The Hiding Place(5)

“I know Arnhill Academy has problems. That’s why I want to work here. I’m not looking for an easy ride. I’m looking for a challenge. I know these kids because I used to be one of them. I know the community. I know exactly who and what I’m dealing with. It doesn’t faze me. In fact, I think you’ll find very little does.”

I can tell I’ve got him. I’m good in interviews. I know what people want to hear. Most important, I know when they’re desperate.

Harry sits back in his chair. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything else I need to ask.”

“Good. Well, it was a pleasure meeting—”

“Oh, actually, there is just one thing.”

Oh, for fuck’s—

He smiles. “When can you start?”





2


THREE WEEKS LATER


It’s cold in the cottage. The sort of cold you get with a property that has been shut up and unlived in for some time. The sort of cold that gets into your bones and lingers even when you pump up the heat to max.

It smells too. Of disuse and cheap paint and damp. The pictures on the website didn’t do it justice. They conveyed a shabby kind of chic. A quaint neglect. The reality is rather more careworn and dilapidated. Not that I can afford to be picky. I need to live somewhere, and even in a dump like Arnhill this cottage is the only thing I can afford.

Of course, that isn’t the only reason I chose it.

“Is everything okay?”

I turn to the slick-haired young man hovering in the doorway. Mike Belling from Belling and Co. Rental Agency. Not local. Too well dressed and well spoken. I can tell he’s itching to get back to his city-center office and wipe the cow shit off his shiny black brogues.

“It’s not quite what I expected.”

His smile falters. “Well, as we state in the property’s description, it’s a traditional cottage, not a lot of modern conveniences, and it has been empty for some time—”

“I suppose,” I say doubtfully. “You said the boiler was in the kitchen? I think I should get the place warmed up. Thanks for showing me in.”

He continues to linger awkwardly. “There is just one thing, Mr. Thorne…”

“Yes?”

“The check for the deposit?”

“What about it?”

“I’m sure it’s just a mistake, but…we haven’t received it yet.”

“Really?” I shake my head. “The mail just gets worse, doesn’t it?”

“Well, this is why we prefer bank transfers, but it’s no problem. If you could just—”

“Of course.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my checkbook. Mike Belling hands me a pen. I lean on the arm of the threadbare sofa and scribble out a check. I rip it out and give it to him.

He smiles. Then he looks at the check and the smile snaps off. “This is for five hundred pounds. The deposit, plus the first month’s rent, is one thousand.”

“That’s right. But now I’ve actually seen the cottage.” I look around and pull a face. “Quite frankly, it’s a dump. It’s cold, it’s damp, it smells. You’d be lucky to get squatters. You didn’t even have the courtesy to come up here and turn on the heat before I arrived.”

“I’m afraid this really isn’t acceptable.”

“Then get yourself another tenant.”

Bluff called. I see him hesitate. Never show weakness.

“Or perhaps you can’t? Perhaps no one wants to rent this place because of what happened here? You know, that small murder/suicide you failed to mention.”

His face tenses, like someone has just stuck a hot poker up his backside. He swallows. “We’re not legally obliged to inform tenants—”

“No, but morally, it might be nice?” I smile pleasantly. “Bearing all that in mind, I think a substantial discount on the deposit is the very least you can offer.”

His jaw clenches. A small tic flickers by his right eye. He’d like to be rude back to me, maybe even hit me. But he can’t, because then he would lose his cozy twenty grand a year plus commission job, and how would he pay for all those nice suits and shiny black brogues?

He folds the check up and slips it back into the folder. “Of course. No problem.”


—



It doesn’t take me long to unpack. I’m not one of those people who accumulate things for the sake of it. I’ve never understood knickknacks, and photographs are fine if you have a family and children but I have neither. Clothes I wear until they wear out, then replace with identical versions.

There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Two items that I have left until last to remove from my small suitcase. One is a pack of well-worn playing cards. I slip these into my pocket. Some cardplayers carry good-luck charms. I never believed in luck, until I started to lose. Then I blamed my luck, the shoes I was wearing, the alignment of the fucking stars. Everything, apart from myself. The cards are my reverse talisman—a constant reminder of how badly I screwed up.

The other item is bulkier, cocooned in newspaper. I lift her out and place her on the bed, as gently as if she were a real baby, then I carefully unwrap her.

Small pudgy legs stick upward, tiny hands are clenched at her side, shiny blond hair fans into crumpled curls. Vacant blue eyes stare up at me. Or, at least, one does. The other rattles around in the socket, staring off at an odd angle, as though it has caught sight of something more interesting and not bothered to inform its companion.