The Hiding Place(24)

“Firstly, I’m not an outsider and, secondly, I’m not quite sure what trouble I’ve caused.”

“The fact you’re here at all is trouble.”

“Guilty conscience? No, wait, that would imply you had a conscience.”

I see him shift. Just a little. A reflex action. He’d like to punch me in the face, but he restrains himself. Just.

“What happened here, it was a long time ago. Isn’t it time you put it behind you?”

Put it behind me. Like it was schoolboy high jinks or a first crush. I feel anger simmer.

“What if it’s happening again?”

His face gives nothing away. Maybe he’s a better bluffer than I am.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean Benjamin Morton.”

“His mother was depressed, had a breakdown. Worrying, the type of people who become teachers, don’t you think?”

I don’t bite.

“I heard Ben went missing, not long before he was killed?”

“Kids run off sometimes.”

“For twenty-four hours? Like you said, Arnhill isn’t a big village. Where was he?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Do kids still play up on the old colliery site?”

The eyes spark. He leans forward. “I know what you’re implying. And you’re wrong. It’s nothing like—” He breaks off as an older man with a halo of white hair and brown flared slacks walks past and raises a hand: “All right, Steve?”

“Not bad. You here for quiz night tomorrow?”

“Well, someone needs to whup your arse again.”

They laugh. The man wanders off to another table. Stephen turns back to me. The smile snaps off like someone flicked a switch.

“I’m sure a man with your qualifications can find himself another teaching job somewhere better than this shithole. Do yourself a favor. Leave, before there’s any more unpleasantness.”

“Any more unpleasantness?”

So he knows about the vandalism.

“Tell me,” I say. “Does your son own a moped?”

“You leave my son out of it.”

“Well, I would, but it seems he has this unpleasant habit of throwing bricks through my window.”

“That sounds like slander.”

“I thought it was criminal damage. And don’t you need to be sixteen to legally ride a moped?”

“I think we’re done here.” He starts to push his chair back.

“I’m sorry about Marie.”

Something in his face changes. His lip trembles. One eye droops. For a moment, he looks very old. And for the merest sliver of a second I almost feel bad for him.

“Must be tough—you’ve been married a long time.”

“Jealous?”

“Disappointed, actually. I always thought Marie would leave this place. She had dreams.”

“She had me.”

Somehow, he makes this sound like a burden, rather than a reason.

“And that was all?”

“What else could there be? We were in love. We got married.”

“Happily ever after.”

“We are happy. Probably difficult for you to understand. We have a good life here. We have Jeremy. We have a big house, two cars, our own villa in Portugal.”

“Nice.”

“It fucking is. And no one, especially not some third-rate teacher at some shitty school, is going to screw that up.”

“I thought the cancer already had.”

“Marie’s a fighter.”

“So was my mum. Right until the end.”

But that’s not true. At the end, she didn’t fight. She just screamed. The cancer that started in her lungs—nurtured by a twenty-a-day Benson & Hedges habit—had spread to her liver, kidneys, bones, invaded everywhere. Even the morphine couldn’t contain the pain, not all the time. She screamed because she was in agony and then, in those tiny moments of respite, she screamed because she was terrified of succumbing to the only thing that could take the pain away for good.

“Yeah, well, this is different. Marie is going to beat the cancer. And those NHS doctors, barely fucking old enough to shave, they don’t know everything.”

He stares across at me, blue eyes blazing, cheeks flushed a deep red, spittle gathering at the corner of his lips.

“They’ve said she’s dying, haven’t they?”

“No!” He slams his hand down on the table. The drinks jump. I jump. “Marie is not going to die. I will not let that happen.”

This time the pub really does falter and fall quiet; the very air seems to still. All eyes are upon us. Hurst must feel it too. After a moment, a very long moment, during which I half expect him to roar, tip up the table and wrap his hands around my throat, he glances around, composes himself and stands.

“Thanks for your concern but, like your presence here, it’s unnecessary.”

I watch him go. And that’s when I feel it. A sudden wave of dread, like vertigo, that hollows out my stomach from within and saps the strength from my bones.

I will not let that happen.

It’s happening again.


—



After Hurst has left I finish my pint—more to prove a point than any real desire to drink more or stay in the pub—then walk home. My leg does not thank me. My leg calls me a sadist and dumb moron who should just swallow his pride and use his damn cane. It’s right. Halfway along the lane I pause and breathe deeply, massaging the lumpy, twisted limb.