The Hiding Place(78)

I reach the tunnel and crawl along it. At least my backpack is now empty. The thought of what I carried down there—and a sudden paranoia that I have no guarantee it will work as planned—spurs me on and out.

I emerge a sodden, shaking, jelly-legged mess into the fresh air, and collapse onto the stony ground.

I lie there gasping, letting the breeze cool the sweat on my skin. After a while I sit back and fumble my cigarettes out of my pocket. I light one and suck it down like it’s pure oxygen. I consider lighting a second off the butt of the first. Then I check my watch and reluctantly slide the cigarette back into the pack.

Instead, I take out my cellphone. Getting hold of his number wasn’t difficult. I press Call and wait. He answers on the third ring. Nearly always the third ring. Ever noticed that?

“Hello.”

“It’s me.”

Silence. And then, feeling very much like a character in a bad thriller, I say: “I think we should talk.”





33





He’s done well for himself. That’s what we say, isn’t it, when we see an expression of someone’s wealth or success? Usually a big house, expensive suit or shiny new car.

Odd how we measure things. As if the ability to purchase a large building or the most fuel-guzzling mode of sitting in a traffic jam is the ultimate expression of achievement during our scant years upon this planet. Despite all our advancements, we still judge people in terms of bricks, cloth and horsepower.

Still, I suppose on those terms Stephen Hurst has indeed “done well for himself.”

His bricks and mortar is a converted farmhouse about half a mile outside of Arnhill. The sort of conversion that takes the original character of an old building and systematically tramples on it with the addition of acres of steel, glass and bifold bloody doors.

This evening only one car sits on the gravel driveway. A brand-new Range Rover. Marie is out with Jeremy in Nottingham—shopping for new trainers and then pizza. Around the back, I can see a long garden, a hot tub and a floodlit swimming pool. A man does not own a hot tub and a swimming pool on a councillor’s wages alone.

Maybe that’s why Marie stayed. And yet, ultimately, it all means nothing. Because the years enjoying the hot tub and the swimming pool are fewer than she could ever have imagined. And maybe it would have been better to use the time to enjoy some freedom, a life away from this place. I guess it all depends on how much you want those bifold doors and how much you are willing to sacrifice for them.

I check my watch—8:27 p.m. I hesitate a moment longer then force myself to raise my arm and ring the doorbell.

Distantly inside I hear chimes. I wait. Footsteps. And then the door swings open.

I’d say it was impossible for a man to age in a couple of days. But I’d also swear that this is exactly what has happened. In the harsh glare of the security light Hurst looks like a much older man, pensionable even. His skin hangs from his face like a wet rag and his eyes are bloodshot slits within folds of gray skin. He does not hold out a hand or offer a greeting.

“My study’s this way,” he says, and turns, leaving me to close the door behind myself.

The house isn’t quite as I expected. It’s more tasteful, if a little chintzy. I get the feeling that the satin wallpaper and faux Persian vases are evidence of Marie’s hand.

He leads me along the hallway. Ahead, I catch a glimpse of a large open-plan living-room/diner. To my right, a sleek, marble-and-chrome kitchen. Hurst opens another door on his left. His study. I feel an underlying current of resentment course through me. Hurst has all of this, with everything he has done.

And a wife who is dying of cancer.

I follow him into the room. In comparison to the rest of the house, the study is more minimalist. A large oak desk dominates. A few black-and-white pictures adorn the walls. A glass cabinet displays an array of crystal glasses and expensive whiskies.

It’s like a parody of a gentleman’s study, even down to a heavy glass paperweight on the desk. The study of a man who believes he has done very well for himself indeed.

Except, he doesn’t look it right now. He looks like a man who is falling apart at his expensive, custom-tailored seams.

“Drink?” He walks to the cabinet and half turns. “Whiskey?”

“Fine by me.”

He pours two large measures into two sparkling crystal glasses and places them on the desk.

“Sit.”

He gestures to an armchair in front of the desk. I place the bag on the floor, next to the chair. I wait for Hurst to sit in his high-backed executive recliner then lower myself onto the creaky leather. It puts me lower than him. Whatever makes him feel superior. I have the winning hand.

For a moment, nothing is said, nothing is drunk. Then, at the same time, we both reach for our glasses.

“What do you want?”

“I think you know.”

“You’ve come to beg me for your job back?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not really. What I’d like is for you to go home. Leave us all in peace.”

“Some people don’t deserve peace.”

“You always thought the worst of me.”

“You always did the worst.”

“I was a kid. We all were. It was a long time ago.”

“How’s Marie?” I ask.