The Hiding Place(57)

True. But only because Debbie—the secretary with the handbag addiction—got there before me. When I found this out we came to an agreement. I would say nothing if she paid the money back. I would also leave quietly (I was on my final written warning for tardiness, sloppy work and general shittiness of attitude by that point anyway). Oh, and she would owe me.

“That was different.”

“I remember. I was the one who brought you grapes every day in the hospital when you couldn’t pay your debts and someone made papier-maché out of your knee.”

“You visited me twice in the hospital and you never brought me grapes.”

“I sent you texts.”

“You sent me porn.”

“Well, who needs feckin” grapes?”

“Look, I really will sort this.”

“Did I mention that I’ll have to share my sister’s spare room with feckin” hamsters that squeak their wheels all night?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Or that she has two young kids who think five o’clock in the morning is a perfectly acceptable time to play trampoline on their uncle’s stomach?”

“I’m sorry.”

“ ‘Sorry’ will not help my hernia.”

“I just need a few more days.”

A deep, deep sigh. “Fine. But if you don’t sort it, or if you run into anything you can’t handle—”

“I’ll call you.”

“Jesus, no. Call the police, you moron. Or the A Team.”





24





“So then I said to this student that, while I respected her right to express herself by throwing the shoe…”

Simon is drawling on. It says something about my current state of mind that the soporific nature of his voice is vaguely bearable this lunchtime. Or perhaps I have just managed to tune him out to white noise. Irritating but ignorable.

It’s just me, Simon and Beth at lunch today. I am not hungry. Not in the slightest. But I force down some chips in the vague hope they might help my hangover. I also have my second can of full-fat Coke in front of me.

Simon has gone through the obligatory and predictable drinking-on-a-school-night “jokes.” I smile politely and just about manage not to punch him in the face. It would hurt my hand, for one thing. I have made a relatively professional-looking bandage out of a cut-up pillowcase and told people that I burnt myself on the oven. Drunken cooking, et cetera. Beth occasionally gives me knowing looks. She doesn’t believe me. I don’t care. Right now, I am more preoccupied by last night. By what Marcus told me. By my encounter with Gloria. By what a mess I am in and how it would be difficult for things to get any worse.

“Mr. Thorne?”

I look up. Harry is standing by the dining table. His face is grim.

“Could we have a word in my office?”

Difficult but not impossible.

“Of course.”

I wait for some sort of snide comment from Simon. None is forthcoming. He seems intent upon his lunch. Too intent. I scrape back my chair.

Beth raises her eyebrows. “Catch you later.”

“Yeah.”

I follow Harry along the corridor.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“I’d rather wait until we reach my office.”

His tone is hard, noncommittal. I don’t like it. I have a very bad feeling about this. Which, considering my starting point this morning, is impressive.

Harry pushes open the door and steps inside. I follow him. And stop. Dead.

A visitor sits in front of Harry’s desk.

As we enter, he stands and turns.

I’d say my heart sinks, but I’m not sure it could dive much further without a mask and oxygen. In fact, I almost laugh. Really, I should have expected it. I’m a gambler. You’re supposed to think about all possible outcomes before you act—work out your strategy—but I suddenly feel as though I’ve been flapping around like a tasty bit of tuna at a table of sharks.

Harry closes the door and looks between the pair of us. “I believe that you two know each other.”

“We both grew up in Arnhill,” Stephen Hurst says. “Other than that, I wouldn’t say I really ‘know’ Mr. Thorne at all.”

“Well, I was picky about my friends even then,” I say.

Hurst’s smug expression falters momentarily. Then he spots my bandaged hand. “Been picking fights again?”

“Only with the oven. But if you’re offering?”

“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Hurst,” Harry interrupts curtly. “Can we all sit down?”

Hurst lowers himself into his seat. I walk over and reluctantly do the same. It feels a lot like how we used to sit in front of the headmaster twenty-five years ago.

“So,” Harry says, and shuffles some papers in front of him. “Some things have come to my attention that I think we need to discuss.”

I try to adopt a pleasant tone. “Is this regarding Jeremy Hurst and the incident with Marcus Dawson in the toilets yesterday, because—”

“No.” Harry cuts me dead. “It is not about that.”

“Oh.”

I’m back-footed. I glance at Hurst. His face has resumed its former self-satisfied expression. I would like to smash it from his jowls. I would like to leap from my chair, grab him around the throat and choke him until his eyes bulge and his tongue turns blue.