There were old, faded scars there that he’d failed to notice the night before and faint marks like old bruises that had never healed.
    Marc felt like running, but he told himself not to be stupid, not to judge this woman before he even knew her.
    She turned around and saw him, a smile appearing briefly on her face before it was swallowed by some other expression, one that he could not read. Was it regret? Dread? Terror?
    “Morning.” He walked towards the kitchen doorway.
    “Hi,” she said, turning away. “I made bacon and eggs. I hope you’re hungry.”
    “Cheers,” he said, sitting down at the table. “That would be great.”
    “Coffee?” She didn’t turn to look at him when she asked the question.
    “Black, thanks. One sugar.”
    She nodded, but still didn’t turn.
    He watched her as she poured hot water into two mugs Her shoulders were narrow, her arms were thin. She was tiny, breakable. Like a porcelain doll. Last night she’d seemed more like a warrior.
    “Here.” She turned and set down one of the mugs on the table. The handle of the spoon stuck up above the rim. He grabbed it and began to stir, slowly. “Food’s nearly ready.”
    “Thanks.” He stopped stirring. “How do you feel this morning?”
    She tensed. “What do you mean?”
    “Well...” He wished he hadn’t started this; he should have just kept his mouth shut, or maybe talked about the weather. “You know. After we... what happened between us.”
    “After we fucked, you mean?”
    He was shocked, but what stunned him more was his reaction to her words. He’d expected her to be like this, so why did it have such an impact? “Yes,” he said. He took a sip of coffee.
    “I feel fine. I’m used to it. You’ll probably hear this anyway, so I’ll tell you now.” She turned to face him. Her eyes were large, glaring. Her cheeks were tensed. “I’m a slag. I’ll fuck anyone, me. It’s what I do, just so I don’t feel so alone. It doesn’t make you anything special.”
    Marc wasn’t sure what he was meant to say, so he went with a joke: “You say the nicest things.”
    There was a pause, and then she smiled. Even her eyes lit up. “Thanks.” She turned back to the cooker and started serving up the bacon and scrambled egg. She’d made too much, but she piled it onto the plates anyway.
    “This looks good.” He stared at the plate of food. He wasn’t lying. It looked fantastic. The bacon was well done, just the way he liked it, and the eggs weren’t too soft.
    “Eat up, then,” she said.
    He took one mouthful and his stomach began to ache. He answered this by shovelling in more food, unashamed at how ill-mannered he was coming across. He was starving. Ravenous. He’d never felt so hungry in his life.
    “I like to see a man with a big appetite,” she said. She hadn’t touched her own food. Clearly she preferred to watch him eat.
    Marc took a break halfway through, gasping for breath. He