The Hiding Place(63)

“No, I think it sounds brave and commendable and all the stuff that is going to make you give me a one-fingered salute any second now and…yep, there it is.”

She lowers her finger. “For all your cynical, world-weary crap, you almost sound like you understand.”

“I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my reasons for being here are far less worthy.”

“So what are they?”

I hesitate. Of all people, it is Beth that I would like to tell the truth to. But then, of all people, it is Beth whose opinion I care about.

“Like you said, only two types of teachers come to Arnhill—I couldn’t get a job anywhere else.”

“I thought we were being honest here.”

“I am.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There really isn’t.”

“I can see it in your face.”

“That’s just my face. It’s a curse.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Okay.”

“So, there is something?”

“All right—I used to gamble. I ended up owing a lot of money. I needed to lie low somewhere until I could clear my debts. There is no noble reason for my return. I am a poor gambler, a mediocre teacher and a questionable human being. Happy?”

She glares at me. “Bullshit. You might be a twat, but you’re a twat who’s here for a reason. Something important to you. Otherwise, you would have turned tail the minute Hurst’s cronies beat you up. But if you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I thought we were becoming friends. I was obviously wrong.”

She stands and grabs her jacket.

“You’re going?”

“Nope. I’m storming out.”

“Oh.”

“Leaving you looking like a sad loser.”

“Hate to break it, but I don’t need you for that.”

She slings on her jacket. “You need somebody.”

“Everybody needs somebody.”

“Meaningful.”

“Blues Brothers.”

“Piss off.”

And with that, she turns and stomps out of the pub. Nobody so much as glances up from their drink.

I remain sitting at the table, like a sad loser. But at least a sad loser with two half-full glasses of bourbon. Every cloud. I pour Beth’s glass into mine and take a large swig. Then I reach into my pocket and take out a piece of paper. I have scribbled an address on it.

Time to make a house call. Brighten someone else’s evening.


—



In a card game there is always a moment where you can see the other players’ hands, as though the cards are transparent. You know what they are holding. You can see the odds in your head. The next moves. It’s all there, as clearly as if someone had written it in fluorescent marker in the air in front of you.

And usually, you are wrong.

If ever you think you have got a handle on everyone else in a game, that you know how it is going to play out, the moves you should make, the bluffs you should call, you are in big trouble.

Because that is the point when it will come crashing down around your head.

I thought I had been clever working out the Ruth and Marcus connection. Thought I knew what was going on. Ruth lived here back then, she knew me, she knew Arnhill. She also knew Ben and Julia. It was possible that she somehow got hold of my email and phone number and sent those messages. It was all possible. But why?

Now I have another explanation. It doesn’t make a lot more sense. I do not know what cards the other player is holding. But at least I know who I am playing.

I step forward and ring the doorbell. Then I stand back again.

It takes a moment. There are no lights on behind the curtains in the front room, but I’m sure she is here. I’m right. Seconds later, through the glass of the front door, I see a light come on in the hall.

The blurry outline of a figure approaches; I hear a cough, a sniff, and then the sound of a key in the lock, and the door edges open…

“Mr. Thorne.”

She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. But then, she has spent a lifetime perfecting a calm and unemotive exterior. What else has she spent a lifetime doing? I wonder.

I smile politely. “Hello, Miss Grayson.”





26





1992


“Bones!!”

Hurst’s face lit up with so much joy it was like someone had yanked his pants down and given him a blow job right there and then.

It took me a moment to realize what it reminded me of. The look of ecstasy, the glow of the miner’s light illuminating his features. And then I got it. It reminded me of that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazis are staring into the Ark…just before all the demons pour out and their faces start melting right off their skulls.

I thought I couldn’t feel any more afraid. As usual, I was wrong.

“Bones!” The word shuddered around the group like a dark echo.

They stared at the bones laid into the rock. Some were more yellow, up close. Older, maybe. They were also small. Although some had obviously been broken or cut to form the symbols and shapes, others were still whole. They looked delicate, fragile even.