The Hiding Place(23)

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.

He looks uncomfortable, more used to lording it in a suit and tie. He also looks exhausted. The two-holidays-a-year tan cannot quite disguise the dark circles beneath his blue eyes or conceal the flaccidness of his skin, like worry is dragging it from the very bones.

Surprisingly, this does not make me feel better. Over the years, I’ve wished many terrible things on Stephen Hurst. And now his wife is dying, and I don’t feel any satisfaction. This may well mean I am a better man than I give myself credit for. Or maybe it’s just the opposite. Maybe it’s still not terrible enough. Maybe it means, as always, that life is unfair. Marie should not be the one being slowly eaten away from the inside by cancer. It should be Hurst. I’d say it was proof that the devil does indeed look after his own, if I didn’t suspect that Hurst actually is the devil.

We sit, on opposite sides of the small, rickety table, and regard each other appraisingly. My Guinness is half drunk. He has barely touched his whiskey.

“So what brings you back to Arnhill?” he asks.

“A job.”

“Simple as that, eh?”

“Pretty much.”

“I have to say, you’re the last person I thought would come back.”

“Well, things never work out quite like we imagine when we’re kids, do they?”

He glances down. “How’s the leg?”

Typical Hurst. Straight for the weak spot.

“It bothers me sometimes,” I say. “Like a lot of things.”

He regards me shrewdly. Despite the amiable act, I can still see the cold light in those eyes.

“Why are you really back?”

“I told you, a job came up.”

“I’m sure jobs come up all over the place, all the time.”

“This one appealed to me.”

“You have a way of making bad choices.”

“Got to be good at something.”

He smiles. Unnaturally white. Completely false. “If Harry had informed me who he was interviewing, you’d never have got the job. Arnhill is a small village. People here look after their own. They don’t like outsiders coming in, causing trouble.”