The Hiding Place(92)

“They live in Altrincham. Their dad works at the airport. Mum is a receptionist at the doctors’ office. Daisy and Theo attend Huntingdon Primary School. Your sister fetches them three days a week and a babysitter picks them up on Tuesdays and Fridays when she works late. Oh, also, it isn’t gerbils they have. It’s hamsters.” I pick up my drink and take a sip. “How am I doing so far?”

“How the hell—”

“I haven’t got a job. I had some spare time. Now, here’s the thing. If you come after me, I will come after your sister and her family.”

A snarl curls at the corner of his lip. “You don’t have it in you.”

“No?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out something small, brown and furry. I drop the dead hamster into his drink.

“As your dear old mammy said at the gang bang—you have no feckin’ idea what I have in me.”

Brendan stares at the hamster. Then back at me. I smile. His expression changes.

“Get out of here. I never want to see your ugly face again.”

I push my chair back.

“Far, far away,” he adds.

“I hear Botswana’s nice.”

“Book a one-way ticket. You even send a postcard, you’re a dead man. Understand?”

“I understand.”

I turn and walk across the pub. I don’t look back.

And for some reason, I don’t limp.





EPILOGUE





Henry has been told not to play up there. Ever since they moved in, it’s all his mum has harped on. It’s dangerous; he could get hurt, or lost, or fall into a hole in the ground. And he doesn’t want to fall into a hole in the ground, does he?

Henry doesn’t, but then he doesn’t always listen to his mum either. Sometimes it’s like her words are just a jumble of letters. He hears them, but he doesn’t really understand what they mean. Apparently, this is because of his autism. It means he doesn’t empathize (feel stuff properly).

That’s not totally true. People, he has difficulty with. Animals, not so much. And places. He can feel those. Like the old pit. He felt that the moment they moved in. Calling to him. Like he was standing next to a room where loads of people were talking. But he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

Henry hasn’t told his mum about the voices. There are lots of things he doesn’t tell his mum because “she worries.” She says this a lot. She worries about keeping him safe. She worries that he spends so much time alone. That’s why she was so happy when he told her about his new friends. Henry has never had friends before and he knows his mum worries about this too.

Today Mum is upstairs painting. She is redecorating the cottage. She said magnolia on every wall made her feel like she was living in a tin of semolina. Mum said funny things sometimes. Henry thinks he loves his mum.

So, he feels a bit (guilty?) when he sneaks out. But not enough to stop himself. That’s the problem. Henry doesn’t stop to consider how his actions will affect other people (the doctors said). He only lives in the moment.

This moment is good. The sun is bright. But not soft, melted-butter bright, like summer. It’s hard bright. Winter bright. All sharp around the edges, like it could slice your fingers if you touched it. Henry likes that. He’s wrapped in a thick duffel coat and inside is secure and warm, insulated from the world around him. Henry likes that too.

He walks along the lane until he reaches the start of the security fencing. He knows where there is a gap. He’s good at finding ways into places. He squeezes through and looks around.

He wonders where his friends are. They usually meet him up here. And then he spots them (as if just thinking about them has made them appear). They wave and walk down the small slope toward him. The girl is about Henry’s age. The boy is a bit older, skinny with blond hair. Sometimes the girl carries a doll.

They amble around the scrubby wasteland together. Occasionally, Henry stops and picks up a bit of rock, an old screw or a piece of metal. He likes collecting things.

After a while—he’s not sure how long because watches confuse him—he realizes that the sun isn’t so hard and bright. It’s slipped a long way in the sky. It occurs to Henry that his mum might have stopped painting, and if he isn’t home she’ll be worried.

“I should go,” he says.

“Not yet,” says the boy.

“Stay a bit longer,” says the girl.

Henry debates. He would like to stay. He can feel that tug on his insides. Hear the pit thrumming in his head. But he doesn’t want his mum to be unhappy.

“No,” he says. “I’m going.”

“Wait,” the boy says. His voice is more urgent.

“We’ve got something to show you,” says the girl.

She touches his arm. Her hand is cold. She’s only wearing thin pajamas. The boy has on a T-shirt and shorts. Neither is wearing shoes.

It occurs to Henry that this is a bit odd. Then the thought is gone, smothered by the whispering voices.

He tries once more. “I really need to go back.”

The boy smiles. Something black drops from his hair and scuttles away.

“You’ll come back,” he says. “We promise.”





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