The Hiding Place(42)

When the mine closed it took the council less than two years to rip out that heart, although by that time it had long stopped beating. Soot and smoke no longer circulated around its steel arteries. The buildings had crumbled and been vandalized. Thieves had stolen a lot of the metal, fixtures and fittings. In a way, it was a mercy when the bulldozers moved in.

Finally, there was nothing left. Nothing except a deep wound in the land—a constant reminder of what had been lost. Some families moved, to find work elsewhere. Others, like my dad, adapted. The village limped its way back to a sort of recovery. But some scars don’t ever really heal.

The rugged landscape rises in front of me, grown thick and abundant with wildflowers and grass. Hard to believe that once, in this same place, stood great industrial buildings. That beneath the earth there are still shafts and machinery, abandoned because it was too costly to remove.

But that’s not all that lies beneath the earth. Before the mines. Before the machines that bore into the ground, there were other excavations here. Other traditions upon which this village was built.

I start to ascend, glad I brought my cane to aid my progress along the uneven ground. I found a way in through a narrow gap in the perimeter fence. From the trampled-down grass and bare earth on the other side, I guess it is a well-used entrance.

As a kid, I knew this place well. Now, it is foreign to me. I can’t place exactly where I am or even where the old shafts used to be. And the hatch doesn’t exist anymore. That was lost, along with our way in, thanks to Chris. For good, I thought. But I should have known. Some things won’t stay buried. And kids will always find a way.

I stand at the crest of one steep hill to catch my breath. Even if I didn’t have a crippled leg, I am not a man used to hiking and hill-climbing. I’m built for sitting at tables and perching on bar stools. I have never even run for a bus. I try to force my lungs to drag in some much-needed oxygen. And then I give up, pull out my cigarettes and light one. I thought that when I got out here I would feel some instinctive recall, a twinge, like an internal divining rod. But there is nothing. The only twinge I am feeling is from my bruised ribs. Perhaps I have worked too hard to forget. I am not sure if that makes me disappointed or relieved.

I stare around at the undulating lines of brown and green. Scraggy grass and hard thorny bushes, slopes of slippery gravel and deep hollows filled with muddy marsh water and swaying reeds.

I can almost hear them whispering to me: You thought you could just stroll up here and find your way back? It doesn’t work like that, Joey-boy. Haven’t you learned anything by now? You don’t find me. I find you. And don’t you fucking forget it.

I shiver a little. Perhaps this little hike up memory hill, like many of my actions, is a fruitless exercise. Perhaps the email isn’t important either. Or the text. Or any of it. Maybe the best thing to do would be to get what I’m due and get out. I’m not the hero type. I’m not the guy in the film who goes back, solves the mystery and gets the girl. If anything, I’m the deadbeat friend who never makes it past the second act. What happened here was a long time ago. I’ve lived twenty-five years without having to revisit it. Why bother now?

Because it’s happening again.

Who cares? It is not my problem. Not my battle. With any luck, the excavators will cause the whole rotten village to fall into the earth, and that really will be the end of it.

I start to turn but something catches my eye. Something fluttering on the ground. I stare at it for a moment. Then I crouch down and pick it up. A Wham bar wrapper. I’d recognize that bright blue and red anywhere. Chris’s pockets used to be stuffed with them. If he had made it to adulthood, I doubt his teeth would have done the same.

I straighten and look down the hill. I’m sure it isn’t steep enough. But still, I tuck the wrapper into my pocket and scramble down the slope. It’s actually steeper than I gave it credit for at the top and halfway down my bad leg gives, my feet slip out from under me and I skid the remaining few yards on my backside.

I lie at the bottom for a moment, winded and shaken. Getting vertical again seems like an effort. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.

“You never called my mum.”

I start and sit up. A young woman, her pale face framed by a hooded parka, stares down at me. She’s holding a small, scruffy black dog on a lead. Something about her is familiar, and then it clicks. The charming barmaid from the pub. Lauren.

If she notices that I am lying prone, covered in dirt, it doesn’t register on her face.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

“Old bloke fell up here last year. Died of hypothermia.”

“Thank God a good Samaritan like you found me.”

I grab my cane and force myself clumsily to my feet. The dog sniffs around my boots. I like dogs. They’re uncomplicated. Easy. Unlike people. Or cats. I reach to chuck him under the chin. His lips draw back and he snarls. I snatch my hand back.

“He doesn’t like being stroked,” Lauren says.

“Right.”

There’s a patch of missing fur, almost like a ring, around his neck: an old scar.

“What happened to him?”

“He got caught on some barbed wire, slit his throat open.”

“Amazing he survived.”

A shrug.

“Is he your dog?”

“No. Mum’s. She’s had him years.”