The Hiding Place(75)

—



Chris wasn’t in the graveyard. I pushed open the gate and walked down the overgrown path. I wandered around the church in a circle, in case he was hiding somewhere, which would be weird but not unthinkable.

No Chris. No sign of any living soul. I sighed. Typical. He was losing it. Seriously losing it. But then, I wasn’t exactly coasting along on an even keel at the moment.

I couldn’t get the image of Annie out of my mind. Her nakedness. The urine streaming between her skinny legs. I couldn’t go back. Not tonight. The thought of ever going back seemed beyond comprehension.

Maybe she needed to see a doctor again. Maybe the blow to her head—and there had been a blow to her head, I was sure—had done something to her brain. I mean, she had lost her memory. She couldn’t remember where she had been for those forty-eight hours. Maybe there was something else wrong. Something that was making her act so weird. I should try and talk to Mum. She could take her to the hospital. Maybe they could fix her. Make her better. Make her Annie again.

The thought gave me some comfort, even though I’m not sure I really believed it. But then, maybe that’s what churches are for. To give comfort even when, deep down, you know it’s just a pack of lies.

I sat on the rickety bench in the graveyard and stared out over the lopsided gray headstones. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, tucking my feet beneath me. That’s when I realized that there was something under the bench. I bent over and hauled it out. A bag. I knew right away it was Chris’s. While the rest of us had Adidas or Puma, Chris had an old, unbranded holdall covered with Doctor Who and Star Trek stickers.

This evening there was something else stuck on it. An envelope, taped to the top, with my name scrawled on the front. I ripped it off and opened it. Inside, a torn-off sheet of textbook paper was covered in Chris’s straggly scrawl:

Joe, the stuff in this bag is for you. You’ll know what to do. The other things—I think you might need them sometime. I’m not sure why. Just in case.

This is all my fault. I wish I had never found it. That place is bad. I know that now. Maybe you do too.

I’m sorry. About Annie. About everything.

I stared at the note, like the words would rearrange themselves into something that made sense. Something that didn’t sound bat-shit crazy. Why had he left it for me? Why wasn’t he here himself?

I unzipped the holdall. The first thing I saw was a stack of fireworks, big fuck-off ones. The sort you needed ID to buy. Unless you were good at finding a way to get stuff.

I frowned and delved deeper. Underneath was something else. Something heavier, wrapped carefully in a clear plastic bag. I took it out and my stomach flipped. I knew what this was immediately. I stared at the two items inside. Then I carefully put the bag back and zipped the holdall up.


—



Chris’s house was on the other side of the village. I slung the holdall over my shoulder and started to walk. I needed to talk to him. For some reason, it felt urgent. I had this weird, jittery feeling in my stomach, like I was already late for something important. I picked up my pace. Bits of the note kept fluttering around my mind:

That place is bad.

I walked past the bench where Marie had pressed her lips to mine. Something flared, like a dark shadow on the walls of my mind, and then it was gone again.

Maybe you could talk to him.

I found myself at the gates of the school. They were usually left open back then, until all the after-school clubs had finished and the teachers had gone. It was quicker to cut through the school grounds to Chris’s house and slip out of the fence on the other side, so long as the caretaker didn’t catch me.

I hurried across the parking lot, past the science wing and toward the Block. It rose before me, a dark monolith against the silvery sky. As I rounded the corner a gust of wind slapped me in the face and snatched at my hair. I shivered. And then I paused. I thought I’d heard something. Voices. Carrying on the wind. From the playing fields? No. Closer. I looked around. And then…I looked up.


—



I saw him. Already falling. I felt the whoosh as he cut through the air. Heard the dull thud as he hit the ground. The distance between, an eternity and the blink of an eye. I wondered if he felt it. The final crunch.


—



My first instinct was to run. To get the hell away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him, lying there. What if he was still alive?

I walked over on shaking legs. His eyes were open and a small trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. More blood spread out beneath him, forming a crimson halo around his blond head. The weird thing was, for perhaps the first time ever in his short life, he looked calm, like he had finally found the thing he was always looking for.

I let the bag slip from my shoulders and sank to the ground. I stayed there, kneeling beside him on the cold concrete, in the fading warmth of the day. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I gently stroked his soft, shaggy hair. I told him it wasn’t his fault.

Later—because it had always been too late for Chris; perhaps, for some kids, it always is—I got up, brushed the dirt from my trousers and walked down the road to a phone box. I called an ambulance. I told them a kid had fallen. I didn’t tell them who. I didn’t tell them my name.

And I didn’t tell them—or anyone—what else I saw that evening.