The Hiding Place, page 27
“It’s not your call. We don’t get to make the choice.”
“But what if you could? What would you do?”
“Not this.”
“Says you.” She glances toward the tunnel. “We both know what’s down there.”
“Bones,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s what is down there. Bones of long-dead people who didn’t have drugs and chemo and pain relief. Who still believed in God and the devil and miracles. We know better now. It’s not real.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me, Joe. You were there. We all were.”
“Marie, you are ill. You’re not thinking properly. Please. There is nothing down there that can help you. Nothing. Believe me.”
“Fine.” She stubs out her cigarette and reaches into the backpack. She takes out a bottle of vodka and a packet of sleeping tablets. “If you really believe that, then let me go. I’ll take these and that will be the end of it. At least I get to make the choice.”
I don’t reply.
She smiles. “You can’t, can you? Because you know. Because of what happened to your sister.”
“My sister was hurt. She got lost. She came back.”
“From where?”
I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “She didn’t die.”
She laughs. A horrible, brittle sound, devoid of humor or humanity. And a part of me wonders if she was always like this, on the inside. Or if something changed in her, that night, when we went down there. Maybe something changed in all of us. Maybe guilt and regret weren’t the only things we brought back.
“You don’t believe that,” she says.
“Yes. I do.”
“Bullshit.” Her mouth twists: “She was dead. No way she survived that blow. I know because—”
She breaks off. I freeze. Every nerve ending suddenly humming.
“Because what?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
But that’s a lie. It’s everything. And suddenly I can see it all again. Annie in a small, crumpled heap. Hurst a short distance away. The crowbar on the ground. Marie clinging to Hurst’s arm. But Marie hadn’t been standing there before. She had moved. She was closer; to me, to Annie.
“It was you,” I say. “You were the one who hit her.”
“I didn’t mean to. I panicked. It was an accident.”
“You let Hurst take the blame. He covered for you, protected you.”
“He loves me.”
And now it all makes sense. Why she stayed. Why they married. He loved her. But he also had something over her. She couldn’t get away from him. And maybe the swimming pool and the bifold doors helped. Just a bit.
“Were you really going to leave us down there?”
“I tried to talk him out of it.”
But that’s not quite true. I remember her placing her hand on his arm. The look that passed between them. I thought she wanted to help us. But now, I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
“And Chris? I told you where I was meeting him that evening. Did you send Hurst after him? Was that your idea too?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. You know what Hurst was like. I was scared of him.”
I recall the bruise around her eye. Her right eye. And then I picture Hurst pouring my whiskey. Right-handed. Another chunk of the pedestal crumbles.
“He never hit you, did he?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. No, he didn’t. I’d had a scrap with Angie Gordon after school.”
“So you lied about that too.”
“For fuck’s sake, it was twenty-five years ago. What happened happened. I can’t change it. I wish I could.” She glances at the entrance to the cave. “Please, Joe. Just let me go.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll do anything. I can give you money, whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Yes.”
I think about Hurst bleeding to death in the dirt. I think about the money I owe. I think about Annie’s wide eyes staring out of the window one bright, snowy morning and her small, crumpled body lying on the cave floor.
I think about the explosives I placed in the cave and the mobile detonator in my pocket. I look at Marie. Hatred burns bright.
“You can tell me something,” I say.
“Anything.”
“Where are all the fucking snowmen?”
She opens her mouth. The side of her head collapses. Bone, blood and brain matter explode into the air and rain down like confetti. Her skull is an open crater, bone torn apart like papier-mâché.
Her eyes barely widen in surprise. It is too sudden for that. There is no moment of reckoning or understanding. One minute she is alive. The next she is dead, folding to the ground in an ungainly pile, like someone pulled the switch. Cut the power. Off.
“Jesus Christ!” I spin around.
Gloria stands behind me, holding the gun.
“You killed her!”
“She wasn’t going to give you anything. I’ve dealt with bitches like her before.”
“Where’s Hurst?”
“Turns out he was a fast bleeder.”
Hurst. Dead. I try to comprehend this. For years, I thought I wanted him dead. Wished for it, even. But standing here, I don’t feel anything, except sick and tired. And scared. Because now, it’s just me and Gloria.
“You didn’t have to let him die—”
“Afraid I did. But look on the bright side. I have two extra bodies to dispose of, so I really don’t have time to kill you slowly.” She points the gun at me. “Any last words?”
“Don’t shoot me?”
“I wish.”
There’s no point begging. Not with Gloria. I could try. I could tell her that I am a teacher. Teachers do not get shot. We’re not that interesting. We die slowly, several years after people presume we’re already dead. I could tell her I have another plan. I could tell her I want to run away with her. I could tell her I’m not ready. It won’t make any difference.
I shut my eyes.
The gun cocks. “Hope you’re wearing your boogie shoes.”
I close my hand around the cellphone…and press Call.
Not a rumble this time. A roar. It bellows up from the earth and shakes the ground I’m standing on. I open my eyes. I see Gloria stumble, the gun waver. Have I got time to run, charge her? She looks back up. The gun steadies. Her finger tightens on the trigger…
No reprieve. No last-minute escape. No second chance.
Gloria drops through the ground.
Like a rabbit down a hole, a penny down a well. Not even a scream. Gone. Vanished. I stare in shock at the spot where she was standing; at the sinkhole that has just opened in the earth.
I limp over. I can just see a glimmer of pink, a strand of blond hair. The ground shakes again. Soil and grass start to fall away beneath the toes of my trainers. I stagger backward. Just in time, as the sides of the hole fold in and more gravel, earth and rocks pile on top of her body.
I peer into the deep chasm, feeling dazed and sick. My vision falters. Something warm trickles down my cheek, past my ear. My head hurts. I raise a hand to touch it. The area above my eye feels sticky and strangely soft. I don’t have time to dwell on it. There’s another growl from below. A warning. I need to get out of here before I join Gloria. Down there. In the darkness. Among the bones of the dead.
And other things.
—
It seems to take a long time to make my way back. My balance is off. I stagger and sway over the inclines and descents. Several times I fall. There’s a ringing in my left ear and one eye doesn’t want to focus properly. This isn’t good. Not good at all.
I’m almost at the old colliery gates when I feel the final aftershock rumble through the ground. I stop and glance back. Black smoke mingles with the charcoal sky.
Something falls on my face. It feels like flakes of snow. It takes me a moment to realize that the flakes are black, not white. Flakes of coal. I stand for a second or two and let them fall around me.
And then I sit down. This is not a conscious decision. My legs simply give way, like the instructions from my brain have stopped working. Clocked off for the night. Maybe for good. I’m tired. My left eye is clouded with red. It occurs to me that I might not get up again. I don’t care.
I lie back on the stony ground. I stare up at the sky, but it feels like I’m staring down, into a deep black hole. The darkness tugs at me.
Someone grabs my arm…
37
TWO WEEKS LATER
“I’m not big on emotional goodbyes.”
“Me neither.”
“Should we hug?”
“Do you want to?”
Beth gives me a look. “Not really.”
“Me neither.”
“You know what people say about hugs?” she says.
“What?”
“Just an excuse to hide your face.”
“Well, for some people, that’s probably a good thing.”
“Screw you.”
“Missed your chance.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“And I thought you were drowning your sorrows.”
Beth raises her glass toward me. “Cheers.”
I click my Coke against her pint.
“And don’t think, just because you are pissing off and leaving me to deal with the fallout, that I am buying all night,” she says.
“By ‘the fallout,’ I presume you mean your new position as deputy head?”
“Yeah, well, you know—tomayto, tomahto.”
“Tomahto.”
She gives me the finger.
Harry resigned a few days ago, along with Simon Saunders. I can’t be sure, but I think it probably has something to do with some emails the police found on Stephen Hurst’s computer that showed evidence of bribery and corruption. Undue influence upon Harry and payments to Simon Saunders in exchange for doctoring his son’s course work. All very unfortunate.
Miss Hardy (Susan, history) has taken the role of acting head and she has appointed Beth as her deputy. I think they will make a good team. In fact, if I were an optimist I might go even further and say that I think they could really turn Arnhill Academy around, especially as it looks likely that one of its major problems—Jeremy Hurst—will not be returning.
Currently, he is living with foster parents and being counseled by a psychiatrist. He is in shock after the sudden, violent deaths of his parents. I would like to say that I feel sorry for Jeremy. But then I remember Benjamin Morton.
I’ll never know for certain, but I believe Jeremy took him to the cave. Maybe a joke, maybe an “initiation.” Whatever. Something happened to Ben down there. Something bad. And maybe he wasn’t the first. I think about Beth’s niece, Emily. Another child who changed. Another life cut tragically short.
And Jeremy didn’t tell anyone. Except, maybe, his mother.
Hurst’s and Marie’s bodies were found on the old colliery site. Police are still investigating the circumstances of their deaths. Hurst had some questionable associates and more than his fair share of enemies, not to mention a holdall containing a bloodstained crowbar in his trunk, so getting to the bottom of it all may take some time. I have a feeling, without any further information, they may never really solve this one.
The sinkhole is due to be filled in very soon. The country-park scheme is under review. Houses will never be built on the land. No council would ever approve it.
The police came to talk to me, of course. PC Taylor and another, large—very large—sergeant, DC Gary Barnes. They could place me in Hurst’s car, which I admitted—I told them he had given me a lift home one night. However, once that had been ticked off, the questions seemed perfunctory.
“So I’m not under suspicion?” I asked as they left.
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “Not for this.”
The large sergeant guffawed. Police humor.
“This looks like a professional job,” he said. “I don’t have you down as the hit-man type.”
I could have told them that there are all types of hit men (and women). But I didn’t. I smiled.
“The pen is mightier,” I said.
He stared at me. Teacher humor.
—
Beth eyes my Coke suspiciously. “D’you really need to leave today? It’s not much of a goodbye drink. We could order a bottle of wine. Make an afternoon of it?”
I stare at her. I’m going to miss staring at her. And I’m glad we have made our amends. I told her that the reason I came back to Arnhill was that I blamed Hurst for Chris’s suicide. I needed to lay some ghosts to rest. Partly true. Most lies are. Sometimes, it’s enough.
“Appealing as that is,” I say, “I have to go. Anyway, it’s the company that’s important.”
She pulls a face. “Smooth. I’m going for a wee.”
She sashays away from the table. I watch her slim figure depart. She is clad in black skinny jeans, DMs and a baggy striped sweater riddled with holes (which I presume is a fashion statement and not the work of overenthusiastic moths). I feel a small tug of regret. I like Beth. A lot. And I could almost dare to entertain the notion that she likes me back. She’s a good person. But I am not. Which is why I am leaving and getting as far away from her as possible.
“Bowl of chips to share.”
I glance up. Lauren plonks an overflowing bowl down on the table.
I smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Not just for the chips.”
She stares at me.
“I remember,” I say. “It was you who found me, up at the pit that night.”
The moment stretches. Just when I think she’s going to remain silent, she says: “I was taking the dog for his last walk.”
An old dog, I think. Her mum’s. A dog with a chunk of fur missing from around its neck. And a tendency to bite.
“Well, thank you again,” I say. “For getting me home. For not saying anything. And for everything else. I’m a little hazy on the details.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
She shrugs. “How’s your head?”
I raise a hand and touch my forehead. There’s a small red mark on my temple and it feels a little tender, like the remains of a bruise. But that’s all. “I guess I must have hit it when I fell.”
“You didn’t fall.”
“I didn’t?”
“Not all the way.”
She turns and stalks back to the bar. I stare after her.
Beth sits back down at the table. “Did you say something?”
“No. Nothing.” I pick up a packet of sauce. “Ketchup?”
“Thanks.” She takes it, then says, “Oh, before I forget.”
She reaches into her bag and slides a small shoebox across the table.
“You got it?”
“Mrs. Craddock in Biology got it.”
“Thanks.” I open the box and peer inside.
“Meet Fluffball,” Beth says.
“She didn’t…you know?”
“Nooo. Natural causes.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Don’t suppose you’re going to enlighten me?”
“No.”
“Man of mystery.”
“Don’t forget ‘International.’ ”
“I’m going to miss you.”
I smile. “Me too.”
“Now, can you put that away? It’s putting me off my food.”
I slip the box into my satchel. “Better?”
“I meant your stupid smile.”
—
It’s past three by the time I climb into my car for the drive back to the Northwest. Beth and I exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch, and I know that we probably won’t because we are not the type of people to be text buddies, but that’s okay too.
There is no hug, there are no tears and no last-minute lustful, romantic kiss. She does not run after the car as I drive down the street. She gives me two fingers in the rearview mirror then disappears back inside the pub. It’s all good.
I pull off along the high street. But I do not go far. I reach the end of the road and then I stop beside St. Jude’s.
I climb out of the car and push the gate open. She is sitting on the rickety wooden bench. She looks composed in a plain gray jacket and blue dress. As I approach, she turns.
“Strange place to meet for a farewell,” Miss Grayson says.
“But appropriate, I thought.”
“I suppose so.”
We stare out over the graveyard.
“She’s not buried here, is she?” I say.
“Who?”
But she knows.
“Your sister.”
“This churchyard hasn’t been used for a long time.”
“She’s not buried at any cemeteries nearby. I checked.”
“My parents had her cremated.”
“No record of her at the crematorium either. In fact, there’s no record of her death at all.”
A long pause. Then she says:
“To lose a child, the pain is unimaginable. I think grief is a type of madness. It can make you do things you would never, under normal circumstances, ever consider.”
“What happened to her?” I ask.
“My parents took her away one night. They never brought her back. Or, at least, they never brought her home.”
“That’s why you were so interested in the history of Arnhill and the pit? Why you said you knew what had happened to Annie?”
She nods, then asks: “Was the car crash really an accident?”
“Yes,” I say. “It was.”
She looks thoughtful: “People say that life finds a way. Perhaps, sometimes, death does too.”
And ultimately, I think, he holds all the cards.
“I should get going.” I hold out a hand. “Goodbye, Miss Grayson.”
She takes it in her cool, smooth palm. “Goodbye, Mr. Thorne.”
