The Hiding Place(59)

No, I think. Because I am not done yet. I push at the door. It sticks and then gives with a reluctant groan. I’m not entirely sure the cottage is on my side in all of this. It is too much in cahoots with the past, too much a part of the village. It does not want me here. It has no intention of making me comfortable. But that’s fine too. I don’t plan to be here for very much longer.

I walk inside and throw my bag on the sofa. The room is still in much the same state as when I returned last night. Internal injuries. I consider tidying up and sorting out some of the mess. Then I go and smoke a cigarette.

Perhaps Hurst has done me a favor. Speeding up the inevitable. After all, I never intended to stay, did I? I never intended to settle back down in a place that holds such dark and painful memories. The wounded animal doesn’t escape the trap only to throw itself back into the metal jaws and wait for them to pulverize its bones.

Not unless it has a damn good reason.

I’d like to say the reason was Annie, or the message. But it’s not that simple. Even all that guilt and recrimination weren’t enough to drag me back here. Not on their own.

The truth is, I was desperate. I needed to get away and I saw an opportunity—to settle bad debts and old scores at the same time. Perhaps it had always been at the back of my mind. I knew I had something that could screw up Hurst’s life. The idea he might pay money for it came later.

I hadn’t expected him to be quite so determined to hound me out of the village. But despite all his threats and manipulations, ultimately, Hurst has played his hand. He doesn’t have anything left. There is only one way to get rid of me now and, although I’ve no doubt that Hurst is capable of murder, the stakes are higher. Is he willing to risk his career, his comfortable life, his family?

I’m hoping the answer is no. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t bet on it.

I close the back door and walk inside. The feeling of coldness is on me again. I can hear the walls chittering. I am starting to become used to both the cold and the incessant tinnitus of the cottage. I’m not sure whether, like tuning out Simon’s monotonous drone, this is a good thing. Once you become accustomed, you become complacent and then you become either complicit or consumed.

I wander back through to the living room and take out my phone. I pull up Brendan’s number. He answers on the second ring.

“What do you want now?”

“Isn’t it enough to hear the dulcet tones of your voice?”

“You’d better be wearing underwear.”

“I need a favor.”

“Seriously? You know, right now, I have gerbil shit in my beard.”

“I thought it was hamsters.”

“Gerbils, hamsters, who gives a feck? The little bastards spent all last night kicking crap onto my head. How long do I have to stay here?”

“Do you still have that holdall I asked you to look after?”

“Holdall? What holdall?”

“Sides literally splitting.”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“Can you courier it to me overnight?”

“Joe—”

“Look, I just want to say, you’ve been a good friend. Thank you.”

“Don’t go all mushy on me.”

“Well, I thought I’d say it in case I actually do.”

There’s a pause and then Brendan says with heartfelt emotion: “Just feck off before I end up doing an Ozzy Osborne on one of these feckin” gerbils.”

He ends the call. I glance at my watch. It’s 3:30 p.m. I stare around the wrecked living room. I pick up Abbie-Eyes from the floor and place her back on the armchair. She observes me with one cold, blue eye. The hollow socket yawns darkly. I look around but can’t see her other eye anywhere. I have a sudden mental image of it being carried away on the backs of scuttling beetles. I thank my imagination. I really needed that.

My phone starts to ring, making me jump. I press Accept.

“Hello?”

“Were you going to mention playing hooky? I might have joined you.”

Beth. Of course.

“How did you get my number?”

“From Danielle on reception. I know her brother. He’s in my pub-quiz team.”

“So I suppose you know what happened?”

“Harry told me that you were taking a leave of absence.”

“That’s what he called it?”

“What would you call it?”

I hesitate.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“I think I might have already left.”

“Jesus—that’s got to be a world record.”

“I’m glad my brevity impresses you.”

“Don’t tell everyone. Is this about yesterday, with Jeremy Hurst?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“It’s a little complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“Well—”

“A few pints complicated or several glasses of bourbon complicated?”

I consider. “Definitely the latter.”

“Right, I’ll see you in the Fox at seven. Line your stomach first.”

She ends the call without saying goodbye. Why do people keep doing that?

I should have said something. I have questions. But I suppose they can wait. I sit down heavily on the hard sofa frame and think about making coffee. Then I glance at Abbie-Eyes, or maybe that should be Abbie-Eye. I shake off a shudder. Decision made.