The Hiding Place(90)

“Well, thank you again,” I say. “For getting me home. For not saying anything. And for everything else. I’m a little hazy on the details.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

She shrugs. “How’s your head?”

I raise a hand and touch my forehead. There’s a small red mark on my temple and it feels a little tender, like the remains of a bruise. But that’s all. “I guess I must have hit it when I fell.”

“You didn’t fall.”

“I didn’t?”

“Not all the way.”

She turns and stalks back to the bar. I stare after her.

Beth sits back down at the table. “Did you say something?”

“No. Nothing.” I pick up a packet of sauce. “Ketchup?”

“Thanks.” She takes it, then says, “Oh, before I forget.”

She reaches into her bag and slides a small shoebox across the table.

“You got it?”

“Mrs. Craddock in Biology got it.”

“Thanks.” I open the box and peer inside.

“Meet Fluffball,” Beth says.

“She didn’t…you know?”

“Nooo. Natural causes.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Don’t suppose you’re going to enlighten me?”

“No.”

“Man of mystery.”

“Don’t forget ‘International.’ ”

“I’m going to miss you.”

I smile. “Me too.”

“Now, can you put that away? It’s putting me off my food.”

I slip the box into my satchel. “Better?”

“I meant your stupid smile.”


—



It’s past three by the time I climb into my car for the drive back to the Northwest. Beth and I exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch, and I know that we probably won’t because we are not the type of people to be text buddies, but that’s okay too.

There is no hug, there are no tears and no last-minute lustful, romantic kiss. She does not run after the car as I drive down the street. She gives me two fingers in the rearview mirror then disappears back inside the pub. It’s all good.

I pull off along the high street. But I do not go far. I reach the end of the road and then I stop beside St. Jude’s.

I climb out of the car and push the gate open. She is sitting on the rickety wooden bench. She looks composed in a plain gray jacket and blue dress. As I approach, she turns.

“Strange place to meet for a farewell,” Miss Grayson says.

“But appropriate, I thought.”

“I suppose so.”

We stare out over the graveyard.

“She’s not buried here, is she?” I say.

“Who?”

But she knows.

“Your sister.”

“This churchyard hasn’t been used for a long time.”

“She’s not buried at any cemeteries nearby. I checked.”

“My parents had her cremated.”

“No record of her at the crematorium either. In fact, there’s no record of her death at all.”

A long pause. Then she says:

“To lose a child, the pain is unimaginable. I think grief is a type of madness. It can make you do things you would never, under normal circumstances, ever consider.”

“What happened to her?” I ask.

“My parents took her away one night. They never brought her back. Or, at least, they never brought her home.”

“That’s why you were so interested in the history of Arnhill and the pit? Why you said you knew what had happened to Annie?”

She nods, then asks: “Was the car crash really an accident?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was.”

She looks thoughtful: “People say that life finds a way. Perhaps, sometimes, death does too.”

And ultimately, I think, he holds all the cards.

“I should get going.” I hold out a hand. “Goodbye, Miss Grayson.”

She takes it in her cool, smooth palm. “Goodbye, Mr. Thorne.”

I stand and walk away. I’m almost at the gate when she calls out: “Joe?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For returning.”

I shrug. “Sometimes, you don’t have a choice.”





38





The winding country lanes are dark. I negotiate them slowly and carefully. Even at my snail’s pace, the journey takes less time than I expected. I’ve missed the rush-hour traffic and my mind is busy. Too busy.

I pull up on a side street a few doors down from the apartment I shared with Brendan. I climb out and look up and down. I walk right to the end of the road before I find it. A slightly battered Ford Focus, two child seats in the back and a sign in the rear window that reads: little monsters on board.

I stare at it for a while and then I walk more slowly across the road and down two more streets to my old local. A good local. They do a mean steak-and-kidney pie.

I push open the door and spot him right away, at our usual table in the far corner. I order a beer and a pack of crisps and stroll over. He looks up. A grin spreads across his craggy face.