The Hiding Place, page 19
“Right.”
“So which is it?”
“Aliens, naturally. They have taken over my body and my real self is in a cocoon in the cottage.”
“Hmmm. Almost believable…except everyone saw Hurst with Harry today.”
I look down into my glass. “I lied to get the job here. I faked a reference from my old school. I did not leave under a halo so much as under a cloud. Harry found out.”
“O–kay. What did you do at your old school that was so bad?”
“Nothing, actually. But I intended to steal money from the school safe to pay a debt.”
I watch her take this in. “But you didn’t?”
“No.”
She nods, considering. “So how did Harry find out—?” Then she holds up a hand. “No, wait. Simon. Didn’t Simon mention he knew you from somewhere?”
“Yeah. And I’m guessing Simon knows Hurst.”
“I didn’t realize he did…but then Simon is just the sort of bum bogie who would stick himself up anyone’s arse to get a bit further up the ladder.”
“Bum bogie?”
She raises her glass. “And that’s being kind to him.”
“Well, obviously being a bum bogie works. Because here I am—currently and probably permanently—jobless.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Harry likes you. The kids seem to like you. Harry knows he’ll have a hell of a job filling that post.”
I shake my head. “Hurst won’t let Harry take me back on.”
“You and Hurst aren’t really ancient history, are you? What is it between you two?”
I put my glass down and look at her across the table. In the dim light she looks younger again. It softens the faint lines around her mouth and on her forehead. Her dark eyes seem very wide and her skin very soft and pale. I feel a tug. I wanted one thing about this place to be good and honest. Just one thing.
Beth frowns. “What are you staring at? Have I got something on my face?”
“No…” I pause. “Nothing.”
She continues to stare at me, suspiciously. Then she says: “So you were about to tell me about you and Hurst.”
“Was I?”
“You were.”
“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“Something like that.”
“We fell out, badly, in our teens. Stupid, looking back. Over a girl, as these things usually are.”
“Was the girl Marie Gibson?”
“Yes.”
The lie comes easily.
She sips her drink. “I wouldn’t have had her down as your type.”
“Why? What do you think is my type?”
“I mean, she’s pretty but—”
“But what?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way—”
“Okay.”
“I know this seems a shitty thing to say with the cancer and everything, but she always seemed a bit of a bitch.”
I’m slightly taken aback. “Well, she could be tough when she wanted to be.”
“I don’t mean tough. I mean a bitch. She would throw her weight around because of Hurst. I’ve seen her reduce a teacher to tears at a parents’ evening. Once, she went around to another mother’s house because their kid had accused Hurst Junior of bullying. This woman worked part-time for the council. Next day—contract terminated.”
I frown. I suppose Marie could be a bit of a firecracker. And a mother can’t always see their offspring’s faults. Still, it doesn’t sound like the Marie I remember.
“Well, people change, I suppose.”
“Not that much.”
“And I was young and foolish back then.”
“What are you now?”
“Old and cynical.”
“Join the gang.”
No, I think. She puts on a good front. But I don’t believe that. I can see it in her eyes. The light hasn’t gone out. Not completely. Not yet.
“That reminds me,” I say. “You never told me which one you are?”
Her forehead creases. “Which one of what?”
“Want to make a difference or can’t get a job anywhere else?”
“Well, obviously, who wouldn’t want this?” She spreads her arms.
“So, you want to make a difference?”
“Is this an interview now?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
“About me?”
“About Emily Ryan.”
Her face changes. The softness is gone.
“She was the student you were talking about, wasn’t she? The one who killed herself?”
“You really know how to ruin a mood.”
“You said she was a student of yours. But you weren’t teaching here when she died.”
“Been doing your research?”
“Just call me Columbo.”
“I can think of other names. And I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“True.”
“I barely know you.”
“True.”
“You’re fucking irritating when you’re agreeable.”
“Also—”
She holds up a hand. “Okay. You’re right. Emily wasn’t my student.” A pause. “She was my niece.”
—
“My sister was a few years older than me. No dad around and Mum wasn’t exactly Mum of the Year, so we were close. We grew up in Edgeford—you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it—not the best area of Nottingham.”
“Anyway, Carla—my sister—she got pregnant pretty young. Following the family tradition, the dad didn’t hang around, but she was a brilliant mum. She brought Emily up while training to be a nurse. Emily was a sweet kid; she grew up into a pretty okay teenager.”
“That’s a feat.”
“I was teaching at a school in Derby, so I couldn’t come and see them that much. But Emily and I would text or FaceTime. She came to stay with me a few times. We’d go shopping, to the movies and stuff. I was the cool auntie, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s what cool aunties are for.”
A tiny smile. “Don’t get me wrong. She was thirteen, she could be moody sometimes but overall she was good to be around—bright, funny, inquisitive.”
I feel my heart give a little. I wonder what sort of teenager Annie would have been. Loud, outgoing, funny, sporty? Or would she have reverted into herself, like so many do?
“Then, Carla got a job. A good job. They moved. Emily had to change schools.”
“Let me guess. They moved to Arnhill?”
She nods. “The job was at the hospital in Mansfield. Arnhill wasn’t far, houses were cheap and the school was within walking distance. It seemed to make sense.”
Most bad decisions do at the time.
“Moving schools—to any school—is tough when you’re thirteen,” I say.
“To start with, it seemed okay—”
“But?”
“It was too hunky-dory. You know—when everything is so frigging fine, it just can’t be.”
“What did your sister say?”
She sighs. “She didn’t get it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She loved that girl’s bones, but it was like she just didn’t see the problem. Or she didn’t want to.”
I nod. We’re all too busy, too distracted by the sheer effort of getting through each day—working, paying the bills, the mortgage, shopping—that we don’t want to look deeper. We don’t dare. We want things to be fine. To be “hunky-dory.” Because we simply haven’t got the mental energy to deal with it if they’re not. It’s only when something bad happens, something irretrievable, that we see things properly. And then it’s too late.
“Did you try and talk to Emily?”
“I tried. I even drove over to see her. Took her for pizza, like we used to, except it wasn’t the same.”
“How d’you mean?”
“You done with those?”
We both glance up. Lauren hovers over the table.
“Err, yes, thanks,” I say. “And could we get a couple more?”
She nods. “S’pose.” She wanders back to the bar.
Beth glances at me. “She must really like you. She doesn’t do table service for just anyone.”
“My natural charm. So, you were saying?”
Her face darkens again. “We went to her favorite pizza place, but she didn’t eat much. She was just moody, sarcastic. It wasn’t her.”
“Kids can change in senior school,” I say. “It’s like someone flicks a switch, their hormones crank up to eleven and all bets are off.”
“No shit. I’m a teacher too, remember? I know what it’s like. Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”
She picks up a beer mat and begins to peel it apart. “But even when Emily was going through a ‘teenager’ phase before, she still talked to me. I thought our relationship was different.”
“Did she say anything about school, stuff that was bothering her?”
“Nope. And when I asked she just clammed up.”
Lauren returns and plonks down two more bourbons. If they are doubles, then the optics are malfunctioning. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe she does like me.
Beth takes a sip. “Now, I think I should have pushed her. Made her talk to me.”
“It doesn’t work like that. Push teenagers too hard and they’ll just go scuttling back into their shells.”
“Yeah. But you know the shit thing? I didn’t even hug her goodbye. We always hugged. But this time she just walked away. And, I thought—cool auntie—I’ll let her go. Give her time. Turns out we didn’t have time. Two weeks later she was dead.” She sniffs, wipes angrily at her eyes. “I should have hugged her.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
Because life never gives you a heads-up.
“Well, I should have. I’m a teacher. I should have realized this wasn’t the usual moody teen. I should have spotted the signs of depression. She was my niece. And I let her down.”
Guilt washes over me in a wave. I feel crippled by it for a moment. I swallow.
“What happened to your sister?”
She shakes her head, gathering herself. “She couldn’t stay. Not in that house, where it happened. She moved back to Edgeford, nearer to Mum. She’s still having a hard time, dealing. I go back as often as I can, but it’s like Emily’s death is this barrier between us and we can’t seem to work our way around it.”
I know what she means. Grief is personal. It isn’t something you can share, like a box of chocolates. It is yours and yours alone. A spiked steel ball chained to your ankle. A coat of nails around your shoulders. A crown of thorns. No one else can feel your pain. They cannot walk in your shoes because your shoes are full of broken glass and every time you try and take a step forward it rips your soles to bloody shreds. Grief is the worst kind of torture and it never ends. You have dibs on that dungeon for the rest of your life.
“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “Because of Emily?”
“When the job came up a couple of months later it seemed like it was meant to be.”
Funny how that happens.
“Why didn’t you tell me at the start?”
“Because Harry doesn’t know. I didn’t want him to think I was here for the wrong reasons.”
“Like?”
“Revenge.”
“And you’re not?”
“At the start, maybe. I wanted someone to be held accountable for Emily’s death.” She sighs. “But I couldn’t find anything. At least, not anything specific. Just the usual friendships and fall-outs.”
“What about Hurst?”
“She never mentioned him—”
“But?” I prompt.
“Something isn’t right in that school, and Hurst is a part of it. When you let a kid like Hurst get away with the stuff he does, you create a place where cruelty is the norm.”
I wonder if that’s all. I remember what Marcus said: about Hurst taking kids up to the old colliery site. Kids who wanted to fit in. Perhaps even a young girl desperate to be accepted in a new school. The pit could get to you in more ways than one. Like it did with Chris.
“You’ve gone quiet.”
“Just thinking that history has a shitty habit of repeating itself,” I say bitterly.
“But it shouldn’t. The only way schools like Arnhill Academy change is from the inside. Teaching is not all about rankings and inspection reports. It’s about helping our young people to become decent, rounded human beings, and getting them through their teens in one piece. If you lose them at this age, you lose them forever.” A small shrug. “You probably think that sounds naive.”
“No, I think it sounds brave and commendable and all the stuff that is going to make you give me a one-fingered salute any second now and…yep, there it is.”
She lowers her finger. “For all your cynical, world-weary crap, you almost sound like you understand.”
“I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my reasons for being here are far less worthy.”
“So what are they?”
I hesitate. Of all people, it is Beth that I would like to tell the truth to. But then, of all people, it is Beth whose opinion I care about.
“Like you said, only two types of teachers come to Arnhill—I couldn’t get a job anywhere else.”
“I thought we were being honest here.”
“I am.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“There really isn’t.”
“I can see it in your face.”
“That’s just my face. It’s a curse.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
“Okay.”
“So, there is something?”
“All right—I used to gamble. I ended up owing a lot of money. I needed to lie low somewhere until I could clear my debts. There is no noble reason for my return. I am a poor gambler, a mediocre teacher and a questionable human being. Happy?”
She glares at me. “Bullshit. You might be a twat, but you’re a twat who’s here for a reason. Something important to you. Otherwise, you would have turned tail the minute Hurst’s cronies beat you up. But if you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I thought we were becoming friends. I was obviously wrong.”
She stands and grabs her jacket.
“You’re going?”
“Nope. I’m storming out.”
“Oh.”
“Leaving you looking like a sad loser.”
“Hate to break it, but I don’t need you for that.”
She slings on her jacket. “You need somebody.”
“Everybody needs somebody.”
“Meaningful.”
“Blues Brothers.”
“Piss off.”
And with that, she turns and stomps out of the pub. Nobody so much as glances up from their drink.
I remain sitting at the table, like a sad loser. But at least a sad loser with two half-full glasses of bourbon. Every cloud. I pour Beth’s glass into mine and take a large swig. Then I reach into my pocket and take out a piece of paper. I have scribbled an address on it.
Time to make a house call. Brighten someone else’s evening.
—
In a card game there is always a moment where you can see the other players’ hands, as though the cards are transparent. You know what they are holding. You can see the odds in your head. The next moves. It’s all there, as clearly as if someone had written it in fluorescent marker in the air in front of you.
And usually, you are wrong.
If ever you think you have got a handle on everyone else in a game, that you know how it is going to play out, the moves you should make, the bluffs you should call, you are in big trouble.
Because that is the point when it will come crashing down around your head.
I thought I had been clever working out the Ruth and Marcus connection. Thought I knew what was going on. Ruth lived here back then, she knew me, she knew Arnhill. She also knew Ben and Julia. It was possible that she somehow got hold of my email and phone number and sent those messages. It was all possible. But why?
Now I have another explanation. It doesn’t make a lot more sense. I do not know what cards the other player is holding. But at least I know who I am playing.
I step forward and ring the doorbell. Then I stand back again.
It takes a moment. There are no lights on behind the curtains in the front room, but I’m sure she is here. I’m right. Seconds later, through the glass of the front door, I see a light come on in the hall.
The blurry outline of a figure approaches; I hear a cough, a sniff, and then the sound of a key in the lock, and the door edges open…
“Mr. Thorne.”
She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. But then, she has spent a lifetime perfecting a calm and unemotive exterior. What else has she spent a lifetime doing? I wonder.
I smile politely. “Hello, Miss Grayson.”
26
1992
“Bones!!”
Hurst’s face lit up with so much joy it was like someone had yanked his pants down and given him a blow job right there and then.
It took me a moment to realize what it reminded me of. The look of ecstasy, the glow of the miner’s light illuminating his features. And then I got it. It reminded me of that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazis are staring into the Ark…just before all the demons pour out and their faces start melting right off their skulls.
I thought I couldn’t feel any more afraid. As usual, I was wrong.
“Bones!” The word shuddered around the group like a dark echo.
They stared at the bones laid into the rock. Some were more yellow, up close. Older, maybe. They were also small. Although some had obviously been broken or cut to form the symbols and shapes, others were still whole. They looked delicate, fragile even.
Hurst stretched out a hand and touched one, surprisingly gently. Then he dug his fingers in and pulled it from the rock. It gave, far more easily than I expected, in a small cloud of dust and rock fragments that crumbled to the ground. Hurst stared at the bone. An arm, I thought. A small arm.
