The Hiding Place(46)

“And if she can’t, I’ll take care of her,” Hurst said, grabbing first her arse and then the cider and pouring several glugs down his own throat.

“Let’s ger’on then,” Fletch muttered. I could tell he wasn’t happy about Marie being here either. But for different reasons. Fletch always thought of himself as Hurst’s best mate. With Marie here, he moved down a notch in the pecking order.

“Fucking right,” Hurst said, handing the cider back to Marie.

He swaggered over and wedged the crowbar under the metal rim of the hatch. On the first attempt, he stumbled; the crowbar slipped from his grip.

“Shit!”

He snatched it up and stuck it under the hatch again. Again, it slipped.

“Maybe it’s stuck,” I said.

He scowled at me. “You think so, Brainiac !” He looked between Fletch and me. “Help me, then?”

Reluctantly—certainly on my part—we both moved forward. Fletch got there first. He grasped the crowbar just below where Hurst was gripping it and they both bore down.

I stared at the hatch, willing it not to move. But this time there was a squeal. Rusted metal giving way after years of disuse.

“More,” Hurst groaned, through gritted teeth.

They pushed down again, and now I could see the hatch rising. A few inches of darkness appeared between metal and earth. My bad feeling rose with it.

“Again,” Hurst growled. Fletch roared, properly roared, and they shoved down once more.

The hatch rose further.

“Grab it!” Hurst yelled.

Chris and I bent down and grabbed the edges of the metal. Marie joined us. We all pulled. It was heavy, but not as heavy as I expected.

“One, two, three.”

We hefted together and this time it gave, suddenly and unexpectedly. We staggered backward as it hit the ground in a cloud of dirt and dust, with a thud that I felt resonate up through the soles of my boots.

Hurst whooped in triumph. He threw the crowbar down and high-fived Fletch. Marie grinned like a loon. Even I felt a momentary rush of adrenaline. Only Chris stood by silently, his face impassive.

We all stepped forward and peered down into the hole. Fletch flicked on his flashlight. I adjusted the light on the miner’s helmet. I expected to stare into darkness. A pitch black barely penetrated by our lights; a long straight drop into nothing.

That wasn’t what I saw. What I saw was worse. Steps. Metal rungs stuck into the rock, like a ladder, and going straight down, way down. I couldn’t even see the bottom of them. An icy chill slithered down my spine.

“Shit,” Hurst muttered. “You were right, Doughboy. It is a way in.”

But to what? I thought. What the hell did we think we would find down there?

Hurst looked back up. His eyes gleamed. I knew that look. Flat, dangerous, crazy.

“So who’s going first?”

A pointless question. Because—

He turned to me. “Thorney, you’ve got all the gear.”

Of course. I looked back down the hole. My guts churned. I didn’t want to go down there. Nothing we could find at the bottom of that long, dark shaft could be good. Nothing about any of this was good.

“We don’t know where it goes,” I said. “Those rungs look old, rusted. They could give way. It could be a massive drop.”

Fletch made a long, slow clucking noise. “What’s the matter, Thorney? Chicken?”

Yes. I was. Pure, feathered, egg-laying chicken.

There are times in life when you need to make a choice. To do what is right or to bow to peer pressure. If I turned and walked away now, I would be doing the sane, sensible thing—the others might even follow—but I could forget about being part of Hurst’s gang anymore. I could look forward to spending the remainder of my schooldays eating lunch in a bus shelter.

Still, at least I would be alive to eat my lunch.

“Joe?” It was Marie. She rested her hand on my arm. She smiled, a drunk, lazy smile. “You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

That decided it. I reached up and tightened the strap on my dad’s helmet.

“I’ll go,” I said.

“Ace.” Hurst clapped me on the back. He glanced around at the others. “All ready?”

Nods and murmurs of agreement. But I could see the nerves on Fletch’s face. Only Hurst looked confident, buoyed up by booze and manic excitement. And Chris. Chris looked as calm as if he were taking a stroll to the shops.

“Right. Let’s do this shit.” Hurst grabbed his tie from the ground. He knotted it around his head and grinned. “First blood.” Then, as an afterthought, he bent down and picked up the crowbar.

I stared at it, a strange, tight ball forming in my stomach. “What are you taking that for?”

He grinned again and slapped the crowbar against the palm of his other hand. “Just in case, Thorney. Just in case.”


—



The rungs were rusted, and narrow. I could just about get my toe on each one. They groaned and sagged as I placed my weight on them. I clung on desperately, praying that I could hold on for long enough to reach the bottom.

Above, I could hear the others coming after me, showering bits of metal and dirt down on my miner’s helmet. Even though I’d felt a bit stupid putting it on, I was glad now of the protection, and the fact that it left both my hands free for gripping.