Dark Corners

by Darren O’Sullivan

  I hoped, as it had been so long, they would be smaller than I remembered. If anything, they were larger, more imposing. The dark towers loomed ahead, the headstocks’ wheels like eyes, guarding the dead that resided down the mine against ever leaving. It also watched the people living above ground, spying their mistakes, learning their secrets. From up there, the villagers must look like ants, scurrying around the aged, dying colony. I turned the music off, almost as if I didn’t want the mine to know I was coming. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a car approaching quickly behind me. I assumed they would see the road was clear, and then overtake, but they didn’t. I sped up a little, realising I was doing about forty-five in a sixty zone, but the car behind didn’t slow, it drew closer and closer until it was so close, I couldn’t see it in my side mirrors.

  The road we were on was narrow, and I couldn’t find anywhere to pull over to let whoever was behind me pass. Focusing on the road ahead, of which I could only see a hundred yards at a time, I started to panic. My foot went down and the speedometer crept up until I was doing just shy of 80 mph. The car behind stayed on my tail, and I was sure it was going to shunt me. Then, white marks reappeared as the road widened and the car swerved round me and carried on recklessly, careering up ahead. I took my foot off the accelerator, and the car started to slow. I was swearing under my breath, sweating under my jumper. It was obviously just some kids, doing what all kids do when they feel invincible, but for a moment, I thought they were trying to get me. To hurt me. I felt stupid for even thinking it. Paranoid and stupid. Chloe disappeared a long time ago, and life had moved on. I shouldn’t assume people would still be angry with me for leaving. Why would they be? There are more pressing things at hand, like the reason I was coming back now. Jamie.

  Despite this realisation, I still felt like I was going to be sick, so I pulled over and got out of the car. It was cold and the wind strong. To my right, the mine watched me curiously. I almost said something to it but stopped myself. Instead, I got back into the car and drove slowly into the village. Maybe subconsciously I thought if I moved quietly, I wouldn’t be noticed. I drove past the old social club, remembering how business took a nosedive just months after the mine closed. Now, its windows were boarded up and the sign outside was paint-stripped and weather-beaten. Thick weeds grew through cracks in the tarmac of the car park. It was the first thing you saw inside the village, I guess, it summed the place up well. It looked like no one had been around for decades. I hoped the same wouldn’t be said for The Miners’ Arms. I needed a drink before seeing Dad. Without slowing, I continued towards the centre. It was time to let someone know I was back.

  Chapter 12

  22nd November 2019

  Evening

  As I made my way to the other end of the village, I could see the smaller working man’s pub Jamie’s father used to own ahead of me. Its sign was lit, suggesting it was still in business. I wanted nothing more than to have a peaceful drink as I familiarised myself with the place I once called home. To breathe in its smells, and deal with the inevitable memories I wouldn’t want to recall.

  Parking outside The Miners’ Arms, I kept my head low and darted inside. It was exactly as I remembered from when I was too young to drink. The walls were still adorned with photographs throughout the years of the pits in operation. I didn’t need to look, I remembered what was in each of the frames. There were smiling men in short-sleeved shirts in the dead of winter, veins bulging in their forearms from the grafting they did day in, day out. Photographs of them erecting the headstocks, which were the tallest ever erected in England. Overhead images of before and after the mine was closed in 1997. Above the bar hung postcards of the mine, their corners curled through age, the white of the paper now a nicotine-stained yellow. The pub was scruffier than back when I was young, but the smell hadn’t altered at all. And for a moment I was back in the summer when Jamie and I were madly in love. The biggest difference between now and then was this place was once busy – people laughing, joking, and eventually drowning their sorrows after their livelihoods changed. Now the pub was near-empty, except for a few old men, perched on bar stools, looking into their pints.

  I approached the bar and waited for the barman, who had his back to me doing something in the till. As I waited, I could hear rain start to hit the window to my right. At first it was light, gentle, but soon picked up to become a full winter deluge. It made me feel colder. On a night like this, there was nothing better than a warm whiskey and a log fire. The drink wouldn’t be an issue. But the fireplace that sat in the middle of the pub looked like it hadn’t been lit in a very long time. I half expected there to be weeds cracking thought the flue, much like the car park of the social club.

  The barman, his back still to me, asked what I wanted, and before I could see his face, I knew who it was – to my horror, it was Jamie’s dad. His ‘forty a day’ voice was unmistakable. I wanted to turn and leave but was frozen to the spot and, as our eyes met, there was a hint of recognition from him behind his tired, sleep-deprived expression. It quickly faded. I collected myself and ordered a whiskey and Diet Coke and he nodded. As he made my drink, I watched him. His movements were slow, deliberate, like it was taking all of his effort to complete the task, a sloth moving along the thick branch of a tree. I couldn’t begin to understand how he must have been feeling. But wondered, why wasn’t he out looking for his son? Then I thought about it. Where else would he be? Jamie had been missing for four days. He obviously wasn’t close by, and if I was his father, I’d want to be somewhere Jamie could find him when he decided to come home. I almost offered a kind word. I didn’t. Instead, I thanked him for my drink, and sat beside the fireplace.

  If anything it was colder in front of it as the wind whipped down the chimney breast. But the chill didn’t last long, as the warmth of my drink soon spread through me. I took off my damp coat and slung it over the back of the Chesterfield chair to dry before walking back to the bar and ordering another from Jamie’s dad. Seated again I held it in both hands, like a child with a plastic cup and I looked into the fireplace trying to picture a log burning and the sound it would make as heat cracked the wood. When I was younger, we would sometimes sit in the pub whilst Jamie worked, mocking him in his green polo neck T-shirt with ‘The Miners’ Arms’ embroidered on it. We would laugh and tease as he cleaned tables and washed pint glasses. It was always harmless, and he would often join in. A fire was always on back then. The pub was always warm. Now, it felt so cold I wasn’t sure if the seatback I leant against was damp.

  Outside the rain persisted, heavy droplets thrumming against the window with such violence I waited for the glass to crack. The whiskey in my stomach buried the sick feeling I’d had all day, replacing it with a burning that I knew I’d regret tomorrow. But that was then, this was now, and I was beginning to feel less terrified. I drank it quickly and got up to ask for another. Just one more that I would sip as I prepared myself to see Dad. In that time, I hoped the rain would ease. As I approached the bar, Jamie’s dad stopped busying himself and watched me.

  ‘May I have another?’ I asked quietly, almost like I was the 16-year-old girl I once was, trying her luck at the bar.

  ‘I’ll make you a double,’ he replied, eyeing me once more with a curious look. ‘Save you coming back so fast.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, embarrassed.

  He turned to face the optics and poured two measures. The whole time, he kept an eye on me in the mirror that sat behind the counter.

  ‘You’re not local,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.

  ‘No, I guess I’m not.’

  ‘But you were once, am I right?’

  ‘Do you recognise me?’

  ‘I recognise your accent.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I guess the question is, should I recognise you?’ he asked as he turned towards me and handed me my drink.

  I swallowed hard, unsure of how he would react.

  ‘I’m Neve Chambers, I was once
… umm, friends with Jamie.’

  I waited for his gaze to harden, and his tone to either become angry or cold. But the opposite happened, and a sad smile came over his face.

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has,’ I said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I’m really sorry for what’s been going on.’

  ‘Thank you, so am I.’

  He poured a double vodka for himself and raised his glass.

  ‘To Jamie coming home.’

  ‘To Jamie coming home,’ I echoed, my voice catching in my throat.

  ‘So, what brings you back here?’

  ‘I wanted to help, if you’ll allow me to.’

  ‘Of course, I’m very grateful you’ve taken the time.’

  ‘I thought you would be upset at me wanting to be here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what happened when Chloe…’ I didn’t finish my sentence.

  ‘That was a very long time ago,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Feels like yesterday.’

  ‘Maybe. But it was a different life. How did you find out about Jamie?’

  ‘Holly connected with me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for the briefest of moments, and I felt his eye appraising me, either in silent judgement or wanting to ask the questions I supposed most people in this village wanted answers to, seeing as I was the last person to speak to Chloe before she vanished. He must have sensed my paranoia, and changed the subject.

  ‘Are you staying with your father?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered too quickly.

  ‘Tell him Derrick says hello. I’ve not seen your old man in a very long time.’

  ‘I didn’t know your name; you’ve always been Jamie’s dad,’ I said smiling.

  ‘Well, that’s my name too, my more important one,’ he replied, a sad smile lifting on the right side of his face once more. ‘He speaks of you often. Jamie, I mean.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘He said you had a business in London?’

  ‘A café, yes.’

  ‘He’s really proud of you.’

  ‘He was? I mean is. Sorry.’ I couldn’t believe I slipped up, speaking of Jamie in the past tense. This place and its ghosts had already begun seeping into my marrow.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He works here with me still, looks after the place more often than not. It’s not much, but it’s ours.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about your café.’

  ‘Well, it’s not much, but it’s mine,’ I smiled, one he returned.

  ‘I think my son never quite let go of you in his heart.’

  I was taken aback to know Jamie had kept me in his mind. It was quickly followed by the crushing guilt that I hadn’t reciprocated. I buried everything I could about the village, even those I once loved. I finished my drink and without needing to ask, Derrick turned and poured us both another. We raised our glasses again, this time without words, and drank silently. I wanted to ask how Jamie was before he vanished, if he was happy. What his life had been like in the past twenty years. I wanted to say that a part of my heart still belonged to him, my first love. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went to pay for my drinks, and he told me they were on the house.

  ‘If I can do anything…’

  ‘I’ll be fine, thank you, Neve.’

  Nodding, I walked back to the chair and picked up my coat. Putting it on, I gave Derrick a smile and headed for the door. I looked over my shoulder, but Derrick had already turned his back to me, working away at cleaning glasses that looked unused. And in the furthest corner, around the side of the bar where the old pool table sat, was a man wearing a flat cap. The peak obscured his face from me, and I couldn’t tell if he was looking down at his pint, which was in his hands, or if he was looking directly at me. I didn’t wait to find out. Yet another shiver ran up my spine. Pretending I hadn’t noticed him, I turned and left.

  Chapter 13

  22nd November 2019

  Night

  As soon as the cold air hit me, the alcohol that had lain warm and dormant in my stomach sprang to life, making me feel unsteady on my feet. Regardless, I thought if I got out of the rain and back into my hire car, I could still make the mile’s drive to my dad’s house. Reaching the driver’s door, I dug into my bag to find the key, cursing myself for not doing so when I was in the dry pub. Eventually, after several rummages, a handful of swear words and one large bead of ice-cold water that escaped my mane of hair and had run down my neck, I found it. As I pulled it out, it slipped from my hand and landed by my feet. I stooped to pick it up, the image no doubt comparable to an elderly lady trying to fit a shoe, and as I stood up again, I hit my head on the wing mirror hard enough to knock it out of its casing and send a white flash across my eyes. I tried to focus so I could pop the wing mirror back in, but as I attempted to fix it, the whole thing came off in my hands.

  Perhaps it was the fact it was raining, or that I was drunk again, or maybe it was being back in the village where Chloe vanished from, but I burst into tears, clutching the broken wing mirror to my chest like it was a teddy. That was how the car that approached from behind, its main beam on, found me. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, which was pointless as I was now soaked through. I felt the car slow as it drew close to me, and I wanted to look, but didn’t. Keeping my head low, I opened the Corsa’s door, dropped the wing mirror on the driver’s seat and closed it again. It wasn’t a good idea to drive; I couldn’t even get into the bloody thing without damaging it.

  Stumbling to the back of the car I unlocked the boot, and watched the car pass out of the corner of my eye. I took out my bag, pulled my coat collar as high as it would go, and started to walk. I should have turned right towards Dad’s, but I turned left instead and kept walking. I thought about how I used to spend the evening in or around the pub, waiting for Jamie to finish working. I thought about the two occasions when I waited on my own, before we walked hand in hand in the direction I was now heading. The ground beneath my feet was the path we had walked on twenty-one years before as a couple, before going to the place where we would spend the evening making out. My mind began to drift to one night in particular, where, after meeting near the hut, we snuck into Jamie’s bedroom above the pub via the fire-exit stairs. But as I tried to recall what happened next, I was stopped by the realisation that the boy who was my first love was now missing.

  Pushing the thought down, I pressed on, and after a few minutes I stood at the mouth of the lane but the darkness made it impossible to see much. However, I knew, down that lane, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was a brick building that was once ours. A part of me, the curious part, wanted to continue walking down the lane, which felt smaller, narrower than it did back when I was young. I began but stopped after only a few paces. When we were young, all of the lights that lined the path were broken, the power disconnected, but now, far in the distance, one burnt. I guessed that was because of Chloe. A familiar and long-forgotten shudder ran up my spine. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but still I felt spooked and turned to walk away. As I did, something caught the edge of my peripheral vision, a shadow moving quickly through the light cast by the only streetlamp. I spun quickly, almost losing my footing, but I couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice sounded small, the dark night swallowing it whole. I started walking backwards, uneasy on my feet, and didn’t breathe until I was on the main road. As I moved in the direction of the pub, I convinced myself it was nothing, my mind playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was no one there, no shadow, no person, and certainly no ghosts. I needed to get back to Dad’s, sleep off the booze and tomorrow, I would show my face, and then, go home. There was a reason I didn’t live here anymore, and I felt stupid for thinking that it would be all right, that I would be all right if I came back.

  I walked past the pub again, past the hir
e car that sat lonely out front. After a few minutes I drew level with Chloe’s old house. It was quiet, dark. All of the curtains were drawn. Were it not for a small light on somewhere upstairs, I would think the house was empty. I kept my head down, walked on. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I didn’t know if Chloe’s mum Brenda still lived there, but I wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Up ahead, two lights from a car shone, again, the main beam on – I slowed and shielded my eyes as it passed; the driver was looking towards me. Turning, I watched their taillights as they drove past the pub and out of the village, my gut telling me that although I couldn’t place them, they had recognised me.

  I knew I should have gone back to Dad’s and got the awkward moment of saying hello over and done with, but I wasn’t quite ready. There was another place in this village I needed to visit first. Somewhere important. Somewhere I had never been before. Chloe’s grave. The cemetery was a short distance behind Chloe’s house. I remembered, when we were young, when her mother worked evenings, we would look out of her mum’s bedroom window across the gravestones, talking of ghosts walking among them.

  With Chloe’s house far enough behind me, I turned and doubled back on myself. Climbing a gate, I began to search for her stone, ashamed that I didn’t know where my childhood best friend had been laid to rest. Eventually, right in the middle of the cemetery, I came across it.