The Hiding Place(25)

It’s almost nine and most of the light has faded from the day. The sky is a dusty gray; the moon a pale, naked shadow behind shifting curtains of cloud.

I realize I have stopped beside the old colliery site. The remains of the reclaimed mine rise behind me, the dark humps of the old slag heaps like dormant dragons.

It’s a huge site. At least three square miles. New fencing has been erected on this side, along with a sturdy, padlocked gate. A sign attached to it reads: arnhill country park, opening june.

Bearing in mind it is now September, I would say that this is optimistic at the very least. There were plans even when I was a kid to redevelop the area. All the old tunnels and shafts were supposed to have been filled in when the mine closed. But there were rumors this was done too quickly. Corners cut. Plans not altogether strictly adhered to. There were issues with subsidence. Sink holes. I remember a story about one that almost swallowed up a dog walker.

Tonight, the area looks as much of a wasteland as ever. A dead, desolate place. One solitary digger sits halfway up one of the slopes, unmanned, seemingly abandoned. The sight of it still sends cold claws skittering down my spine. Digging into the land, disturbing things.

I turn away and resume my slow, uneven progress. I hear a noise behind me. A car is approaching along the lane. Not too fast, for once. In fact, it’s really crawling. I glance around. Headlights blind me. They’re on full beam. I raise a hand to shield my eyes. What the hell?

And then I realize. The car pulls up and a voice says: “All right, mate?”

Unwise Hair sits in the beaten-up Cortina next to his stocky mate, who is driving. The lane is deserted. No other cars. No other houses. The cottage is still a good quarter of a mile away. There are two of them, in a car, and I don’t have anything I could use as a weapon, not even a damn walking stick.

I try to keep my tone even. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Need a lift?”

“No, I’m good.”

I continue lurching along. There’s a crunch of gears and the car crawls along beside me.

“Got a bad limp there, mate. You should get in.”

“I said, no thanks.”

“And I said, get in.”

“I don’t think you can afford my rates.”

The car squeals abruptly to a stop. Stupid, Joe. Really stupid. Sometimes it’s like my mouth just goes out there looking for a fight. Or perhaps it’s just trying to speed up what is bound to happen anyway.

The doors open and they both climb out. I could try to run, but that would be pointless and pathetic. However, I’m not averse to a little begging: “Look, it was a joke, mate. I just want to get home.”

Unwise Hair takes a step toward me. “This ain’t your home. You’re not wanted here.”

“Okay—I get the message.”

“No, you don’t. That’s why he sent us.”

There is often an inevitability to life. Like I say, not fate exactly, but a sequence of events that are unavoidable. In the moment before the first blow strikes me in the face, I realize how stupid I’ve been. He sent us. These are Hurst’s lackeys. That’s why they slunk away like obedient pups when he walked into the pub. Then, when I wouldn’t back down, he sent them after me. Same, I think, as another blow causes me to double over and fall to my knees, as it ever was.

I curl into a ball and take a kick to the ribs. They erupt in fiery pain. I wrap my arms around my head. Sadly, I’ve been in this position before. If I could speak, which I can’t, because I’m trying to hang on to my teeth, I would tell these thugs that I’ve been beaten up by better hired muscle than them. That, in the beating-up stakes, they are amateur league. A kick thuds into my back. Fire shoots up my spine. I scream. On the other hand, even amateurs get lucky. I doubt Hurst will have told them to kill me, but it’s a fine line. One I’m not sure these morons are capable of understanding the subtleties of.

A boot connects with the side of my head. My skull explodes and my vision wavers. And then, distantly, I hear something. A shout or scream? I am dimly aware of muffled curses, a cry of pain that is not, for once, my own. And then, to my amazement, the sound of doors slamming shut and a car accelerating away. I’d like to feel relieved, but I’m in too much pain and barely managing to grasp on to consciousness.

I remain lying on the cold, hard ground, my body one throbbing mass of agony. It hurts to breathe, let alone move. My head feels worryingly numb. I also have a vague feeling that I am not lying here alone.

I sense a movement to one side. Right or left, I can’t tell anymore. I feel someone touch my arm. I try to focus on the face leaning over mine, swimming in and out of vision. Blond hair. Red lips. And the last thing I realize, before the blackness finally claims me, is that I hope I’m dying.

Because the alternative is far worse.





11





The squeal of rubber-soled shoes on shiny linoleum. The smell of cabbage, disinfectant and something else that the disinfectant can’t quite mask: feces and death.

If this is heaven, it stinks. I blink my eyes open.

“Ah, you’re back with us in the land of the living.”

A vision clarifies in front of me. A woman, in doctor’s scrubs. Tall and thin with short blond hair and a strong face.

“Do you know where you are?”