The Hiding Place(62)

I nod. We’re all too busy, too distracted by the sheer effort of getting through each day—working, paying the bills, the mortgage, shopping—that we don’t want to look deeper. We don’t dare. We want things to be fine. To be “hunky-dory.” Because we simply haven’t got the mental energy to deal with it if they’re not. It’s only when something bad happens, something irretrievable, that we see things properly. And then it’s too late.

“Did you try and talk to Emily?”

“I tried. I even drove over to see her. Took her for pizza, like we used to, except it wasn’t the same.”

“How d’you mean?”

“You done with those?”

We both glance up. Lauren hovers over the table.

“Err, yes, thanks,” I say. “And could we get a couple more?”

She nods. “S’pose.” She wanders back to the bar.

Beth glances at me. “She must really like you. She doesn’t do table service for just anyone.”

“My natural charm. So, you were saying?”

Her face darkens again. “We went to her favorite pizza place, but she didn’t eat much. She was just moody, sarcastic. It wasn’t her.”

“Kids can change in senior school,” I say. “It’s like someone flicks a switch, their hormones crank up to eleven and all bets are off.”

“No shit. I’m a teacher too, remember? I know what it’s like. Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

She picks up a beer mat and begins to peel it apart. “But even when Emily was going through a ‘teenager’ phase before, she still talked to me. I thought our relationship was different.”

“Did she say anything about school, stuff that was bothering her?”

“Nope. And when I asked she just clammed up.”

Lauren returns and plonks down two more bourbons. If they are doubles, then the optics are malfunctioning. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe she does like me.

Beth takes a sip. “Now, I think I should have pushed her. Made her talk to me.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Push teenagers too hard and they’ll just go scuttling back into their shells.”

“Yeah. But you know the shit thing? I didn’t even hug her goodbye. We always hugged. But this time she just walked away. And, I thought—cool auntie—I’ll let her go. Give her time. Turns out we didn’t have time. Two weeks later she was dead.” She sniffs, wipes angrily at her eyes. “I should have hugged her.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

Because life never gives you a heads-up.

“Well, I should have. I’m a teacher. I should have realized this wasn’t the usual moody teen. I should have spotted the signs of depression. She was my niece. And I let her down.”

Guilt washes over me in a wave. I feel crippled by it for a moment. I swallow.

“What happened to your sister?”

She shakes her head, gathering herself. “She couldn’t stay. Not in that house, where it happened. She moved back to Edgeford, nearer to Mum. She’s still having a hard time, dealing. I go back as often as I can, but it’s like Emily’s death is this barrier between us and we can’t seem to work our way around it.”

I know what she means. Grief is personal. It isn’t something you can share, like a box of chocolates. It is yours and yours alone. A spiked steel ball chained to your ankle. A coat of nails around your shoulders. A crown of thorns. No one else can feel your pain. They cannot walk in your shoes because your shoes are full of broken glass and every time you try and take a step forward it rips your soles to bloody shreds. Grief is the worst kind of torture and it never ends. You have dibs on that dungeon for the rest of your life.

“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “Because of Emily?”

“When the job came up a couple of months later it seemed like it was meant to be.”

Funny how that happens.

“Why didn’t you tell me at the start?”

“Because Harry doesn’t know. I didn’t want him to think I was here for the wrong reasons.”

“Like?”

“Revenge.”

“And you’re not?”

“At the start, maybe. I wanted someone to be held accountable for Emily’s death.” She sighs. “But I couldn’t find anything. At least, not anything specific. Just the usual friendships and fall-outs.”

“What about Hurst?”

“She never mentioned him—”

“But?” I prompt.

“Something isn’t right in that school, and Hurst is a part of it. When you let a kid like Hurst get away with the stuff he does, you create a place where cruelty is the norm.”

I wonder if that’s all. I remember what Marcus said: about Hurst taking kids up to the old colliery site. Kids who wanted to fit in. Perhaps even a young girl desperate to be accepted in a new school. The pit could get to you in more ways than one. Like it did with Chris.

“You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just thinking that history has a shitty habit of repeating itself,” I say bitterly.

“But it shouldn’t. The only way schools like Arnhill Academy change is from the inside. Teaching is not all about rankings and inspection reports. It’s about helping our young people to become decent, rounded human beings, and getting them through their teens in one piece. If you lose them at this age, you lose them forever.” A small shrug. “You probably think that sounds naive.”