The Hiding Place(82)

I did my usual walk around the high street. I had some cash on me that I had nicked out of Dad’s wallet the night before, so I bought some chips—even though I wasn’t hungry—and picked at them in the bus shelter, before chucking half the tray in the trash.

I wandered around a bit more, then sat on a swing in the deserted playground for a while. When the streetlights started to blink on, like startled orange eyes, I began my walk up toward the pit.

I’d packed a flashlight in my bag, as well as an old woolen hat of Dad’s that I pulled right down over my head, almost over my eyes. I checked out the site for any signs of security, but the street was empty and silent. I slipped through the fence before that could change.

I didn’t need the flashlight just yet, even though, now that it was almost the end of October, the light was fading fast. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. Also, for some reason, I felt that I would find my way better in the dark. Despite a couple of trips and stumbles—putting a tear in my school trousers this time—I was right. I reached the bottom of the steep incline and could just make out the red sock, a darker shadow on the bush.

I’d made it. And now that I was here, again, I was crapping myself. I knew I needed to be fast, or else I’d chicken out entirely. I heaved aside the hatch, scraping the skin from my knuckles. Then I retrieved the fireworks that I had hidden beneath the bush, stuffed them back in my bag and took out my flashlight.

After a final glance around I lowered myself into the hatch and climbed down the steps.


—



It didn’t take long. Once I’d lit the fuses on the fireworks I barely had time to scramble back up the steps and shove the hatch across the opening before I heard the first muffled bangs. I grabbed my bag and got to my feet. The metal hatch rose before clanging back down again, dust puffing out around it. And then it just kind of collapsed into the ground.

I backed away. I’d only taken a few steps before I felt the earth shudder, a rumbling roar that seemed to rise all the way up from the soles of my trainers to my chest. I knew that sound. There had been a rockfall down the pit when I was about Annie’s age. No one was hurt, but I always remembered that rumbling roar as somewhere deep below the ground, the earth folded in on itself.

It was done, I thought. I just had to hope it was enough.


—



It was almost eight when I got back home: tired, dirty, but oddly exhilarated. Just for a split second, before I pushed open the back door, I was possessed by this insane notion that suddenly everything would be okay. I had broken the spell, slain the dragon, exorcised the demon. Annie would be herself again, Mum would be cooking dinner and Dad would be reading the paper, singing along to the radio like he used to sometimes when he was in a good mood.

All crap of course. When I walked in Dad was slumped in his usual position in front of the television. I could just see the top of his curly head above the armchair and I was sure he had already passed out. Annie wasn’t downstairs, so I guessed she must be in her room again. The smell in the house was worse than ever. I covered my mouth and rushed upstairs to the bathroom.

On the landing, I paused. The door to Annie’s room was wide open. That never happened anymore. I walked forward.

“Annie?”

I peered inside. The room was in semidarkness, as always. Just the thinnest haze of twilight seeping through the thin curtains. The bed was unmade. If the smell downstairs was bad, up here it was almost unbearable—stale urine, sweet rot and something like bad eggs and vomit all mixed up at once. The room was empty.

I checked my bedroom. Also empty. I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Annie? Are you in there?”

Silence. There was no lock on the bathroom door. Dad had taken it off when Annie was little, after she locked herself inside one day.

Mum and I had sat outside and sung to her, to keep her calm. All the while, Dad had worked on the lock to get it off the door. When we finally burst in, Annie had gone to sleep, curled up in just a nappy and a T-shirt on the bathroom floor.

I stared at the closed door. Then I grasped the handle, which felt oddly sticky, pushed it open and pulled on the light. My world swam.

Red. So much red everywhere. All over the sink. Smeared across the mirror. Splotches trailing over the floor. Rich, glistening, fresh.

I stared, my guts heaving. I looked at my hand. The palm was stained crimson. I turned and half ran, half stumbled back down the stairs. I noticed now that the walls and banister were covered in more red smudges.

“Annie! Dad?”

I jumped the last step and into the living room. Dad was still slumped in the armchair, his back to me.

“Dad?”

I edged around the armchair. His face drew into view, eyes half closed, mouth half open, a small, rattling wheeze of breath coming from his lips. He wore an old Wet Wet Wet sweatshirt. He’d won it in some local-radio competition (he’d wanted to win the holiday to Spain). Weird the things you notice. Like I noticed that below Marti Pellow’s face a huge stain had spread out from the center of my dad’s chest. Like an ink stain. Like when I left the lid off my fountain pen. Except it was too big. And it wasn’t blue. It was red, dark red. Not ink. Blood. Wet, wet, wet.

I tried to fight down the panic. Tried to think. Stabbed. He had been stabbed. Annie was missing. I needed to call the police. I needed to call 999. I ran over to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. I dialed with trembling fingers. It rang and rang and then a pleasant voice said: “Which service do you require?”