The Hiding Place, page 7
“Not being funny, but I can’t imagine ever wanting to come back to Arnhill. As soon as I can, I’ll be getting away.”
“How long have you been here?”
“One year, one day and about”—she checks her watch—“twelve hours, thirty-two minutes—”
“Not that you’re counting?”
“Oh, I’m counting.”
“Well, I know it’s small, parochial, a bit backward.”
“It’s not that…”
“Then what?”
“Have you ever been to Germany?”
“No.”
“I went once, just after college. Had a friend working in Berlin. She took me to one of the concentration camps.”
“Fun.”
“It was a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, birds singing, and buildings are just buildings, aren’t they? But the place still had a feel, you know? Like it was in the very air, in the atoms. You knew a terrible thing had happened there, without even being told. Even while you walked around with the guide, nodding and looking all sad, a part of you just wanted to run away, screaming.”
“That’s what you think of Arnhill?”
“Nope. I’d go back to Germany.” She pops a chip in her mouth, then asks, “What’s the deal with you and Stephen Hurst?”
“Deal?”
“I sense you two weren’t exactly best buddies back in the day?”
“Not exactly.”
“Something happen?”
I spear a chip. “Just the usual teenage-boy stuff.”
“Right.”
Her tone implies she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push it.
We both chew our food. The chips are all right. The cheese bap tastes like plastic, if someone had tried to make plastic less flavorsome.
“Harry told me Hurst’s wife is ill?” I say.
She nods. “Cancer. And whatever your feelings about Hurst, that’s gotta suck.”
“Yeah.”
And sometimes, what goes around comes around.
“They’ve been married a long time?”
“Teenage sweethearts.” She looks at me. “In fact, if you went to school with Hurst, you might remember her.”
“I went to school with a lot of people.”
“Her name’s Marie?”
Time slows and stills.
“Marie?”
“Yeah—can’t tell you her maiden name, I’m afraid.”
She doesn’t have to. Another chunk of my ground-down heart crumbles to dust.
“It was Gibson,” I say. “Marie Gibson.”
9
Marie and I grew up on the same street. Our mums were friends, so we got thrown together a lot when we were small, shooed off to play while they drank tea and gossiped. We played catch and hide-and-seek and sat on the curb and ate chocolate ices when the ice-cream van came around. This was before Annie was born, so I guess we’d have been about four or five at the time.
I quietly worshipped Marie. She quietly tolerated me—the only other kid her age on the street. At school she would quickly abandon me in favor of more popular playmates. I suppose I took this as my lot. Marie was pretty and fun. I was the weird, insular kid nobody liked.
By the time we reached senior school I had started to notice that Marie was a bit more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her shiny brown hair—she wore it in pigtails when she was little—had been cut into a short, swingy bob. Sometimes she crimped it like her heroine, Madonna. She wore stone-washed jeans and baggy sweaters with sleeves that hung down to her fingers. She got her ears pierced twice in each lobe and at school she rolled up the waistband of her skirt so that it hovered above her knees, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of toned flesh between the hem and her over-the-knee socks.
Of course, by this point Marie barely noticed me at all.
She wasn’t unkind or cruel. At least not on purpose. Occasionally she would walk past me on the street and it was like she was seeing someone she vaguely remembered or couldn’t quite place. She would offer a distracted “Hiya,” and I would glow for hours at the acknowledgment.
Annie used to tease me sometimes: “Oooh, look. It’s your girlfriend.” And make kissy, kissy noises. “Joey and Marie, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G.”
It was the only time I used to get properly annoyed at Annie. Perhaps because it hit a nerve. Marie was not my girlfriend; she would never be my girlfriend. Girls like Marie did not go out with boys like me: skinny, awkward nerds who read comic books and played computer games. They went out with proper boys who played football and hung around the playground, spitting and swearing for no reason.
Boys like Stephen Hurst.
They started going out in the third year. In a way, it was sort of inevitable—Hurst was the village bad boy, Marie was the prettiest girl in school. It was just the way things were. I wasn’t particularly jealous. Well, maybe a bit. Even then, I knew Marie was better than Hurst. Brighter, nicer and, unlike a lot of girls at our school, she had ambitions greater than to get married and have babies.
When I found myself accepted into Hurst’s gang—and Marie began to notice me again—she would tell me how she wanted to go to college and study fashion design. She was good at art. She dreamed of moving to London, planned to support herself with a bit of modeling. She had it all planned out. There was no way she was staying in a dump like Arnhill. As soon as she could she would be on the first bus out. The one that got away.
Except, she never did. Something changed. Something stopped her. Something tore her from her dreams, trampled those ambitions underfoot and ground them into the dirt. Something kept her here.
Or someone.
—
I stand at the corner of my old street, staring up the road and smoking. I intended to walk straight back to the cottage after school. But it seems my subconscious has other ideas.
The street has changed, and it hasn’t. The same red-brick terraces stand shoulder to shoulder, facing each other defiantly across the road, like they’re squaring up for a fight. But there are new additions: satellite dishes and skylights, PVC windows and doors. More cars are bumped up along the narrow pavement. Shiny Golfs, 4x4s and Minis. In my day, not every family had a car. Certainly not a new one.
Some things remain the same. A group of youths stand around a half-dismantled motorcycle, smoking and drinking from cans of Carlsberg. A couple of dogs bark loudly and incessantly. Music drifts from one of the windows: heavy on bass, short on tunes or lyrics. A gang of young kids kick a ball around.
My old house, number 29, is halfway along the street, a few houses up from the amateur mechanic’s, a few down from the wannabe Rooneys. Of all the houses, it’s the one that looks the least changed. The door is the same black-painted wood I remember, although the old brass knocker has been replaced by a smarter silver one. The wrought-iron gate still hangs a little lopsidedly, there are a couple of tiles missing from the roof and the brickwork around the front could do with repointing.
My room was at the back, next to Annie’s. She got the box room, the shorter straw. When we were younger we used to knock on the wall between us before we went to sleep. Later, after she came back, I used to lie in my room with my headphones on and the covers over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear her.
Mum sold the house soon after I came out of the hospital, after the accident. Her excuse was that we needed somewhere that was easier for me—still hobbling on crutches—to get around. The narrow row house with its steep stairs wasn’t really practical.
Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. There were too many memories. Nearly all bad. Mum bought a small bungalow not too far away. We lived there together until I was eighteen. Mum stayed until the day they took her to the hospital to die, just ten years later, at the meager age of fifty-three. They said it was lung cancer. But that wasn’t all of it. Part of Mum died the night of the crash. The rest of her just took a while to catch up.
I turn away. The light is failing now, the air getting cooler and, if I lurk here much longer, there’s a good chance someone might call the police. The last thing I want is to draw any attention to myself. I pull up the collar of my jacket and start to walk back down the street.
—
There’s a line people spout, usually people who want to sound sage and wise, about wherever you travel, you can never escape yourself.
That’s bullshit. Get far enough away from the relationships that bind you, the people that define you, the familiar landscapes and routines that tether you to an identity, and you can easily escape yourself, for a while at least. Self is only a construct. You can dismantle it, reconstruct it, pimp up a new you.
As long as you never go back. Then, that new you falls away like the emperor’s new clothes, leaving you naked and exposed, all your ugly flaws and mistakes revealed for the world to see.
I don’t mean to walk back to the pub. But somehow that’s the way I end up going. I linger outside for a few moments, finishing a cigarette, trying to convince myself that I am not going to walk inside. Definitely not. I don’t need to start another school day with a hangover. I’m going to go back to the cottage, make some food and have an early night. I stub the cigarette out, congratulate myself on being so sensible and walk inside.
I can already tell that the pub is different from lunchtime. A lot of pubs are like that. They change at night. It’s darker, the ancient fringed lamps providing dusty pools of illumination. The atmosphere is—if possible—even more unwelcoming. The smell is different too. Stronger, wheatier and, if I didn’t know it was illegal, I’d swear people had been smoking in here recently.
The place is also busier than at lunchtime. A few young men loiter around the bar, holding pints, despite the fact there are plenty of free seats. It’s the possessive behavior of the steadfast local. Claiming territory, like dogs pissing on a tree (and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had done that against the bar too).
The rest of the tables are filled by groups of older men and women. They hunch over their drinks like animals guarding a kill. The men sport signet rings and rolled-up shirtsleeves revealing blurry gray tattoos. The women are all brassy streaks and crinkly arms poking out from ill-advised vest tops.
I know pubs like this, and not just from my childhood. They might have been in bigger cities, fancied themselves as being a tad more sophisticated, but the clientele and the vibe are just the same. These are not pubs for family meals or a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay with your girlfriends. These are locals’ pubs, drinkers’ pubs and, in some cases, gamblers’ pubs.
I walk toward the bar, trying not to look as out of place as I feel. I might know these types of pubs, but here—despite growing up in the village—I am still an outsider. It’s not quite the saloon-bar doors swinging open and the piano player falling silent, but I swear, for a moment, the general hubbub of conversation stills and eyes crawl over me as I walk toward the bar.
Little Miss Scary isn’t serving tonight. Instead, a balding man with inky black bags beneath his eyes and several missing teeth scowls at me.
“Worr canna getcha?”
“Erm, pint of Guinness, please.”
He starts to pour the pint silently. I thank him, pay and, while the Guinness settles, I scan the room again. I spot a free table in a far corner. After he’s topped up the pint I walk toward it and sit down. I have my schoolbooks with me, so I take them out and do some marking while I sip my Guinness. Despite the staff, the lighting, the smell and the decor, the beer is well kept. It goes down quicker than I intended.
I saunter back up to the bar. The barman is at the other end. He’s obviously undergone some miraculous personality makeover and is smiling and laughing with the group of men I noticed as I came in. In fact, he’s looking so gregarious I wonder momentarily whether he has an identical twin.
I wait. One of the young men glances my way and says something. The barman laughs louder and continues talking. I wait some more, trying to look relaxed, trying not to feel annoyed. He carries on talking. I clear my throat, loudly. He looks over, the smile falls from his face and he lurches reluctantly across the bar toward me. As if pulled by an invisible magnetic force, two of the young men follow him.
I hold up my empty glass. “Thanks,” for finally doing your job. “Another Guinness, please.”
He takes a glass and jabs it under the pump.
I’m aware that the two young men have moved unsociably close. One is short and stocky with a shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos. The other is taller and skinny with bad skin and the type of gelled hairdo I thought went out with white socks and too-short trousers. They’re not quite invading my personal space, not yet. Just gathering on the border. I can smell the unpleasant aroma of stale sweat only partially masked by cheap deodorant. Something about the pair feels strangely familiar, or perhaps it’s just the threat of confrontation that I’m familiar with.
I wait, watching the Guinness being slowly poured. And then I hear the shorter, stockier one say: “Not seen you in here before, mate.”
If there’s one thing I hate more than being called “man,” it’s being called “mate” by someone who is not and never will be.
I turn and smile. “Only moved here recently.”
“You’re that new teacher,” Unwise Hair says.
“That’s right.”
I do love it when people tell me things I already know.
“Joe Thorne.” I hold out a hand. Neither takes it.
“You’re living in the old Morton cottage?”
Again. The “Morton” cottage. Tragedy—especially bloody, violent tragedy—stamps its identity on everything around it.
“That’s right,” I say again.
“Bit fucking weird, isn’t it?” Unwise Hair has moved closer.
“How d’you mean?”
“You know what happened there, right?” Stocky asks.
“I do.”
“Most people wouldn’t want to live in a place where a kid died like that.”
“Unless they’re weird,” Unwise Hair adds, in case I haven’t got the subtle subtext.
“Guess I must be weird then.”
“Are you being funny, mate?”
“I guess not.”
He presses closer.
“I don’t like you.”
“And I was about to ask for your number.”
I see him clench his fist. I grip the empty glass, ready to smash it on the bar if needed, and in the past, at least once, it has been needed.
And then, when it seems that violence is inevitable, I hear a familiar voice say: “All right, lads. Nothing wrong here, is there?”
The Chuckle Brothers turn and melt away. A tall, burly figure walks up to the bar. Maybe I do believe in ghosts, I think. Bad ones that no amount of time, distance or holy water will exorcise.
“Joe Thorne,” he says. “Long time.”
I stare at Stephen Hurst. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”
10
If some kids are born victims, are others born bullies?
I don’t know the answer. I do know it’s not acceptable to say that these days. Not the done thing to suggest that some kids, some families, are simply bad. It’s nothing to do with class, or money, or deprivation. They’re just wired differently. It’s in their genes.
Stephen Hurst came from a long line of bullies. The joy of picking on those weaker was something that was passed down through the generations, like a classic heirloom, or hemophilia.
His dad, Dennis, was a foreman down the pit. The men loathed him, feared him and loathed him some more. He wielded his power like a coal axe, cutting down those who opposed him, forcing his enemies on the hardest shifts, taking a delight in refusing leave to spend with newborns or ill family members.
When the strike was on he could be seen at the front of the picket line, waving his placard, hurling abuse at the working miners and stones and bottles at the police. I’m not saying all the pickets were in the wrong, nor would I ever judge those who went to work, like my dad. They both thought that they were doing the best for their families, to save their livelihoods. But Hurst wasn’t on the picket line for his politics or his beliefs, he was there because he loved the confrontation, the aggravation, the ugliness and, most of all, the violence.
It was never said at the time but, looking back, I realized that it was probably Dennis who was behind the graffiti, the intimidation, the brick through our window. It was his style. Go for the soft target. Rather than attack Dad directly, he attacked his family.
Stephen’s mum often sported a black eye or a cut lip. Once, she had a cast that ran all up one skinny arm. Most people knew the injuries weren’t because she was “a bit clumsy” but due to Dennis being a bit free with his fists after a pint or ten. But no one ever said anything. Back then, in a small village like Arnhill, that sort of stuff was between a husband and wife. And their son.
Stephen was tall like his dad, but he had his mum’s fine features and blue eyes. Poster-boy handsome. Pretty, even. He could be charming and funny too, when he felt like it. But everyone knew that was a front. Stephen was a Hurst through and through.
Of course, there was one big difference between him and his dad: while Dennis was a blundering thug, his son was not stupid. He was clever and manipulative as well as being violent, brutal and sadistic.
I had seen him force a kid’s head down a toilet full of piss, make another eat worms, beat, humiliate, torture—mentally and physically. Sometimes I hated him. Sometimes I felt scared of him. Once upon a time, I would happily have killed him.
And I was never one of his victims. I was one of his friends.
—
The blond hair is sparser, the once-chiseled features softer, bloated by age and good living. He wears a polo shirt, dark blue jeans, and too-white trainers. Like many middle-aged men, he turns “casual clothes” into an oxymoron.
“How long have you been here?”
“One year, one day and about”—she checks her watch—“twelve hours, thirty-two minutes—”
“Not that you’re counting?”
“Oh, I’m counting.”
“Well, I know it’s small, parochial, a bit backward.”
“It’s not that…”
“Then what?”
“Have you ever been to Germany?”
“No.”
“I went once, just after college. Had a friend working in Berlin. She took me to one of the concentration camps.”
“Fun.”
“It was a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, birds singing, and buildings are just buildings, aren’t they? But the place still had a feel, you know? Like it was in the very air, in the atoms. You knew a terrible thing had happened there, without even being told. Even while you walked around with the guide, nodding and looking all sad, a part of you just wanted to run away, screaming.”
“That’s what you think of Arnhill?”
“Nope. I’d go back to Germany.” She pops a chip in her mouth, then asks, “What’s the deal with you and Stephen Hurst?”
“Deal?”
“I sense you two weren’t exactly best buddies back in the day?”
“Not exactly.”
“Something happen?”
I spear a chip. “Just the usual teenage-boy stuff.”
“Right.”
Her tone implies she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push it.
We both chew our food. The chips are all right. The cheese bap tastes like plastic, if someone had tried to make plastic less flavorsome.
“Harry told me Hurst’s wife is ill?” I say.
She nods. “Cancer. And whatever your feelings about Hurst, that’s gotta suck.”
“Yeah.”
And sometimes, what goes around comes around.
“They’ve been married a long time?”
“Teenage sweethearts.” She looks at me. “In fact, if you went to school with Hurst, you might remember her.”
“I went to school with a lot of people.”
“Her name’s Marie?”
Time slows and stills.
“Marie?”
“Yeah—can’t tell you her maiden name, I’m afraid.”
She doesn’t have to. Another chunk of my ground-down heart crumbles to dust.
“It was Gibson,” I say. “Marie Gibson.”
9
Marie and I grew up on the same street. Our mums were friends, so we got thrown together a lot when we were small, shooed off to play while they drank tea and gossiped. We played catch and hide-and-seek and sat on the curb and ate chocolate ices when the ice-cream van came around. This was before Annie was born, so I guess we’d have been about four or five at the time.
I quietly worshipped Marie. She quietly tolerated me—the only other kid her age on the street. At school she would quickly abandon me in favor of more popular playmates. I suppose I took this as my lot. Marie was pretty and fun. I was the weird, insular kid nobody liked.
By the time we reached senior school I had started to notice that Marie was a bit more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her shiny brown hair—she wore it in pigtails when she was little—had been cut into a short, swingy bob. Sometimes she crimped it like her heroine, Madonna. She wore stone-washed jeans and baggy sweaters with sleeves that hung down to her fingers. She got her ears pierced twice in each lobe and at school she rolled up the waistband of her skirt so that it hovered above her knees, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of toned flesh between the hem and her over-the-knee socks.
Of course, by this point Marie barely noticed me at all.
She wasn’t unkind or cruel. At least not on purpose. Occasionally she would walk past me on the street and it was like she was seeing someone she vaguely remembered or couldn’t quite place. She would offer a distracted “Hiya,” and I would glow for hours at the acknowledgment.
Annie used to tease me sometimes: “Oooh, look. It’s your girlfriend.” And make kissy, kissy noises. “Joey and Marie, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G.”
It was the only time I used to get properly annoyed at Annie. Perhaps because it hit a nerve. Marie was not my girlfriend; she would never be my girlfriend. Girls like Marie did not go out with boys like me: skinny, awkward nerds who read comic books and played computer games. They went out with proper boys who played football and hung around the playground, spitting and swearing for no reason.
Boys like Stephen Hurst.
They started going out in the third year. In a way, it was sort of inevitable—Hurst was the village bad boy, Marie was the prettiest girl in school. It was just the way things were. I wasn’t particularly jealous. Well, maybe a bit. Even then, I knew Marie was better than Hurst. Brighter, nicer and, unlike a lot of girls at our school, she had ambitions greater than to get married and have babies.
When I found myself accepted into Hurst’s gang—and Marie began to notice me again—she would tell me how she wanted to go to college and study fashion design. She was good at art. She dreamed of moving to London, planned to support herself with a bit of modeling. She had it all planned out. There was no way she was staying in a dump like Arnhill. As soon as she could she would be on the first bus out. The one that got away.
Except, she never did. Something changed. Something stopped her. Something tore her from her dreams, trampled those ambitions underfoot and ground them into the dirt. Something kept her here.
Or someone.
—
I stand at the corner of my old street, staring up the road and smoking. I intended to walk straight back to the cottage after school. But it seems my subconscious has other ideas.
The street has changed, and it hasn’t. The same red-brick terraces stand shoulder to shoulder, facing each other defiantly across the road, like they’re squaring up for a fight. But there are new additions: satellite dishes and skylights, PVC windows and doors. More cars are bumped up along the narrow pavement. Shiny Golfs, 4x4s and Minis. In my day, not every family had a car. Certainly not a new one.
Some things remain the same. A group of youths stand around a half-dismantled motorcycle, smoking and drinking from cans of Carlsberg. A couple of dogs bark loudly and incessantly. Music drifts from one of the windows: heavy on bass, short on tunes or lyrics. A gang of young kids kick a ball around.
My old house, number 29, is halfway along the street, a few houses up from the amateur mechanic’s, a few down from the wannabe Rooneys. Of all the houses, it’s the one that looks the least changed. The door is the same black-painted wood I remember, although the old brass knocker has been replaced by a smarter silver one. The wrought-iron gate still hangs a little lopsidedly, there are a couple of tiles missing from the roof and the brickwork around the front could do with repointing.
My room was at the back, next to Annie’s. She got the box room, the shorter straw. When we were younger we used to knock on the wall between us before we went to sleep. Later, after she came back, I used to lie in my room with my headphones on and the covers over my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear her.
Mum sold the house soon after I came out of the hospital, after the accident. Her excuse was that we needed somewhere that was easier for me—still hobbling on crutches—to get around. The narrow row house with its steep stairs wasn’t really practical.
Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. There were too many memories. Nearly all bad. Mum bought a small bungalow not too far away. We lived there together until I was eighteen. Mum stayed until the day they took her to the hospital to die, just ten years later, at the meager age of fifty-three. They said it was lung cancer. But that wasn’t all of it. Part of Mum died the night of the crash. The rest of her just took a while to catch up.
I turn away. The light is failing now, the air getting cooler and, if I lurk here much longer, there’s a good chance someone might call the police. The last thing I want is to draw any attention to myself. I pull up the collar of my jacket and start to walk back down the street.
—
There’s a line people spout, usually people who want to sound sage and wise, about wherever you travel, you can never escape yourself.
That’s bullshit. Get far enough away from the relationships that bind you, the people that define you, the familiar landscapes and routines that tether you to an identity, and you can easily escape yourself, for a while at least. Self is only a construct. You can dismantle it, reconstruct it, pimp up a new you.
As long as you never go back. Then, that new you falls away like the emperor’s new clothes, leaving you naked and exposed, all your ugly flaws and mistakes revealed for the world to see.
I don’t mean to walk back to the pub. But somehow that’s the way I end up going. I linger outside for a few moments, finishing a cigarette, trying to convince myself that I am not going to walk inside. Definitely not. I don’t need to start another school day with a hangover. I’m going to go back to the cottage, make some food and have an early night. I stub the cigarette out, congratulate myself on being so sensible and walk inside.
I can already tell that the pub is different from lunchtime. A lot of pubs are like that. They change at night. It’s darker, the ancient fringed lamps providing dusty pools of illumination. The atmosphere is—if possible—even more unwelcoming. The smell is different too. Stronger, wheatier and, if I didn’t know it was illegal, I’d swear people had been smoking in here recently.
The place is also busier than at lunchtime. A few young men loiter around the bar, holding pints, despite the fact there are plenty of free seats. It’s the possessive behavior of the steadfast local. Claiming territory, like dogs pissing on a tree (and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had done that against the bar too).
The rest of the tables are filled by groups of older men and women. They hunch over their drinks like animals guarding a kill. The men sport signet rings and rolled-up shirtsleeves revealing blurry gray tattoos. The women are all brassy streaks and crinkly arms poking out from ill-advised vest tops.
I know pubs like this, and not just from my childhood. They might have been in bigger cities, fancied themselves as being a tad more sophisticated, but the clientele and the vibe are just the same. These are not pubs for family meals or a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay with your girlfriends. These are locals’ pubs, drinkers’ pubs and, in some cases, gamblers’ pubs.
I walk toward the bar, trying not to look as out of place as I feel. I might know these types of pubs, but here—despite growing up in the village—I am still an outsider. It’s not quite the saloon-bar doors swinging open and the piano player falling silent, but I swear, for a moment, the general hubbub of conversation stills and eyes crawl over me as I walk toward the bar.
Little Miss Scary isn’t serving tonight. Instead, a balding man with inky black bags beneath his eyes and several missing teeth scowls at me.
“Worr canna getcha?”
“Erm, pint of Guinness, please.”
He starts to pour the pint silently. I thank him, pay and, while the Guinness settles, I scan the room again. I spot a free table in a far corner. After he’s topped up the pint I walk toward it and sit down. I have my schoolbooks with me, so I take them out and do some marking while I sip my Guinness. Despite the staff, the lighting, the smell and the decor, the beer is well kept. It goes down quicker than I intended.
I saunter back up to the bar. The barman is at the other end. He’s obviously undergone some miraculous personality makeover and is smiling and laughing with the group of men I noticed as I came in. In fact, he’s looking so gregarious I wonder momentarily whether he has an identical twin.
I wait. One of the young men glances my way and says something. The barman laughs louder and continues talking. I wait some more, trying to look relaxed, trying not to feel annoyed. He carries on talking. I clear my throat, loudly. He looks over, the smile falls from his face and he lurches reluctantly across the bar toward me. As if pulled by an invisible magnetic force, two of the young men follow him.
I hold up my empty glass. “Thanks,” for finally doing your job. “Another Guinness, please.”
He takes a glass and jabs it under the pump.
I’m aware that the two young men have moved unsociably close. One is short and stocky with a shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos. The other is taller and skinny with bad skin and the type of gelled hairdo I thought went out with white socks and too-short trousers. They’re not quite invading my personal space, not yet. Just gathering on the border. I can smell the unpleasant aroma of stale sweat only partially masked by cheap deodorant. Something about the pair feels strangely familiar, or perhaps it’s just the threat of confrontation that I’m familiar with.
I wait, watching the Guinness being slowly poured. And then I hear the shorter, stockier one say: “Not seen you in here before, mate.”
If there’s one thing I hate more than being called “man,” it’s being called “mate” by someone who is not and never will be.
I turn and smile. “Only moved here recently.”
“You’re that new teacher,” Unwise Hair says.
“That’s right.”
I do love it when people tell me things I already know.
“Joe Thorne.” I hold out a hand. Neither takes it.
“You’re living in the old Morton cottage?”
Again. The “Morton” cottage. Tragedy—especially bloody, violent tragedy—stamps its identity on everything around it.
“That’s right,” I say again.
“Bit fucking weird, isn’t it?” Unwise Hair has moved closer.
“How d’you mean?”
“You know what happened there, right?” Stocky asks.
“I do.”
“Most people wouldn’t want to live in a place where a kid died like that.”
“Unless they’re weird,” Unwise Hair adds, in case I haven’t got the subtle subtext.
“Guess I must be weird then.”
“Are you being funny, mate?”
“I guess not.”
He presses closer.
“I don’t like you.”
“And I was about to ask for your number.”
I see him clench his fist. I grip the empty glass, ready to smash it on the bar if needed, and in the past, at least once, it has been needed.
And then, when it seems that violence is inevitable, I hear a familiar voice say: “All right, lads. Nothing wrong here, is there?”
The Chuckle Brothers turn and melt away. A tall, burly figure walks up to the bar. Maybe I do believe in ghosts, I think. Bad ones that no amount of time, distance or holy water will exorcise.
“Joe Thorne,” he says. “Long time.”
I stare at Stephen Hurst. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”
10
If some kids are born victims, are others born bullies?
I don’t know the answer. I do know it’s not acceptable to say that these days. Not the done thing to suggest that some kids, some families, are simply bad. It’s nothing to do with class, or money, or deprivation. They’re just wired differently. It’s in their genes.
Stephen Hurst came from a long line of bullies. The joy of picking on those weaker was something that was passed down through the generations, like a classic heirloom, or hemophilia.
His dad, Dennis, was a foreman down the pit. The men loathed him, feared him and loathed him some more. He wielded his power like a coal axe, cutting down those who opposed him, forcing his enemies on the hardest shifts, taking a delight in refusing leave to spend with newborns or ill family members.
When the strike was on he could be seen at the front of the picket line, waving his placard, hurling abuse at the working miners and stones and bottles at the police. I’m not saying all the pickets were in the wrong, nor would I ever judge those who went to work, like my dad. They both thought that they were doing the best for their families, to save their livelihoods. But Hurst wasn’t on the picket line for his politics or his beliefs, he was there because he loved the confrontation, the aggravation, the ugliness and, most of all, the violence.
It was never said at the time but, looking back, I realized that it was probably Dennis who was behind the graffiti, the intimidation, the brick through our window. It was his style. Go for the soft target. Rather than attack Dad directly, he attacked his family.
Stephen’s mum often sported a black eye or a cut lip. Once, she had a cast that ran all up one skinny arm. Most people knew the injuries weren’t because she was “a bit clumsy” but due to Dennis being a bit free with his fists after a pint or ten. But no one ever said anything. Back then, in a small village like Arnhill, that sort of stuff was between a husband and wife. And their son.
Stephen was tall like his dad, but he had his mum’s fine features and blue eyes. Poster-boy handsome. Pretty, even. He could be charming and funny too, when he felt like it. But everyone knew that was a front. Stephen was a Hurst through and through.
Of course, there was one big difference between him and his dad: while Dennis was a blundering thug, his son was not stupid. He was clever and manipulative as well as being violent, brutal and sadistic.
I had seen him force a kid’s head down a toilet full of piss, make another eat worms, beat, humiliate, torture—mentally and physically. Sometimes I hated him. Sometimes I felt scared of him. Once upon a time, I would happily have killed him.
And I was never one of his victims. I was one of his friends.
—
The blond hair is sparser, the once-chiseled features softer, bloated by age and good living. He wears a polo shirt, dark blue jeans, and too-white trainers. Like many middle-aged men, he turns “casual clothes” into an oxymoron.
