The Hiding Place(56)
“Flippancy is a flimsy defense mechanism. Trust me, I should know. It’s one of the first things to fall away when people are in fear for their lives.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You wish. Actually, what I’m giving you is a lifeline.”
She walks over. I flinch. She bends down and holds something out. A card. Blank, except for a phone number.
She reaches down and slips it into the pocket of my jeans, patting me gently on the crotch.
“You can reach me on this for the next twenty-four hours if you need my help.”
“Why?”
“Because, deep down, I have a soft spot for you.”
“That’s comforting to hear.”
“Don’t take it to heart.”
My eyes flick back to the poker. The fire spits.
“The Fatman is getting impatient.”
“I told you—”
“Shut up.”
The sweat is now trickling down between my arse cheeks. My stomach is a tight ball of cramp. I want to be sick, to shit and to piss all at once.
“He gave you extra time. Now, he wants his money.”
“He’ll get it. That’s why I’m here.”
“I know, Joe. And if it were just up to me?” She gives a dainty shrug. “But it looks to him like you ran. That doesn’t inspire faith. The Fatman wants to be sure you understand how serious he is.”
“I do. Really.”
She takes the poker out of the stove. The tip glows red. I glance toward the door. But I know I’d be in a headlock before my backside left the armchair.
“Please—”
“Like I said, Joe, I have a soft spot for you.”
She walks over and crouches down next to me. She holds up the poker. I can feel the heat.
Gloria smiles. “So, I’m going to spare your pretty face.”
—
I lie on the sofa. I have taken four codeine tablets and finished the bottle of bourbon. My left hand is bound in an old tea towel and resting on a pack of frozen fish fingers. It is now only mildly agonizing. I am not expecting to be playing a violin concerto anytime soon.
My skin feels hot and feverish. I drift in and out of consciousness. Not sleep. Just an illusory gray-and-black place peppered with strange visions.
In one, I’m back at the old colliery site. I’m not alone. Chris and Annie stand on the crest of a hill. The sky hangs above them like a bag of mercury, swollen with silvery light and fluid with black rain. The wind rages and tears with invisible claws.
Chris’s head is oddly misshapen, caved in at the back. Blood runs from his nose and eyes. Annie holds his hand. And this Annie, I know, is my Annie. The ugly gash is there on her head, deep and ruinous. As I watch, she opens her mouth and says softly: I know where the snowmen go, Joe. I know where they go now.
She smiles. And I feel happy, calm, at peace. But then the clouds above them lower and swell, and instead of rain a cascade of shiny black beetles pours down. I watch my friend and my sister fall to the ground, engulfed in the scuttling mass of bodies until all I can see is a swarm of blackness. Devouring them, swallowing them whole.
My phone starts to ring. Saved by the bell, or rather Metallica.
I roll over and pick it up with my good hand. I squint at the screen. Brendan. I press Accept with a shaky finger.
“You’re alive?” I croak.
“Last time I checked. You sound like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“You love my honesty.”
“Don’t forget your pert arse.”
“Healthy eating, no booze. You should try it.”
“I’ve been calling you for days,” I say.
“Lost my phone charger. What’s so urgent?”
“I just…wanted to check you were okay.”
“Aside from missing my favorite pub, dandy. When can I go back?”
I look at my bandaged, burnt hand. “Not yet.”
“Feck.”
“It might be an idea to move out of the apartment for a while as well.”
“Jesus! Is this to do with your habit of owing money to unpleasant people?”
Guilt stabs my insides. Brendan has been good to me—more than good. He’s let me share his apartment, rent free. He has never lectured me on my gambling. Most people would have given up on me. But not Brendan. And now I’m paying him back by putting him in danger.
“Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?”
“Tonight? Well, there’s my sister. I’m sure her husband will be bloody delighted about that.”
“It shouldn’t be for long.”
“I should feckin’ hope not.” He sighs. “You know what my dear old mammy would say?”
“ ‘I’m losing my voice,’ hopefully?”
“When does a hare stop running from the fox?”
I groan. “When?”
“When it hears the hunter’s bugle.”
“Meaning?”
“Sometimes you need someone bigger—like the police—to sort out your problem.”
“I am sorting it. Okay?”
“Like you sorted it before—stealing money from the school safe.”
“I never took a penny.”