The Hiding Place(44)

He holds up one misshapen hand to his son, who stumbles to a halt.

“What do you want?”

“World peace, fair wages for all, a better future for our children.”

“Still think you’re funny?”

“Someone has to.”

The hand wavers.

“I want to see Hurst,” I say quickly. “I think we can come to an arrangement that will suit both of us.”

“Really?”

“I have something he wants. I’m happy to give it to him. For a price.”

He snorts. “You know, Hurst said to take it easy on you the other night. Maybe he’s not feeling so generous now that you’re threatening him.”

“I’m willing to take the gamble.”

“Then you’re more fucking stupid than you look.”

“Really? Because it looks to me like your son took a pretty good beating last night too.” I smile at Unwise Hair. “How’s your brother’s shoulder?”

His face reddens. “You got lucky, cripple.”

“Yeah,” Fletch says. “No big mates around to help you now—”

Big mates? So his sons couldn’t admit to being beaten up by a woman.

“And no one fucks with my lads,” Fletch snarls. He lowers his hand.

Unwise Hair lunges. But this time I’m prepared. As he raises a fist I swing the cane. It catches him hard above his ear and he drops to the ground. I jab the cane into his stomach then smash it across his back. He folds like a particularly ugly piece of origami.

Fletch starts toward me. But he is older and slower than his son. I sidestep and bring the cane up between his legs. He yelps and crumples to his knees. I’ve picked up a few hints on causing pain myself over the years. I lean over him, panting slightly.

“You were wrong,” I say. “I have changed.”

He squints up at me, eyes full of tears. “You are so fucking dead.”

“Says the man clutching his balls. Now you tell Hurst I want a meeting. He can choose the night. But it has to be this week.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

Unwise Hair starts to rise. He looks dazed, and is younger than I first assumed. I feel a twinge of guilt. But only a twinge. I swing the cane and smash it across his swollen nose. Blood spurts out. He screams and clutches at his face.

“No. You have no idea what I’m getting myself out of. You’ve got five minutes to get out of here or I call the police.”

I turn and stagger toward the cottage. Now that the adrenaline is fading, my battered body is complaining loudly at my exertions.

Fletch shouts after me: “Your sister’s dead. You can’t bring her back…”

The sentence hangs. He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t need to.





19





1992


We had agreed to meet back at the pit at 9 p.m. No one went up there that late and we didn’t want anyone to catch us and ask what we were doing.

I planned to sneak out sometime after dinner. Mum was busy with a pile of ironing and Dad would be down at the pub. There was just something I needed to do first. I crept out of the kitchen door and over to the shed in the backyard. It was where Dad kept his tools and his old mining equipment.

I had to delve a bit, brushing aside cobwebs and dead spiders. Then I found it. An old work jacket, sturdy boots, rope, a flashlight and…yes . . . a miner’s helmet. I picked it up, wiped off some dirt and fiddled with the light at the front. I half expected it not to work but, to my surprise, a robust yellow beam flared out.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped and spun around, almost dropping the helmet.

“Shit! What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”

Annie stood in the doorway, skinny silhouette framed by the fading evening light. She was dressed in her pajamas—pink, with a picture of a Care Bear on—and her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

My little sister. Eight going on eighteen. Funny, feisty, stubborn, silly. Stupidly intelligent, annoyingly sweet. Hilarious, frustrating, entertaining. The boniest yet somehow also the softest little body to ever envelop me in a gangly web of arms and legs. A toothy smile that could shatter the hardest heart. A tough little tomboy who still wanted to believe in Santa Claus and magic. But then, who doesn’t?

“You shouldn’t swear,” she said.

“Okay, okay. I know. But you shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“I didn’t. You just weren’t listening properly.”

One of many pointless things in life is arguing with an eight-year-old. Doesn’t matter how smart you are, eight-year-old logic always wins.

“Well, I was busy.”

“Doing what? Is that Dad’s?”

I hurriedly put the helmet back down. “Yeah. So?”

“So, what are you doing with it?” She suddenly noticed the backpack in my other hand. “Are you taking Dad’s stuff?”

I loved my sister. I really did. But, at times, she was an unbearable pain in the neck. She was like a terrier. Once she had hold of something, she just wouldn’t let go.

“Look, I’m just borrowing it, okay? Not like he uses it anymore.”

“What are you borrowing it for?”