The Hiding Place(73)

I didn’t tell her she was wrong. That the smell wasn’t a dead mouse. It was something else that had come to nest in our home.

I didn’t tell her that I lay awake most nights listening to the noises from Annie’s room next door. Sometimes it would be the same song, over and over:

“She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes, She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.”

Other nights, there would be terrible shouts and screams. I would put my Walkman headphones on or jam my pillow over my head, anything to muffle the sounds. In the morning I would go into Annie’s room, pull the urine-soaked sheets off her bed and stuff them in the washing machine, sticking it on before I went to school. Mum probably thought I was trying to help Dad. And to be fair, if I hadn’t done the washing, it wouldn’t have got done. But that wasn’t the real reason.

I did it because I felt responsible. This was my lot. Penitence. Punishment for what I had done. Or what I hadn’t done. I hadn’t saved her.

I didn’t tell anyone that sometimes I changed my own sheets too. That I twitched at every creak in the house because I might turn and find Annie standing there, clutching Abbie-Eyes; not speaking, just smiling and staring at me with those eyes that were too dark and old for an eight-year-old.

I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that sometimes I was scared to death of my own little sister.

The bell rang for the end of class. I stuffed my books into my bag and scraped my chair back. The seat next to me was empty. Chris used to sit there. But now he had taken to sitting on his own, at a spare desk near the back.

I was relieved. Not just because I didn’t want to speak to him, didn’t want to hear him make excuses or give apologies for what they did that night. But also because something was going on with Chris. And it wasn’t good. His appearance was more unkempt than ever. His stutter was worse. He had taken to humming and murmuring to himself. Sometimes he would suddenly stop and brush manically at his arms, like he was brushing off invisible dirt. Or insects.

Normally, he scuttled out of class first. That way he could avoid the name-calling, the deliberate tripping and shoving. Now that he wasn’t hanging around with Hurst anymore (neither of us was), he was devoid of his invisible shield.

I didn’t stick up for him. I had my own problems. My own worries. So, when I saw that this afternoon he had lingered behind, and when he fell into a shambling step beside me as I hurried down the stairs, I was pissed off.

“What is it?”

“I–I n–n–need to sh–sh–sh–show you s–s–something.”

His breath smelled stale, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth. His shirt stank of BO.

“What?”

“C–c–can’t t–t–tell you here.”

“Why?”

“T–t–too many p–p–people.”

We reached the ground floor. I pushed open the door to the courtyard outside. Other students thronged around us, the usual hustle and bustle of hometime. Chris’s face was flushed. I could see him trying to force the words out. I felt bad for him, despite myself.

“Just try and breathe, okay?”

He nodded and took several deep breaths. I waited.

“The g–graveyard. M–m–m–meet me there. Six p.m. Important.”

I wanted to come up with an excuse. But what was the alternative? Make sure Dad hadn’t set the house on fire after falling asleep with a cigarette? Check my sister was still there? Still not being Annie?

“Okay.” I sighed. “It better be good.”

Chris nodded, put his head down like he was running for cover and scurried around the corner.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and heard laughter behind me. I glanced around. Hurst had emerged from the English-block doors, Fletch following him like a greasy shadow. Hurst looked over, smirked then whispered something to him. I saw them both chortle.

I clenched my fists, dug my nails into my palms and forced myself to turn away. I’d just get into more trouble. Mum would be upset. Dad would belt me. Hurst would win. Again. What was the point? I put my head down and marched resolutely toward the gates.

I didn’t head straight back home. I never did now. I walked the streets, ate chips in the bus shelter, hung out in the playground (if Hurst and Fletch weren’t there), anything to delay the moment I would have to push open the door and be confronted by the smell, the cloying darkness, the creeping cold that would wrap itself around me…

I only had a few pence in my pocket today. I couldn’t go for fish and chips or to the sweetshop, so I dawdled along the high street, kicking at an empty soda bottle. I wandered past the small patch of grass where the brass statue of a miner stood. There was a bench beside it. Usually it was empty. Today, a solitary figure sat there, hunched over in an oversized army jacket, head down, dark hair falling over her face. Marie.

We hadn’t spoken since the night down the pit. To be honest, I wasn’t sure she remembered a lot of it. I’d like to say this made me think less of her. That she had slipped from the pedestal I’d put her upon. But that wasn’t true. The sight of her still tugged at my heart, and other places.

I hovered awkwardly.

“Are you okay?”

She looked up through her hair. “Joe?”

She sniffed and rubbed at her nose. I realized she was crying. I hesitated and then I slung my bag off my shoulders and sat down next to her.