The Hiding Place(76)

A second figure, running away from the Block. No more than a dark shadow. But I knew. Even then.

He needs to be straightened out.

Stephen Hurst.





32





The next day, I make plans. This is out of character for me. I’m not someone who believes in planning ahead. I’ve seen firsthand how planning is a predictor of disaster, an invitation for fate to screw with you.

But for this, I need to be prepared. I need to have a course of action. And, without a job, it’s not like I have much else to do.

Brendan left the cottage just before two this morning. I offered him the spare room, but he declined.

“No offense, but this place gives me the feckin’ creeps.”

“I thought you weren’t superstitious.”

“I’m Irish. Of course I’m superstitious. Along with guilt, it’s in our DNA.” He shrugged his coat on. “I’ve booked into a B&B down the road.”

The farm, I think, something momentarily flitting across my mind then flitting out again, before I can grasp hold of it. It was important, I think. But, like most important things in my life, now it’s gone.

I make strong black coffee with the dregs of water in the kettle and smoke two brisk cigarettes before getting down to work. I sit at the small kitchen table and start making notes. It doesn’t take long. My plan is not complicated. I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to write it down at all. But then, I’m a teacher. I find comfort and stability in the written word. Pen and paper. Something tangible to cling on to. Or perhaps it’s just procrastination. Unlike plans, I’m good at procrastination.

Next, I pick up my phone and I make some calls.

One goes to voicemail. I leave a message. The second is a little trickier. I’m not even sure if she will answer. My deadline has been and gone. Then I hear her voice. I explain what I need. I do not know whether she will say yes. I am not really in any position to be asking favors.

Gloria sighs. “You realize this will take time. As well connected as I am, I’m not your fucking fairy godmother.”

I fidget, fingering a cigarette. “How long?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” I say, but the phone is already dead. I try not to take this as an omen.

The third call is to an international number. This one took a bit of research. Maybe it isn’t entirely necessary. But now that the seed has been planted I have to know. I put on my most professional voice. I explain who I am and what I would like to confirm. I listen as the very polite American receptionist tells me to get lost in a very polite American way. I accept her wishes for a nice day—although it seems unlikely—and end the call.

I stare at the phone for a while, my heart just that little bit heavier. Then I get up to make more coffee. The final call I will make later. This isn’t procrastination. I don’t want to give him too much time to plan, or to rally his goons.

I’m waiting for the kettle to boil when my phone rings. I snatch it up.

“Hello.”

“I got your message.”

“And?”

“I’ve got classes.”

“You’ve never played truant?”

“You want me to skip school?”

“Not regularly. Just this afternoon. It’s important.”

A deep sigh. “Is this why they fired you?”

“No. That was for something far worse.”

I wait.

“Okay.”


—



I sit on the scrubby grass, staring out over the coarse landscape. A place like this will never be pretty or picturesque, I think. It doesn’t matter how many saplings you plant or wildflowers you seed; build all the playgrounds and visitor centers you like, something about it will always remain barren and unyielding.

A place like this does not want to be reclaimed. It is happy being forsaken, lying dormant and dead. A graveyard of lost livelihoods, lost dreams, coal dust and bones. We only skim the surface of this earth. But it has many layers. And sometimes, you shouldn’t dig too deep.

“You’re here.”

I turn. Marcus stands behind me, on the incline of the small hill.

“Yep. And twice as ugly,” I say.

He doesn’t smile. I get the feeling that humor, being happy, just isn’t in his repertoire of emotions. But that’s fine. Happiness is overrated; it’s far too short-lived, for a start. If you bought it on Amazon, you’d demand a refund. Broke after a month and impossible to fix. Next time will try misery—apparently that shit lasts forever.

He walks over and stands awkwardly beside me. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring the view, and eating this—” I hold up the Wham bar I have been chewing. And chewing. “Want one? I brought two.”

He shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

I regard the shiny pink candy. “A friend of mine used to eat them. You remind me of him.”

“In what way?”

“He was a misfit. We both were. He liked finding out about stuff. And finding stuff. I think you might be good at that too, Marcus. Like how you found a way past the school security gates.”

He doesn’t reply.

“You told Miss Grayson that Jeremy found the cave?”