The Hiding Place, page 12
“A way into what?”
“The pit.”
I stared at him, and it was weird. I felt like I had heard the words before. Or had been expecting them. A strange shiver ran around my body, like when you touch a shopping cart and your hand tingles with static. The pit.
Hurst loped over. “You found a way into the old mineshafts?”
“Fucking ace,” Fletch added.
I shook my head. “No way. They were all blocked off and, anyway, those shafts are, like, hundreds of feet down.”
Hurst looked at me then nodded. “Thorney’s right. Are y’sure, Doughboy?”
Doughboy was Hurst’s nickname for Chris because he was “soft as dough.”
Chris looked between us, helpless as a giant rabbit caught in our headlights. He swallowed and said, “I d–d–don’t know for sure. I’ll show you.”
It was only later, when I really thought about it—and I had plenty of opportunity to think about it—that I realized he never answered Hurst’s question.
“A way into the old mineshafts?”
We presumed that’s what he meant. But I don’t think he did, even then. He meant The Pit. Like he already knew what it was. And The Pit was something very different indeed.
—
The light was losing its grip on the day by the time we got up there. It was late August, the tail end of the summer holidays, and “the nights were drawing in,” as my mum would say (which always made me think of someone taking a great big piece of charcoal and scribbling out the day).
I think we all had that feeling of stuff ending, like you always do when you’re a kid and six weeks of holidays is almost over. I guess we also knew that this was our last summer of really being “kids.” Next year we had exams, and plenty of our classmates, even in the nineties, would leave school straight for work, although not straight down the mine, like they used to.
By this point the old colliery site was just a great muddy scar on the landscape. Grass and scrubby bushes were starting to take a grip. But the place was mostly still black with coal dust and littered with rocks, rusted machinery, sharp fragments of metal and lumps of concrete.
We hauled ourselves through a gap in the ineffectual security fencing around the outside where signs like danger, forbidden and no trespassing might as well have read: welcome, come in and dare you.
Chris led the way. Well, sort of. He scrambled and slid and tripped then stopped, looked around and scrambled and slid and tripped some more.
“Fuck, Doughboy—you sure you’re going the right way?” Hurst panted. “The old shafts are back that way.”
Chris shook his head. “This way.”
Hurst looked at me. I shrugged. Fletch made a whirling motion at the side of his head.
“Give him a chance,” I said.
We continued our awkward progress. At the peak of one steep, muddy summit Chris paused and looked around for a long while, like a large dog sniffing the air. Then he plunged down the almost sheer incline, scrabbling and skidding through the gravel and rubble.
“Fuck’s sake,” Fletch muttered. “I’m not going down there.”
I admit I was tempted to turn back, but I also felt a strange, bubbling excitement. Like when you see a fairground ride and you don’t want to get on it because it looks scary as fuck but another part of you does want to, really badly.
I glanced at Fletch and couldn’t resist: “Scared?”
He glared at me. “Fuck you!”
Hurst grinned, never happier than when there was discord within the troops.
“Pussies!” he cried, and then, with a wild whoop, he plunged down the slope. I followed, more cautiously. Fletch swore again then did the same.
At the bottom I almost slipped on my arse but just managed to keep my footing. I felt gravel lodge in my trainers and dig into the soles of my feet. Overhead, the sky seemed to hang lower, heavy with impending darkness.
“We’re not going to be able to see fuck all now,” Fletch moaned.
“How much further?” Hurst asked.
“We’re there!” Chris called back, and disappeared.
I blinked, looked around then spotted a flash of gray. He was crouched down in a hollow formed by a small overhang. If you looked quickly you wouldn’t even see him in the dip. We scrambled down after him. Patchy grass and bushes had started to make a tentative hold on the ground nearby, offering further camouflage. There were several large rocks scattered around. Chris moved a couple and I realized he had placed them there on purpose, as markers.
He shoved away dirt and smaller stones with his hands. Then he sat back on his heels and stared at us triumphantly.
“What?” Fletch spat in disgust. “I can’t see nothing.”
We all squinted at the uncovered patch of earth. Maybe a bit more uneven and a slightly different color from the surrounding earth, but that was it.
“Are you putting us on, Doughboy?” Hurst snarled. He grabbed him by the neck of his sweatshirt. “Because if this is some kind of prank—”
Chris’s eyes widened. “No prank.”
I would think later that, even then, half choked by Hurst, he still didn’t stutter. Not here.
“Wait,” I said. I bent closer to the ground, brushed away a bit more dirt and felt my fingers touch something colder. Metal. I sat back. And suddenly, I saw it.
A circular shape in the earth, rusted almost the same color, but not quite. It looked a bit like an old hubcap, but if you looked closer you could see it was too large for a hubcap and too thick. There were small round lumps around the edge, like rivets. In the middle was another circle, slightly raised, with grooves in it.
“There,” I said. “Can you see it now?”
I pointed at the ground and looked back at the others.
Hurst dropped Chris. “What the fuck is it?”
“It’s just an old hubcap,” Fletch said, echoing my first thought.
“Too big,” Hurst said immediately, echoing my second thought. He looked back at Chris. “Well?”
Chris just stared at him, as if the answer was obvious. “It’s a hatch.”
“A what ?”
“It’s like an opening,” I said. “To underground.”
Hurst’s face broke into a wide grin. “Fucking ace.” He looked back at the circular shape in the ground. “So, what? Some sort of escape shaft for the mines or something. I think I’ve heard of those.”
I never had, and my dad had worked down the mines most of his life, but I knew mines did have air shafts, to ventilate them. I didn’t see how that would help us much, though. Those shafts were the equivalent of chimney stacks. They ran all the way up to the surface. A drop of around three hundred feet straight down. That wasn’t a way in. That was suicide.
I was about to point this out when Hurst spoke again. “Go on, then,” he said to Chris. “Open it.”
Chris looked pained. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Hurst shook his head in disgust. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Doughboy.”
He bent and tried to grasp the edges of the metal, wedging his fingers underneath. But it was so big and heavy I could see he was having difficulty getting any traction. He grunted and heaved then yelled at the rest of us: “Well, come on, fucking help me, you bunch of twats.”
Despite my trepidation, I complied, along with Fletch. We all dug our fingers into the dirt and tried to grasp the metal around the edges, but it was impossible. It was just too thick and too deeply embedded into the earth. It had probably been untouched for years. However much we pulled and twisted and tugged, it just wouldn’t budge.
“Fuck this,” Hurst gasped, and we all fell gratefully back onto the hard ground, arms aching, chests heaving.
I looked back at the strange metal circle. Yes, it was stuck fast in the earth, but if it was some kind of smoke or escape hatch, surely there ought to be a handle or lever so you could get it up quickly if necessary. That was the whole point of a hatch. But there was nothing, except that odd second circle, almost as if it wasn’t put there to be opened at all. Not to let anyone in, or out.
“Right,” Hurst said. “We need to get some proper tools and get it up.”
“Now?” I said. The light had faded so fast I could only just make out the ghostly circles of their faces.
“What’s the matter? You wimping out, Thorney?”
I bristled. “No. I’m just saying, it’s almost dark. We’re not going to have much time. If we’re going in, we should be prepared.”
Not that I wanted to go in at all, if indeed there even was an “in” to go to, but it seemed the best argument for now.
I thought he was going to argue back. Then he said, “You’re right. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He looked around at us all. “We’ll need flashlights.” He grinned. “And a crowbar.”
—
We covered the hatch roughly with dirt and rocks and then, as a marker, Hurst left his school tie in a loose knot on the ground. No one casually walking past would think anything of it. Ties, like trainers and socks, were often scattered around the old colliery site.
Then, as the final trace of light withered from the sky, we started to trudge home. I’m not sure, but I think I glanced back once, a strange feeling of unease tickling the base of my neck. I couldn’t have possibly seen anything from that distance, but in my mind I could still just make out the strange rusty hatch.
I didn’t like it.
A crowbar. I didn’t like that either.
17
After Marie has gone I can’t settle. My leg is hurting again, and even the addition of a large bourbon and two codeine tablets can’t ease the twitching nerves.
Sitting makes it ache. Pacing makes it throb. I curse and rub at it viciously. I try to distract myself with a book, some music, then I stand and smoke at the back door. Again.
My mind is also working overtime. Suffocate the Little Children, Rest in Pieces. It’s happening again. The sender of the text must be the same person who sent me the email. And if they know about the Angel, then they must have known me all those years ago. Not Hurst, or Marie. Fletch? I’m not sure Fletch is capable of sending a coherent text message, not with the lack of opposable thumbs. So, who else? And more to the point, why, why, why?
My general state of befuddled confusion has not been helped by Marie’s impromptu visit tonight. I’m not sure if I have done the right thing. If I have shown my hand too soon. A good gambler knows never to do that. Not without being damn certain what cards the other player is holding.
But then, I don’t have much time. Certainly not as much as I thought. Because Gloria is here. Waiting. Impatiently. Tapping those glittery red nails. If I don’t satisfy her demands soon, the game will be over. Because I will be dead, quite possibly with no hands at all. Or feet. Or anything that could be used to identify my body.
I chuck my cigarette out into the darkness and watch the glowing red tip dim and die. Then I turn, limp back into the kitchen and take the folder out from beneath the sink. Because who am I kidding? I was always going to read it. I pour another drink, walk into the living room and place it on the coffee table in front of me.
The twitching nerves in my leg aren’t the only things that are restless tonight. I can feel the cottage shifting around me. The lights seem to ebb and dim occasionally—nothing new with a village electricity supply—but I can hear something too. A noise. Familiar. Troubling. That same faint chittering sound. It makes my fillings hum and the hairs on my skin bristle. Grating, external tinnitus.
I wonder if Julia sat here and tried to tune out the same insidious noise. Night after night. Or if it only came later? Chicken and egg. Did what happened to Ben somehow change the cottage? Or was the cottage already a part of it? The skittering in the walls and the creeping cold feeding Julia’s fear and paranoia?
I drag my hands through my hair and rub at my eyes. The chittering seems to have grown louder. I try to ignore it. I thumb through the folder until, once again, Annie’s face beams out at me.
Search for missing eight-year-old continues. The headline. But not the whole story. Not even close.
Dad put her to bed that night. About eight. Or so he thought. He was drunk. As he was most evenings by then. Mum was at Nan and Grandad’s house because Nan had had a “nasty fall” a few days before and broken her ankle and wrist. I was out with Hurst and his gang. It wasn’t until the next morning that Mum discovered Annie wasn’t in her bed, or her room, or anywhere in the house.
The police were called. There were questions, searches. Uniformed officers and local men, including my dad, spread out in uneven lines across the old colliery site and the fields beyond, hunch-shouldered against the pummeling rain, dressed in long black waterproofs that made them look like giant vultures. They trod slowly and wearily, as though in time to some somber internal beat, and brushed at the ground with branches and sticks.
I wanted to go with them. I asked, begged, but a kind-faced officer with a beard and bald crown placed a hand on my shoulder and said gently: “I don’t think that’s a good idea, son. Best you stay here, help your mum.”
At the time, I was angry. Thought he was treating me like a child, a nuisance. Later I would realize he was trying to protect me. From finding my sister’s body.
I could have told him it was too late to protect me. I could have told the police a lot of things, but nobody wanted to listen. I tried. I told them how sometimes Annie would follow me when I went out with my mates, sneak out of the house. I’d brought her back before. They nodded and took notes, but it didn’t really change anything. They knew Annie had sneaked out of the house. They just didn’t know where she’d gone.
The one thing I couldn’t tell them was the truth, not the whole truth, because nobody would have believed me. I wasn’t even sure I believed it myself.
Every second, minute and hour that passed the terror and guilt grew. I have never been more aware of what a coward I am than in the forty-eight hours that my sister was missing. Fear battled conscience, tearing up my insides. I’m not sure which would have won in the end if the impossible hadn’t happened. I turn the page:
Missing eight-year-old found—
Parents’ joy!!
I was in the kitchen making toast for Mum and Dad when Annie came back. The bread was stale and a bit moldy. Nobody had gone shopping since last week. I scraped off the mold and stuck it under the grill. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t eat it anyway. I would just end up throwing it in the trash can with the previous day’s uneaten meals.
There was a knock at the door. We all looked up, but no one moved. Three knocks. Did that mean news? We listened like it was Morse code. Knock, knock, knock. Good or bad?
It was Mum who broke first. Maybe she was the bravest, or maybe she was just tired of waiting. She needed release, one way or another. She shoved her chair back and staggered to the door. Dad didn’t move at all. I hovered in the hallway. I could smell the toast burning, but neither of us moved to take it off the grill.
Mum pulled open the door. A policeman stood there. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I saw Mum wilt and clutch the doorframe. My heart stuttered to a halt. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t breathe. And then she turned and screamed:
“She’s alive! They found her! They found our baby!”
We went to the police station together (Arnhill had its own back then), squashed into the back of a blue-and-white police car: Mum and Dad wet-eyed with joy and relief and me a sweating mass of jangling nerves. As we climbed out of the car my legs gave and Dad had to catch my arm. “It’s all right, son,” he said. “It’s going to be all right now.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did. I used to think my dad was right about everything. Always trusted his word. But even then I knew. Things weren’t all right. Things would never be all right again.
“She hasn’t said very much,” the officer told us as we walked down a long, pale blue corridor that smelled of sweat and urine. “Just her name, and she asked for a drink.”
We all nodded.
“Did someone take her?” Mum blurted out. “Did someone hurt her?”
“We don’t know. A dog walker found her wandering up on the old colliery site. She doesn’t seem to have any physical injuries. She’s just cold and a little dehydrated.”
“Can we take her home?” Dad asked.
The officer nodded. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
He held open the door to the interview room.
“Joe.” Mum nudged me and, before I had a chance to gather myself, or make sense of anything, we walked inside.
Annie sat on a plastic chair, next to a lady police officer who obviously didn’t have much to do with children, and looked awkward and uncomfortable.
There was a small cup of juice on the table and some uneaten cookies. Annie stared straight past them at the dirty, scuffed wall and swung her legs back and forth. Her pajamas were muddy and torn in places. The police had wrapped her in a blue blanket that was too big and no doubt intended for the adult prisoners who normally frequented the cells. Her feet were bare. And black with coal dust.
She clutched something to her chest, half hidden by the blanket. I could just see dirty-blond curls, pink plastic, one blue eye. My scalp prickled. Abbie-Eyes. She brought her back.
“Oh, Annie.”
Mum and Dad ran over and wrapped her in their arms. They smothered her in kisses, getting covered in dirt and coal dust themselves but not caring because their daughter was back. Their little girl was home, safe and sound.
Annie remained still, face impassive, only her legs swinging back and forth. Mum slowly drew away, her face tear-streaked. She reached out and smoothed a hand down Annie’s cheek.
“What happened, sweetheart? What happened to you?”
I hovered by the door, hoping that the officers would mistake my reticence for teenage awkwardness. Perhaps I was even trying to convince myself it was the reason I hadn’t moved any closer.
