The Hiding Place, page 18
“I’m sorry.”
“ ‘Sorry’ will not help my hernia.”
“I just need a few more days.”
A deep, deep sigh. “Fine. But if you don’t sort it, or if you run into anything you can’t handle—”
“I’ll call you.”
“Jesus, no. Call the police, you moron. Or the A Team.”
24
“So then I said to this student that, while I respected her right to express herself by throwing the shoe…”
Simon is drawling on. It says something about my current state of mind that the soporific nature of his voice is vaguely bearable this lunchtime. Or perhaps I have just managed to tune him out to white noise. Irritating but ignorable.
It’s just me, Simon and Beth at lunch today. I am not hungry. Not in the slightest. But I force down some chips in the vague hope they might help my hangover. I also have my second can of full-fat Coke in front of me.
Simon has gone through the obligatory and predictable drinking-on-a-school-night “jokes.” I smile politely and just about manage not to punch him in the face. It would hurt my hand, for one thing. I have made a relatively professional-looking bandage out of a cut-up pillowcase and told people that I burnt myself on the oven. Drunken cooking, et cetera. Beth occasionally gives me knowing looks. She doesn’t believe me. I don’t care. Right now, I am more preoccupied by last night. By what Marcus told me. By my encounter with Gloria. By what a mess I am in and how it would be difficult for things to get any worse.
“Mr. Thorne?”
I look up. Harry is standing by the dining table. His face is grim.
“Could we have a word in my office?”
Difficult but not impossible.
“Of course.”
I wait for some sort of snide comment from Simon. None is forthcoming. He seems intent upon his lunch. Too intent. I scrape back my chair.
Beth raises her eyebrows. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah.”
I follow Harry along the corridor.
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“I’d rather wait until we reach my office.”
His tone is hard, noncommittal. I don’t like it. I have a very bad feeling about this. Which, considering my starting point this morning, is impressive.
Harry pushes open the door and steps inside. I follow him. And stop. Dead.
A visitor sits in front of Harry’s desk.
As we enter, he stands and turns.
I’d say my heart sinks, but I’m not sure it could dive much further without a mask and oxygen. In fact, I almost laugh. Really, I should have expected it. I’m a gambler. You’re supposed to think about all possible outcomes before you act—work out your strategy—but I suddenly feel as though I’ve been flapping around like a tasty bit of tuna at a table of sharks.
Harry closes the door and looks between the pair of us. “I believe that you two know each other.”
“We both grew up in Arnhill,” Stephen Hurst says. “Other than that, I wouldn’t say I really ‘know’ Mr. Thorne at all.”
“Well, I was picky about my friends even then,” I say.
Hurst’s smug expression falters momentarily. Then he spots my bandaged hand. “Been picking fights again?”
“Only with the oven. But if you’re offering?”
“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Hurst,” Harry interrupts curtly. “Can we all sit down?”
Hurst lowers himself into his seat. I walk over and reluctantly do the same. It feels a lot like how we used to sit in front of the headmaster twenty-five years ago.
“So,” Harry says, and shuffles some papers in front of him. “Some things have come to my attention that I think we need to discuss.”
I try to adopt a pleasant tone. “Is this regarding Jeremy Hurst and the incident with Marcus Dawson in the toilets yesterday, because—”
“No.” Harry cuts me dead. “It is not about that.”
“Oh.”
I’m back-footed. I glance at Hurst. His face has resumed its former self-satisfied expression. I would like to smash it from his jowls. I would like to leap from my chair, grab him around the throat and choke him until his eyes bulge and his tongue turns blue.
Instead I say, “Then I suppose you had better enlighten me.”
“Prior to taking the position with us here at Arnhill you worked at Stockford Academy.”
“That’s right.”
“You supplied a reference from your former head—Miss Coombes?”
I can feel sweat starting to dampen my underarms. “Yes.”
“Except that’s not entirely true, is it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Miss Coombes did not supply that reference.”
“She didn’t?”
“She denies any knowledge of it.”
“Well, I think there may have been some miscommunication.”
“I doubt it. Miss Coombes was quite clear—you left Stockford Academy suddenly, not long after a substantial amount of money went missing from the school safe.”
“That money was recovered.”
Hurst can’t contain himself any longer. “Apparently, you like to play cards, Joe?”
I turn. “Why—fancy a game of Liar? And what exactly does any of this have to do with you?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m on the board of governors. When it is brought to my attention that one of the teachers here is not fit for the job—”
“Sorry—‘brought to your attention.’ By whom?”
His lips purse. And then it comes to me. Simon Saunders. He was in the Fox the night I ran into Hurst. He knows him. (Doesn’t everyone in Arnhill?) Why go running to Harry when he could go over his head and tell all to someone on the board of governors? Someone who already hates my guts. Get Hurst on his side and maybe store up some favors for himself. Two birds—one poisonous little toad.
“You should be careful who you listen to,” I say.
“You’re not denying it then?”
“I would say that the version presented here bears only a vague resemblance to the truth. Something which I would prefer to discuss with my superior in private.”
Hurst’s eyes flash. “The truth is that you accepted this position under false pretenses and you left your previous position under a cloud. This, on top of the fact that you have some vendetta against my son, no doubt based upon your imagined prior history with me. Your demeanor and performance as a teacher are entirely unsuitable. Oh, and you stink of booze.”
He straightens his tie and sits back triumphantly. Harry stares at me wearily from across the desk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne. This will go before the board. You are entitled to union representation, but in the light of these revelations—”
“Accusations. Unproven for the most part.”
“Still, I have no choice but to temporarily suspend you from teaching duties while we come to a decision about your future with the academy.”
“I understand.”
I stand, trying to contain the trembling in my body. Partly the hangover, mostly anger. I mustn’t let it show. Mustn’t let Hurst know he has gotten to me. Always keep the game face on.
“I’ll just collect my things.”
I walk toward the door. And stop. You also need to let them know you still hold the winning card. I glance at Hurst.
“Nice tie, by the way.”
The look on his face is all I need.
—
I don't return to the cafeteria. I gather my coat and satchel from the staff room—which is mercifully empty—and head out of the school. I don’t trust myself to face Simon again. Even though I am already under suspension, an assault charge isn’t something I particularly want to add to my CV.
When I reach reception I pause. Miss Grayson is not in her usual place in her small glass cubicle. Instead, a younger clone—short dark hair, glasses, although no hairy mole—is sitting in her seat, tapping at a computer.
“Excuse me, where’s Miss Grayson?”
“She has a cold.”
“Oh.”
“Did you need to speak with her?”
“Well, I’m leaving, and I was hoping to say goodbye. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Right. Thanks for your help.”
I start to turn.
“Oh, Mr. Thorne—”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Price requested you hand in your front-door pass when you leave.”
My pass. The pass that allows me to enter the school. Harry really isn’t taking any chances.
“Worried I might sneak back in and steal the school lunch money?”
She doesn’t smile. I wonder how much she knows. How much they all know.
“Fine.” I take it out of my pocket and just about manage not to slam it on her desk.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And pass on my regards to Miss Grayson.”
“Of course.”
She offers an efficient smile. Then she picks up the pass and, as if I was in any doubt about my suspension being temporary, produces a pair of scissors, cuts it neatly in half and drops it in the bin.
—
The cottage eyes me resentfully upon my return, its one good window glowering darkly. Look, it seems to hiss from between the splintered wood of the front door. Look what you have done. Are you happy yet?
No, I think. Because I am not done yet. I push at the door. It sticks and then gives with a reluctant groan. I’m not entirely sure the cottage is on my side in all of this. It is too much in cahoots with the past, too much a part of the village. It does not want me here. It has no intention of making me comfortable. But that’s fine too. I don’t plan to be here for very much longer.
I walk inside and throw my bag on the sofa. The room is still in much the same state as when I returned last night. Internal injuries. I consider tidying up and sorting out some of the mess. Then I go and smoke a cigarette.
Perhaps Hurst has done me a favor. Speeding up the inevitable. After all, I never intended to stay, did I? I never intended to settle back down in a place that holds such dark and painful memories. The wounded animal doesn’t escape the trap only to throw itself back into the metal jaws and wait for them to pulverize its bones.
Not unless it has a damn good reason.
I’d like to say the reason was Annie, or the message. But it’s not that simple. Even all that guilt and recrimination weren’t enough to drag me back here. Not on their own.
The truth is, I was desperate. I needed to get away and I saw an opportunity—to settle bad debts and old scores at the same time. Perhaps it had always been at the back of my mind. I knew I had something that could screw up Hurst’s life. The idea he might pay money for it came later.
I hadn’t expected him to be quite so determined to hound me out of the village. But despite all his threats and manipulations, ultimately, Hurst has played his hand. He doesn’t have anything left. There is only one way to get rid of me now and, although I’ve no doubt that Hurst is capable of murder, the stakes are higher. Is he willing to risk his career, his comfortable life, his family?
I’m hoping the answer is no. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t bet on it.
I close the back door and walk inside. The feeling of coldness is on me again. I can hear the walls chittering. I am starting to become used to both the cold and the incessant tinnitus of the cottage. I’m not sure whether, like tuning out Simon’s monotonous drone, this is a good thing. Once you become accustomed, you become complacent and then you become either complicit or consumed.
I wander back through to the living room and take out my phone. I pull up Brendan’s number. He answers on the second ring.
“What do you want now?”
“Isn’t it enough to hear the dulcet tones of your voice?”
“You’d better be wearing underwear.”
“I need a favor.”
“Seriously? You know, right now, I have gerbil shit in my beard.”
“I thought it was hamsters.”
“Gerbils, hamsters, who gives a feck? The little bastards spent all last night kicking crap onto my head. How long do I have to stay here?”
“Do you still have that holdall I asked you to look after?”
“Holdall? What holdall?”
“Sides literally splitting.”
“Yes, I’ve got it.”
“Can you courier it to me overnight?”
“Joe—”
“Look, I just want to say, you’ve been a good friend. Thank you.”
“Don’t go all mushy on me.”
“Well, I thought I’d say it in case I actually do.”
There’s a pause and then Brendan says with heartfelt emotion: “Just feck off before I end up doing an Ozzy Osborne on one of these feckin” gerbils.”
He ends the call. I glance at my watch. It’s 3:30 p.m. I stare around the wrecked living room. I pick up Abbie-Eyes from the floor and place her back on the armchair. She observes me with one cold, blue eye. The hollow socket yawns darkly. I look around but can’t see her other eye anywhere. I have a sudden mental image of it being carried away on the backs of scuttling beetles. I thank my imagination. I really needed that.
My phone starts to ring, making me jump. I press Accept.
“Hello?”
“Were you going to mention playing hooky? I might have joined you.”
Beth. Of course.
“How did you get my number?”
“From Danielle on reception. I know her brother. He’s in my pub-quiz team.”
“So I suppose you know what happened?”
“Harry told me that you were taking a leave of absence.”
“That’s what he called it?”
“What would you call it?”
I hesitate.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“I think I might have already left.”
“Jesus—that’s got to be a world record.”
“I’m glad my brevity impresses you.”
“Don’t tell everyone. Is this about yesterday, with Jeremy Hurst?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“It’s a little complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Well—”
“A few pints complicated or several glasses of bourbon complicated?”
I consider. “Definitely the latter.”
“Right, I’ll see you in the Fox at seven. Line your stomach first.”
She ends the call without saying goodbye. Why do people keep doing that?
I should have said something. I have questions. But I suppose they can wait. I sit down heavily on the hard sofa frame and think about making coffee. Then I glance at Abbie-Eyes, or maybe that should be Abbie-Eye. I shake off a shudder. Decision made.
I head back out the door and walk down to the fish-and-chip shop.
25
The Fox looks even more run-down and dilapidated tonight. It’s decaying, I think. As if my presence here has started some sort of chain reaction. As if this small, shriveled place has been held in some mummified state and now a crack has appeared, a little bit of oxygen admitted into the rarefied environment, and suddenly everything is rotting from within.
I push open the doors and walk inside. A quick appraisal informs me that Hurst is not here and nor are any of his goons. A few elderly patrons—probably the same ones from the other night—vegetate at tables, staring into their pints of ale and lager tops.
Beth isn’t here yet but I spot one familiar face. Lauren is back behind the bar, which, while not exactly evoking rainbows, sunshine and tweeting birds, is at least better than Nosferatu’s surly countenance.
I smile. “All right?”
She stares at me as though she has never seen me before in her life.
“Joe Thorne. Teacher. We bumped into each other up at the old colliery site.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Her face moves a little. Could be a smile. Could be a twitch of annoyance—hard to tell. “So, what can I get you?”
“Erm, bourbon, please. Double.”
“Make that two.”
I turn. Beth stands at my side. Her hair is loose for once and falls around her shoulders in semi-dreadlocks. An oversized leather jacket swamps her small frame and makes her legs, in sprayed-on black jeans and DMs, look even skinnier.
A nose ring glints as she grins at me. “You are the talk of the staffroom, Mr. Thorne.”
“Really? Might explain why my ears are burning.”
“Yeah, well, that might also be the effigy Simon has of you that he is sticking pins into.”
“I imagine he is overcome by sorrow at my premature departure.”
“If singing ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ is evidence of his sorrow, then yes.”
Lauren plonks both glasses down upon the bar. The delivery is abrupt but, just by glancing at them, I can tell she has been generous with the measures.
“Nine pounds, please.”
“Thanks.” I pay with my last twenty, wondering how far over my overdraft I currently am and how long before the bank stops all my cards.
Beth picks up her glass. “Shall we?”
We walk toward a table in a far corner. One thing the Fox does have going for it is plenty of dim, dusty corners in which to lurk if you would rather not be seen or overheard.
Beth sits herself down on one of the hard wooden chairs and I follow suit. We both take sips of our drinks—mine a bit larger than hers.
“Soooo,” she says meaningfully. “Want to tell me what really happened?”
“What’s Harry said?”
“You have taken a leave of absence for personal reasons.”
“What does the grapevine say?”
“Oh, you’ve had some kind of breakdown, Hurst Senior got you sacked, you’ve been abducted by aliens—that type of thing.”
