The Hiding Place(38)

A circular shape in the earth, rusted almost the same color, but not quite. It looked a bit like an old hubcap, but if you looked closer you could see it was too large for a hubcap and too thick. There were small round lumps around the edge, like rivets. In the middle was another circle, slightly raised, with grooves in it.

“There,” I said. “Can you see it now?”

I pointed at the ground and looked back at the others.

Hurst dropped Chris. “What the fuck is it?”

“It’s just an old hubcap,” Fletch said, echoing my first thought.

“Too big,” Hurst said immediately, echoing my second thought. He looked back at Chris. “Well?”

Chris just stared at him, as if the answer was obvious. “It’s a hatch.”

“A what ?”

“It’s like an opening,” I said. “To underground.”

Hurst’s face broke into a wide grin. “Fucking ace.” He looked back at the circular shape in the ground. “So, what? Some sort of escape shaft for the mines or something. I think I’ve heard of those.”

I never had, and my dad had worked down the mines most of his life, but I knew mines did have air shafts, to ventilate them. I didn’t see how that would help us much, though. Those shafts were the equivalent of chimney stacks. They ran all the way up to the surface. A drop of around three hundred feet straight down. That wasn’t a way in. That was suicide.

I was about to point this out when Hurst spoke again. “Go on, then,” he said to Chris. “Open it.”

Chris looked pained. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Hurst shook his head in disgust. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Doughboy.”

He bent and tried to grasp the edges of the metal, wedging his fingers underneath. But it was so big and heavy I could see he was having difficulty getting any traction. He grunted and heaved then yelled at the rest of us: “Well, come on, fucking help me, you bunch of twats.”

Despite my trepidation, I complied, along with Fletch. We all dug our fingers into the dirt and tried to grasp the metal around the edges, but it was impossible. It was just too thick and too deeply embedded into the earth. It had probably been untouched for years. However much we pulled and twisted and tugged, it just wouldn’t budge.

“Fuck this,” Hurst gasped, and we all fell gratefully back onto the hard ground, arms aching, chests heaving.

I looked back at the strange metal circle. Yes, it was stuck fast in the earth, but if it was some kind of smoke or escape hatch, surely there ought to be a handle or lever so you could get it up quickly if necessary. That was the whole point of a hatch. But there was nothing, except that odd second circle, almost as if it wasn’t put there to be opened at all. Not to let anyone in, or out.

“Right,” Hurst said. “We need to get some proper tools and get it up.”

“Now?” I said. The light had faded so fast I could only just make out the ghostly circles of their faces.

“What’s the matter? You wimping out, Thorney?”

I bristled. “No. I’m just saying, it’s almost dark. We’re not going to have much time. If we’re going in, we should be prepared.”

Not that I wanted to go in at all, if indeed there even was an “in” to go to, but it seemed the best argument for now.

I thought he was going to argue back. Then he said, “You’re right. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He looked around at us all. “We’ll need flashlights.” He grinned. “And a crowbar.”


—



We covered the hatch roughly with dirt and rocks and then, as a marker, Hurst left his school tie in a loose knot on the ground. No one casually walking past would think anything of it. Ties, like trainers and socks, were often scattered around the old colliery site.

Then, as the final trace of light withered from the sky, we started to trudge home. I’m not sure, but I think I glanced back once, a strange feeling of unease tickling the base of my neck. I couldn’t have possibly seen anything from that distance, but in my mind I could still just make out the strange rusty hatch.

I didn’t like it.

A crowbar. I didn’t like that either.





17





After Marie has gone I can’t settle. My leg is hurting again, and even the addition of a large bourbon and two codeine tablets can’t ease the twitching nerves.

Sitting makes it ache. Pacing makes it throb. I curse and rub at it viciously. I try to distract myself with a book, some music, then I stand and smoke at the back door. Again.

My mind is also working overtime. Suffocate the Little Children, Rest in Pieces. It’s happening again. The sender of the text must be the same person who sent me the email. And if they know about the Angel, then they must have known me all those years ago. Not Hurst, or Marie. Fletch? I’m not sure Fletch is capable of sending a coherent text message, not with the lack of opposable thumbs. So, who else? And more to the point, why, why, why?

My general state of befuddled confusion has not been helped by Marie’s impromptu visit tonight. I’m not sure if I have done the right thing. If I have shown my hand too soon. A good gambler knows never to do that. Not without being damn certain what cards the other player is holding.

But then, I don’t have much time. Certainly not as much as I thought. Because Gloria is here. Waiting. Impatiently. Tapping those glittery red nails. If I don’t satisfy her demands soon, the game will be over. Because I will be dead, quite possibly with no hands at all. Or feet. Or anything that could be used to identify my body.