The Hiding Place(71)

“And I’m sorry about that, okay? I’m sorry about Ben. I’m sorry about Julia. But I don’t know what you expect me to do—”

“This isn’t just about Ben and Julia.”

“Then what the hell is it about?”

“Stephen Hurst.”

Instinctively, my jaw clenches.

“What has he got to do with any of it?”

“He’s been obstructing the progress of the country-park scheme for months. Stopping developers getting access to the land.”

“I thought he wanted to build houses.”

“That’s what he wants people to think. I think he’s protecting what’s beneath the ground.”

“Why?”

“Marie is very ill.”

“Cancer. I know.”

“Terminal cancer. She has months, maybe weeks, left. She is dying.”

I remember the wave of dread I felt in the pub.

Marie is not going to die. I will not let that happen.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not even Hurst is that insane.”

“But he is desperate. And desperate people will try anything. They’re looking for a miracle.” She leans forward and rests a cool, dry hand on mine. “Of course, that is seldom what they find. Do you understand now why I wanted you to come back?”

I do, and the understanding carves a deep, cold chasm out of my insides.

“He wants to save her,” I say.

“And I think you are the only person who can stop him.”





30





I sit on the sofa, a glass of bourbon and the pack of playing cards on the coffee table in front of me. I haven’t touched either yet. The fire isn’t lit and the room is in darkness. I still have my coat on. It’s cold, but then it always is.

In the faint moonlight shining through from the kitchen window I can see Abbie-Eyes on the opposite armchair, regarding me with her new—and even more nightmarish—gaze.

She is not my only company. I can sense them, close by. Not just the skittering, chittering sounds I have become almost accustomed to. Other companions. Silent, but watching. I open the pack of cards—for the first time in a long time—and start to shuffle them.

“It’s not my problem, okay?”

I spit the words out into the darkness and wait for it to challenge me. It doesn’t reply, but I feel eyes upon me, full of blackness.

“I tried to stop it before. It didn’t work.”

The darkness bristles, the chittering increases, like I have said something that annoys it. I deal the cards out. Four hands for my invisible players. Then I reach for my drink and throw it back. Dutch courage. Stupid phrase. False courage, no matter what the tongue.

“I don’t owe Hurst anything. So, let him go ahead. Let him learn. I don’t care.”

Except, the darkness chides, like a parent to a tantrum-throwing child, that’s not true, is it, Joe? Because this isn’t just about Hurst. It’s about Marie. A girl you once had feelings for. A woman who is dying. Who deserves to do that in some sort of peace. Because there are things worse than death. Because what comes back isn’t always what left. And you’re the only person who can stop it.

I try to stare the darkness down. But the darkness doesn’t budge, doesn’t blink. If anything, it seems to draw closer, pressing itself against me like an unwelcome lover. And now, I can see something else lurking in its folds. Figures, shadows within shadows. Because the dead never really leave us. We carry them inside. In everything we do. In our dreams, our nightmares. The dead are a part of us. And maybe they are part of something else too. This place. This earth.

But what if the earth is rotten? What if the things you plant there grow back full of poison? I think about how you can never build the same snowman, or how the tapes that Dad’s mate copied were always fuzzy and corrupted. There are some things—some beautiful, perfect things—you can never re-create without ruining them.

I hear movement. The creak of a door, the soft tread of footsteps. I’m ready.

“What do you want from me?” I ask. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, for a start, you could turn the feckin” lights on.”

I jump and spin around, just as the living room floods with light.

“Jesus.” I shield my eyes, like a vampire exposed to the burning rays of the dawn.

I squint through my fingers. Brendan stands near the doorway, resplendent in army jacket, baggy sweater, cords and tattered Green Flash trainers. A large holdall is slung over his shoulder.

He regards me from within his nest of tangled hair and beard. “What the feck are you doing here, sitting in the dark, talking to yourself?”

I just stare at him. Then I shake my head.

“Am I the only person who knocks on a door anymore?”


—



Brendan makes terrible coffee. It is also past midnight—not my preferred coffee-drinking hour. But I am too tired, confused and wrung out to argue the case against it.

He emerges from the kitchen with two mugs, plonks one down in front of me and looks around for somewhere to sit with his.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“It’s called deconstructed.”

“It’s called something.”