The Hiding Place Read online

  The first thing that hits me is the smell. Every school has its own individual one. In the modern academies it’s disinfectant and screen cleaner. In the fee-paying schools it’s chalk, wooden floors and money. Arnhill Academy smells of stale burgers, toilet blocks and hormones.

  “Hello?”

  An austere-looking woman with cropped gray hair and spectacles glances up from behind the glass-fronted reception area.

  Miss Grayson? Surely not. Surely she’d be retired by now? Then I spot it. The protruding brown mole on her chin, still sprouting the same stiff black hair. Christ. It really is her. That must mean, all those years ago, when I thought she was as ancient as the frigging dinosaurs, she was only—what?—forty? The same age I am now.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Price,” I repeat. “It’s Joe…Mr. Thorne.”

  I wait for a glimmer of recognition. Nothing. But then it was a long time ago and she’s seen a lot of students pass through these doors. I’m not the same skinny little kid in an oversized uniform who would scurry through reception, desperate not to hear her bark their name and rebuke them for an untucked shirt or non-school-regulation trainers.

  Miss Grayson wasn’t all bad. I would often see some of the weaker, shy kids in her little office. She would apply bandages to scraped knees if the school nurse wasn’t in, let them sit and drink juice while they waited to see a teacher, or help with filing, anything to provide a little relief from the torments of the playground. A small place of sanctuary.

  She still scared the crap out of me.

  Still does, I realize. She sighs—in a way that manages to convey I am wasting her time, my time and the school’s time—and reaches for the phone. I wonder why she’s here today. She isn’t teaching staff. Although, somehow, I’m not surprised. As a child, I could never picture Miss Grayson outside of the school. She was part of the structure. Omnipresent.

  “Mr. Price?” she barks. “I have a Mr. Thorne here to see you. Okay. Right. Fine.” She replaces the receiver. “He’s just coming.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  She turns back to her computer, dismissing me. No offer of coffee or tea. And right now my every neuron is crying out for a caffeine fix. I perch on a plastic chair, trying not to look like an errant student waiting to see the headmaster. My knee throbs. I clasp my hands together on top of it, surreptitiously massaging the joint with my fingers.

  Through the window, I can see a few kids, out of uniform, messing around by the school gates. They’re swigging Red Bull and laughing at something on their smartphones. Déjà vu swamps me. I’m fifteen years old again, hanging around the same gates, swigging a bottle of Coke and…what did we hunch over and giggle about before smartphones? Copies of Rolling Stone and stolen porn mags, I guess.

  I turn away and stare down at my boots. The leather is a little scuffed. I should have polished them. I really need coffee. I almost give in and ask for a damn drink when I hear the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum and the double doors to the main corridor swing open.

  “Joseph Thorne?”

  I stand. Harry Price is everything I expected, and less. A thin, wrung-out-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties in a shapeless suit and slip-on loafers. His hair is sparse and gray, combed back from a face that looks as though it is constantly on the brink of receiving terrible news. An air of weary resignation hangs about him like bad aftershave.

  He smiles. Crooked, nicotine-stained. It reminds me that I haven’t had a cigarette since I left Manchester. That, combined with the caffeine craving, makes me want to grind my teeth together until they crumble.

  Instead, I stick out a hand and manage what I hope is a pleasant smile in return. “Good to meet you.”

  I see him quickly appraise me. Taller than him, by a couple of inches. Clean-shaven. Good suit, expensive when it was new. Dark hair, although rather more shot through with gray these days. Dark eyes that are rather more shot through with blood. People have told me I have an honest face. Which just goes to show how little people know.

  He grips my hand and shakes it firmly. “My office is just this way.”

  I adjust my satchel on my shoulders, try to force my bad leg to walk properly and follow Harry to his office. Showtime.

  —

  “So, your letter of recommendation from your previous head is glowing.”

  It should be. I wrote it myself.

  “Thank you.”

  “In fact, everything here looks very impressive.”

  Bullshit is one of my specialties.

  “But…”

  And there it is.

  “There is quite a long gap since your last position—over twelve months.”

  I reach for the weak, milky coffee that Miss Grayson eventually slammed on the desk in front of me. I take a sip and try not to grimace.

  “Yes, well, that was deliberate. I decided I wanted a sabbatical. I’d been teaching for fifteen years. It was time to restock. Think about my future. Decide where I wanted to go next.”

  “And do you mind me asking what you did on your sabbatical? Your CV is a little vague.”

  “Some private tutoring. Community work. I taught abroad for a while.”

  “Really? Whereabouts?”

  “Botswana.”

  Botswana? Where the hell did that come from? I don’t think I could even point to it on a frigging map.

  “That’s very commendable.”

  And inventive.

  “It wasn’t entirely altruistic. The weather was better.”

  We both laugh.

  “And now you want to get back to teaching full-time?”

  “I’m ready for the next stage in my career, yes.”

  “So, my next question is—why do you want to work here at Arnhill Academy? Based upon your CV, I would have thought you have your pick of schools?”

  Based upon my CV, I should probably have a Nobel Peace Prize.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m a local boy. I grew up in Arnhill. I suppose I’d like to give something back to the community.”

  He looks uncomfortable, shuffles papers on his desk. “You are aware of the circumstances in which this post became available?”

  “I read the news.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “It’s tragic. Terrible. But one tragedy shouldn’t define a whole school.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  I’m glad I practiced it.

  “Although,” I add, “I do appreciate you must all still be very upset.”

  “Mrs. Morton was a popular teacher.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And Ben, well, he was a very promising student.”

  I feel my throat tighten, just a little. I’ve grown good at hardening myself. But for a moment it gets to me. A life full of promise. But that’s all life ever is. A promise. Not a guarantee. We like to believe we have our place all set out in the future, but we only have a reservation. Life can be canceled at any moment, with no warning, no refund, no matter how far along you are in the journey. Even if you’ve barely had time to take in the scenery.

  Like Ben. Like my sister.

  I realize Harry is still talking.

  “Obviously, it’s a sensitive situation. Questions have been asked. How could the school not notice that one of their own teachers was mentally unstable? Could students have been at risk?”

  “I understand.”

  I understand Harry is more worried about his position and his school than poor dead Benjamin Morton, who had his face caved in by the one person in life who should have been there to protect him.

  “What I’m saying is I have to be careful who I choose to fill the position. Parents need to have confidence.”

  “Absolutely. And I completely understand if you have a better candidate—”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  He hasn’t. I’m blood
y sure of it. And I’m a good teacher (mostly). The fact is, Arnhill Academy is a shithole. Underperforming. Poorly regarded. He knows it. I know it. Getting a decent teacher to work here will be harder than finding a bear that doesn’t crap in the woods, especially under the current “circumstances.”

  I decide to push the point. “I hope you don’t mind me being honest?”

  Always good to say when you have no intention of being honest.

  “I know Arnhill Academy has problems. That’s why I want to work here. I’m not looking for an easy ride. I’m looking for a challenge. I know these kids because I used to be one of them. I know the community. I know exactly who and what I’m dealing with. It doesn’t faze me. In fact, I think you’ll find very little does.”

  I can tell I’ve got him. I’m good in interviews. I know what people want to hear. Most important, I know when they’re desperate.

  Harry sits back in his chair. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything else I need to ask.”

  “Good. Well, it was a pleasure meeting—”

  “Oh, actually, there is just one thing.”

  Oh, for fuck’s—

  He smiles. “When can you start?”

  2

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  It’s cold in the cottage. The sort of cold you get with a property that has been shut up and unlived in for some time. The sort of cold that gets into your bones and lingers even when you pump up the heat to max.

  It smells too. Of disuse and cheap paint and damp. The pictures on the website didn’t do it justice. They conveyed a shabby kind of chic. A quaint neglect. The reality is rather more careworn and dilapidated. Not that I can afford to be picky. I need to live somewhere, and even in a dump like Arnhill this cottage is the only thing I can afford.

  Of course, that isn’t the only reason I chose it.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I turn to the slick-haired young man hovering in the doorway. Mike Belling from Belling and Co. Rental Agency. Not local. Too well dressed and well spoken. I can tell he’s itching to get back to his city-center office and wipe the cow shit off his shiny black brogues.

  “It’s not quite what I expected.”

  His smile falters. “Well, as we state in the property’s description, it’s a traditional cottage, not a lot of modern conveniences, and it has been empty for some time—”

  “I suppose,” I say doubtfully. “You said the boiler was in the kitchen? I think I should get the place warmed up. Thanks for showing me in.”

  He continues to linger awkwardly. “There is just one thing, Mr. Thorne…”

  “Yes?”

  “The check for the deposit?”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m sure it’s just a mistake, but…we haven’t received it yet.”

  “Really?” I shake my head. “The mail just gets worse, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, this is why we prefer bank transfers, but it’s no problem. If you could just—”

  “Of course.”

  I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my checkbook. Mike Belling hands me a pen. I lean on the arm of the threadbare sofa and scribble out a check. I rip it out and give it to him.

  He smiles. Then he looks at the check and the smile snaps off. “This is for five hundred pounds. The deposit, plus the first month’s rent, is one thousand.”

  “That’s right. But now I’ve actually seen the cottage.” I look around and pull a face. “Quite frankly, it’s a dump. It’s cold, it’s damp, it smells. You’d be lucky to get squatters. You didn’t even have the courtesy to come up here and turn on the heat before I arrived.”

  “I’m afraid this really isn’t acceptable.”

  “Then get yourself another tenant.”

  Bluff called. I see him hesitate. Never show weakness.

  “Or perhaps you can’t? Perhaps no one wants to rent this place because of what happened here? You know, that small murder/suicide you failed to mention.”

  His face tenses, like someone has just stuck a hot poker up his backside. He swallows. “We’re not legally obliged to inform tenants—”

  “No, but morally, it might be nice?” I smile pleasantly. “Bearing all that in mind, I think a substantial discount on the deposit is the very least you can offer.”

  His jaw clenches. A small tic flickers by his right eye. He’d like to be rude back to me, maybe even hit me. But he can’t, because then he would lose his cozy twenty grand a year plus commission job, and how would he pay for all those nice suits and shiny black brogues?

  He folds the check up and slips it back into the folder. “Of course. No problem.”

  —

  It doesn’t take me long to unpack. I’m not one of those people who accumulate things for the sake of it. I’ve never understood knickknacks, and photographs are fine if you have a family and children but I have neither. Clothes I wear until they wear out, then replace with identical versions.

  There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Two items that I have left until last to remove from my small suitcase. One is a pack of well-worn playing cards. I slip these into my pocket. Some cardplayers carry good-luck charms. I never believed in luck, until I started to lose. Then I blamed my luck, the shoes I was wearing, the alignment of the fucking stars. Everything, apart from myself. The cards are my reverse talisman—a constant reminder of how badly I screwed up.

  The other item is bulkier, cocooned in newspaper. I lift her out and place her on the bed, as gently as if she were a real baby, then I carefully unwrap her.

  Small pudgy legs stick upward, tiny hands are clenched at her side, shiny blond hair fans into crumpled curls. Vacant blue eyes stare up at me. Or, at least, one does. The other rattles around in the socket, staring off at an odd angle, as though it has caught sight of something more interesting and not bothered to inform its companion.

  I pick up Annie’s doll and sit her on top of the chest of drawers, where she can regard me with her lopsided gaze every day and every night.

  —

  For the rest of the afternoon and evening I potter, trying to warm up. My leg bothers me if I sit still for too long. The cold and damp in the cottage aren’t helping. The radiators don’t seem to be working too well—probably air in the system somewhere.

  There’s a wood-burning stove in the living room but an extensive search of the cottage and the small shed outside doesn’t reveal any logs or kindling. However, it does reveal an old electric heater in one closet. I switch it on, the bars crispy-fry a thick layer of dust and the air fills with the smell of burning. Still, it should throw out a decent amount of heat, if it doesn’t electrocute me first.

  Despite the vague dilapidation I can tell this was probably a cozy family home once. The bathroom and kitchen are tired but clean. The garden out back is long and football-friendly, fringed by open countryside. A nice, comfortable, safe place for a young boy to grow up. Except he never did.

  I don’t believe in ghosts. My nan was fond of telling me, “It’s not the dead you need to be scared of, love. It’s the living.” She was almost right. But I do believe you can still feel the echoes of bad things. They imprint on the fabric of our reality, like a footprint in concrete. Whatever made the impression is long gone, but you can never erase the mark it left.

  Perhaps that’s why I haven’t gone into his room yet. I feel okay about living in the cottage, but the cottage does not necessarily feel okay. How could it? A terrible thing happened within its walls, and buildings remember.

  —

  I haven’t gone shopping for food, but I’m not hungry. Once the clock slips past seven I open a bottle of bourbon and pour a quadruple. I can’t use my laptop because I haven’t sorted out an Internet connection yet. For now, there’s not much to do but to sit and adjust to my new surroundings, trying to ignore the ache in my leg and the faint, familiar itch in my gut. I take the pack of cards out and place it on
the coffee table, but I don’t open it. That’s not what the pack is for. Instead, I listen to some music on my phone while reading a much-hyped thriller that I’ve already guessed the ending of. Then I stand at the back door and smoke a cigarette, staring out at the overgrown garden.

  The sky is darker than a pit hole in hell, not a single star piercing the blackness. I’d forgotten what countryside dark is like. Too long living in the city. It never gets properly dark in the city, nor this quiet. The only sounds are my own exhalations and the crinkling of the cigarette filter.

  I wonder, again, why I really came back. Yes, Arnhill is isolated, a half-forgotten dot on the map. But abroad would have been safer. Thousands of miles between me, my debts and people who do not take a losing streak kindly. Not when you can’t pay.

  I could have changed my name, maybe got a job bartending in some shack on a beach. Sipping margaritas at sundown. But I chose here. Or perhaps, here chose me.

  I don’t really believe in fate. But I do believe certain things are hardwired into our genes. We’re programmed to act and react in a certain way, and that’s what shapes our lives. We’re incapable of changing it, just like our eye color or propensity to freckle in the sun.

  Or perhaps that is just so much bullshit and a handy excuse to avoid taking responsibility for my own actions. The fact is, I was always going to come back one day. The email just made the decision easier.

  It arrived in my inbox almost two months ago. Surprising, really, that it didn’t get shunted straight into junk.

  Sender: [email protected]

  Subject: Annie

  I almost deleted it immediately. I’d never heard of the sender. It was probably a troll, someone playing a sick joke. There are some subjects that should remain closed. No good can ever come of opening them. The only sensible thing to do was to delete the message, empty the trash and forget I ever saw it.

  That decided, I clicked Open:

  I know what happened to your sister. It’s happening again.