The Hiding Place, page 23
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
“It was so crazy down there. I mean, I can’t believe we thought she was, y’know—”
I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. “I know.”
She shook her head again. “You don’t know how much I wanted to talk to you, but I was scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
She pulled her hair across her face self-consciously. “Nothing.”
But it didn’t seem like nothing. The tremor in her voice. The way she was shielding her face with her hair. I suddenly had a feeling:
“Is something the matter with your eye?”
“No, it’s—”
I leaned forward and brushed her hair behind her ear. She didn’t stop me. Her right eye was blue-black and swollen.
“What happened?”
“We argued. He didn’t mean it.”
Anger swelled into a hot ball in my throat. “Hurst did this?”
Hurst was a bastard, but I’d never known him to use his fists on a girl.
“Just leave it.”
“He hit you. You have to tell someone.”
“Please, Joe. You mustn’t say anything.” She grabbed my hands. “Promise.”
I didn’t have much choice. “Okay. But promise me you won’t let it happen again.”
“Okay.”
“Why were you arguing?”
“It was about Chris.”
“Chris?”
“Steve is scared he’s going to say something about the pit. He’s acting so weird. Steve said he’s got something he shouldn’t and he needs to be straightened out. I told him to leave Chris alone. And then I said I wanted to split up and that’s when—”
“When he hit you?”
“He called me a bitch and said no one leaves him, ever.”
Fresh tears welled in her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. Her hair was scratchy; it smelled of hairspray and smoke.
“Joe,” she whispered, “what do we do?”
“I’ll fix it,” I said. “I’m meeting Chris at six in the graveyard. I can warn him.”
She pulled away a little. “Maybe you could talk to him. Tell him not to say anything. Stop with all the crazy shit.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re good at talking to people.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine. Then she hopped up. “I should go.”
I nodded, numb with shock.
“D’you want to walk back with me?” I asked.
“I can’t. I have to get some shopping for my mum.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“See you.”
I watched her go, the memory of her kiss tingling on my lips, thinking about what I’d like to do to Hurst.
Perhaps that’s why I never thought about what I had just said.
—
Dad was semiconscious in front of the TV when I got back. Annie must have been in her room. Mum had left some meals in the freezer. I got one out and stuck it in the microwave. I wasn’t that hungry but I forced myself to eat a bit of the lasagne, downed a Coke then shouted to Dad that there was food in the kitchen and headed upstairs to change.
At the door to Annie’s room, I paused. I used to like hovering at her door sometimes, watching her unawares as she engaged in some imaginary play with her Barbie dolls and my old Action Men, putting on different voices. Now, her door was always closed and the voices inside were different.
This evening I couldn’t hear anything. The silence was worse. I hesitated. But it was dinnertime, Annie must be hungry. I couldn’t rely upon Dad to feed her.
I raised my hand and knocked on the door. “Annie?”
No reply.
“Annie?”
The door opened a couple of inches. I pushed it further, trying not to recoil at the smell. Annie stood on the far side of the room, staring out of the window. She must have run over to the door, opened it and run back. But I couldn’t be sure of that. I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.
I stepped into the bedroom.
“I’ve just heated up some lasagne.”
She remained still. I suddenly realized that she had on an old sweatshirt but no jeans or panties.
“Well, let me know if you want some—”
She turned. I flushed. Annie was still only a kid, but I hadn’t seen her naked since she was a baby. As if sensing my awkwardness, she smiled. A sly, dreadful thing. She took a step forward, parted her feet and a stream of hot yellow urine gushed from between her legs and onto the carpet.
I felt bile rise in my throat. She started to laugh. I bolted from her room, slammed the door behind me and ran down the stairs. I didn’t care about changing. I just wanted to get away, away from my little sister.
Her laughter chased me out of the house, but now it sounded more like screams, snapping at my heels.
—
Chris wasn’t in the graveyard. I pushed open the gate and walked down the overgrown path. I wandered around the church in a circle, in case he was hiding somewhere, which would be weird but not unthinkable.
No Chris. No sign of any living soul. I sighed. Typical. He was losing it. Seriously losing it. But then, I wasn’t exactly coasting along on an even keel at the moment.
I couldn’t get the image of Annie out of my mind. Her nakedness. The urine streaming between her skinny legs. I couldn’t go back. Not tonight. The thought of ever going back seemed beyond comprehension.
Maybe she needed to see a doctor again. Maybe the blow to her head—and there had been a blow to her head, I was sure—had done something to her brain. I mean, she had lost her memory. She couldn’t remember where she had been for those forty-eight hours. Maybe there was something else wrong. Something that was making her act so weird. I should try and talk to Mum. She could take her to the hospital. Maybe they could fix her. Make her better. Make her Annie again.
The thought gave me some comfort, even though I’m not sure I really believed it. But then, maybe that’s what churches are for. To give comfort even when, deep down, you know it’s just a pack of lies.
I sat on the rickety bench in the graveyard and stared out over the lopsided gray headstones. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, tucking my feet beneath me. That’s when I realized that there was something under the bench. I bent over and hauled it out. A bag. I knew right away it was Chris’s. While the rest of us had Adidas or Puma, Chris had an old, unbranded holdall covered with Doctor Who and Star Trek stickers.
This evening there was something else stuck on it. An envelope, taped to the top, with my name scrawled on the front. I ripped it off and opened it. Inside, a torn-off sheet of textbook paper was covered in Chris’s straggly scrawl:
Joe, the stuff in this bag is for you. You’ll know what to do. The other things—I think you might need them sometime. I’m not sure why. Just in case.
This is all my fault. I wish I had never found it. That place is bad. I know that now. Maybe you do too.
I’m sorry. About Annie. About everything.
I stared at the note, like the words would rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Something that didn’t sound bat-shit crazy. Why had he left it for me? Why wasn’t he here himself?
I unzipped the holdall. The first thing I saw was a stack of fireworks, big fuck-off ones. The sort you needed ID to buy. Unless you were good at finding a way to get stuff.
I frowned and delved deeper. Underneath was something else. Something heavier, wrapped carefully in a clear plastic bag. I took it out and my stomach flipped. I knew what this was immediately. I stared at the two items inside. Then I carefully put the bag back and zipped the holdall up.
—
Chris’s house was on the other side of the village. I slung the holdall over my shoulder and started to walk. I needed to talk to him. For some reason, it felt urgent. I had this weird, jittery feeling in my stomach, like I was already late for something important. I picked up my pace. Bits of the note kept fluttering around my mind:
That place is bad.
I walked past the bench where Marie had pressed her lips to mine. Something flared, like a dark shadow on the walls of my mind, and then it was gone again.
Maybe you could talk to him.
I found myself at the gates of the school. They were usually left open back then, until all the after-school clubs had finished and the teachers had gone. It was quicker to cut through the school grounds to Chris’s house and slip out of the fence on the other side, so long as the caretaker didn’t catch me.
I hurried across the parking lot, past the science wing and toward the Block. It rose before me, a dark monolith against the silvery sky. As I rounded the corner a gust of wind slapped me in the face and snatched at my hair. I shivered. And then I paused. I thought I’d heard something. Voices. Carrying on the wind. From the playing fields? No. Closer. I looked around. And then…I looked up.
—
I saw him. Already falling. I felt the whoosh as he cut through the air. Heard the dull thud as he hit the ground. The distance between, an eternity and the blink of an eye. I wondered if he felt it. The final crunch.
—
My first instinct was to run. To get the hell away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him, lying there. What if he was still alive?
I walked over on shaking legs. His eyes were open and a small trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. More blood spread out beneath him, forming a crimson halo around his blond head. The weird thing was, for perhaps the first time ever in his short life, he looked calm, like he had finally found the thing he was always looking for.
I let the bag slip from my shoulders and sank to the ground. I stayed there, kneeling beside him on the cold concrete, in the fading warmth of the day. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I gently stroked his soft, shaggy hair. I told him it wasn’t his fault.
Later—because it had always been too late for Chris; perhaps, for some kids, it always is—I got up, brushed the dirt from my trousers and walked down the road to a phone box. I called an ambulance. I told them a kid had fallen. I didn’t tell them who. I didn’t tell them my name.
And I didn’t tell them—or anyone—what else I saw that evening.
A second figure, running away from the Block. No more than a dark shadow. But I knew. Even then.
He needs to be straightened out.
Stephen Hurst.
32
The next day, I make plans. This is out of character for me. I’m not someone who believes in planning ahead. I’ve seen firsthand how planning is a predictor of disaster, an invitation for fate to screw with you.
But for this, I need to be prepared. I need to have a course of action. And, without a job, it’s not like I have much else to do.
Brendan left the cottage just before two this morning. I offered him the spare room, but he declined.
“No offense, but this place gives me the feckin’ creeps.”
“I thought you weren’t superstitious.”
“I’m Irish. Of course I’m superstitious. Along with guilt, it’s in our DNA.” He shrugged his coat on. “I’ve booked into a B&B down the road.”
The farm, I think, something momentarily flitting across my mind then flitting out again, before I can grasp hold of it. It was important, I think. But, like most important things in my life, now it’s gone.
I make strong black coffee with the dregs of water in the kettle and smoke two brisk cigarettes before getting down to work. I sit at the small kitchen table and start making notes. It doesn’t take long. My plan is not complicated. I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to write it down at all. But then, I’m a teacher. I find comfort and stability in the written word. Pen and paper. Something tangible to cling on to. Or perhaps it’s just procrastination. Unlike plans, I’m good at procrastination.
Next, I pick up my phone and I make some calls.
One goes to voicemail. I leave a message. The second is a little trickier. I’m not even sure if she will answer. My deadline has been and gone. Then I hear her voice. I explain what I need. I do not know whether she will say yes. I am not really in any position to be asking favors.
Gloria sighs. “You realize this will take time. As well connected as I am, I’m not your fucking fairy godmother.”
I fidget, fingering a cigarette. “How long?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Thank you,” I say, but the phone is already dead. I try not to take this as an omen.
The third call is to an international number. This one took a bit of research. Maybe it isn’t entirely necessary. But now that the seed has been planted I have to know. I put on my most professional voice. I explain who I am and what I would like to confirm. I listen as the very polite American receptionist tells me to get lost in a very polite American way. I accept her wishes for a nice day—although it seems unlikely—and end the call.
I stare at the phone for a while, my heart just that little bit heavier. Then I get up to make more coffee. The final call I will make later. This isn’t procrastination. I don’t want to give him too much time to plan, or to rally his goons.
I’m waiting for the kettle to boil when my phone rings. I snatch it up.
“Hello.”
“I got your message.”
“And?”
“I’ve got classes.”
“You’ve never played truant?”
“You want me to skip school?”
“Not regularly. Just this afternoon. It’s important.”
A deep sigh. “Is this why they fired you?”
“No. That was for something far worse.”
I wait.
“Okay.”
—
I sit on the scrubby grass, staring out over the coarse landscape. A place like this will never be pretty or picturesque, I think. It doesn’t matter how many saplings you plant or wildflowers you seed; build all the playgrounds and visitor centers you like, something about it will always remain barren and unyielding.
A place like this does not want to be reclaimed. It is happy being forsaken, lying dormant and dead. A graveyard of lost livelihoods, lost dreams, coal dust and bones. We only skim the surface of this earth. But it has many layers. And sometimes, you shouldn’t dig too deep.
“You’re here.”
I turn. Marcus stands behind me, on the incline of the small hill.
“Yep. And twice as ugly,” I say.
He doesn’t smile. I get the feeling that humor, being happy, just isn’t in his repertoire of emotions. But that’s fine. Happiness is overrated; it’s far too short-lived, for a start. If you bought it on Amazon, you’d demand a refund. Broke after a month and impossible to fix. Next time will try misery—apparently that shit lasts forever.
He walks over and stands awkwardly beside me. “What are you doing?”
“Admiring the view, and eating this—” I hold up the Wham bar I have been chewing. And chewing. “Want one? I brought two.”
He shakes his head. “No, thanks.”
I regard the shiny pink candy. “A friend of mine used to eat them. You remind me of him.”
“In what way?”
“He was a misfit. We both were. He liked finding out about stuff. And finding stuff. I think you might be good at that too, Marcus. Like how you found a way past the school security gates.”
He doesn’t reply.
“You told Miss Grayson that Jeremy found the cave?”
“He did.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Some places have to want to be found. It takes someone special to do that. Not someone like Hurst. Someone like you.”
He debates, and then says: “Hurst knew about the cave. A lot of the kids had heard rumors. He knew I came up here. He wanted me to help him look for a way in.”
I nod. “And you did.”
“I just kind of stumbled over it.”
“Yeah. That happens.”
He sits down beside me.
“You want me to take you.”
“Not really. But I need you to take me.”
“You said it was important.”
“It is.”
He seems to notice the backpack for the first time. “What’s in there?”
“Probably best if you don’t know.”
Silence for a moment. Then he stands. “Let’s go.”
I push myself to my feet. As I follow him down the hill he says, “You know, you shouldn’t offer sweets to strange kids.”
Maybe he does have a sense of humor after all.
—
There is no hatch this time. Instead, I find myself staring at a thick, semicircular grille beneath a low, rocky overhang. The metal is rusted almost the same color as the earth and camouflaged by overgrown weeds and thorns. Marcus pushes them aside and carefully removes the grille. It’s heavy and I can see gouge marks on the edges where it must have been forced open.
At some point the villagers tried to seal off all the entrances, I think. But they couldn’t silence the pit. Couldn’t stop it calling. To Chris. To Marcus.
I take out the flashlight I brought and point it into the hole. I can see that this tunnel is less steep than the one from my youth. But it’s small, barely two feet high. I will have to crawl. This is not a comforting thought.
“It’s about five minutes till it opens up and you reach some steps,” Marcus says. “They take you all the way down.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to stop people going down there?”
“That’s the plan. You okay with that?”
“I suppose.” He stares at me. “You know, you’re a weird sort of teacher.”
“I’m a weird sort of human. But weird isn’t always bad. Remember that.”
