by C. J. Tudor
I couldn’t tell you what day it is most of the time, but I could recite whole passages from Shakespeare (if you were very unlucky. And I really didn’t like you). I can memorize reams of text and random words. Just the way my mind works. I collect useless information like dust.
‘One year, one day and about twelve hours, thirty-two minutes.’
That’s how long Beth said she had worked at Arnhill Academy. Which would put her start date at September 2016. According to this story, Emily Ryan died on 16 March 2016.
Of course, maybe Beth was wrong. Maybe she had her dates confused. But I don’t think so.
‘Oh, I’m counting.’
Which means that Beth wasn’t a teacher here when Emily Ryan killed herself. Emily Ryan certainly wasn’t one of her students. So why did she lie to me?
18
I wake early the next morning. This is uncalled for. I half open one eyelid, groan and roll over. Annoyingly, my brain refuses to slip back into oblivion, even though the rest of my body feels like it has moulded itself to the bed overnight.
I lie there for several minutes, willing myself back to sleep. In the end, I give up, peel myself from the mattress and swing my legs out, on to the cold floor. Coffee, my brain instructs. And nicotine.
It’s a grey, blustery day, the wind herding clouds across the sky like a parent hurrying along recalcitrant children. I shiver and finish the cigarette quickly, eager to get back inside to the relative warmth of the cottage.
Already the events of last night have become indistinct, blurred in my memory. I take Abbie-Eyes out of the cupboard. In daylight, she looks harmless. Just an old, broken doll. A little worse for wear, a little unloved. You and me both, I think.
I feel bad now about sticking her beneath the sink. So I take her through to the living room and place her on an armchair. I sit down on the sofa and finish my coffee. Abbie-Eyes and me, enjoying a little morning downtime.
I try Brendan’s number twice more. Still no reply. I re-read the newspaper article about Emily Ryan again. It makes no more sense this morning than it did last night. I try to distract myself by taking out a pile of marking. I get about halfway through before I realize I have just written, ‘Feck, no!!!’ beside one particularly clunky paragraph and give up.
I glance at my watch. It’s 9.30 a.m. I have no real desire to hang around the cottage all day. And nothing else to occupy my time.
There’s nothing else for it.
I decide to go for a walk.
The first tentative excavations in Arnhill began some time back in the eighteenth century. The mine grew, expanded, was demolished, rebuilt and modernized over a period of two hundred years.
Thousands of men and families built their livelihoods around the mine. It wasn’t a job. It was a way of life. If Arnill was a living organism, then the mine was its beating, smoke-bellowing heart.
When the mine closed it took the council less than two years to rip out that heart, although by that time it had long stopped beating. Soot and smoke no longer circulated around its steel arteries. The buildings had crumbled and been vandalized. Thieves had stolen a lot of the metal, fixtures and fittings. In a way, it was a mercy when the bulldozers moved in.
Finally, there was nothing left. Nothing except a deep wound in the land – a constant reminder of what had been lost. Some families moved, to find work elsewhere. Others, like my dad, adapted. The village limped its way back to a sort of recovery. But some scars don’t ever really heal.
The rugged landscape rises in front of me, grown thick and abundant with wild flowers and grass. Hard to believe that once, in this same place, stood great industrial buildings. That beneath the earth there are still shafts and machinery, abandoned because it was too costly to remove.
But that’s not all that lies beneath the earth. Before the mines. Before the machines that bore into the ground, there were other excavations here. Other traditions upon which this village was built.
I start to ascend, glad I brought my stick to aid my progress along the uneven ground. I found a way in through a narrow gap in the perimeter fence. From the trampled-down grass and bare earth the other side, I guess it is a well-used entrance.
As a kid, I knew this place well. Now, it is foreign to me. I can’t place exactly where I am or even where the old shafts used to be. And the hatch doesn’t exist any more. That was lost, along with our way in, thanks to Chris. For good, I thought. But I should have known. Some things won’t stay buried. And kids will always find a way.
I stand at the crest of one steep hill to catch my breath. Even if I didn’t have a crippled leg, I am not a man used to hiking and hill-climbing. I’m built for sitting at tables and perching on bar stools. I have never even run for a bus. I try to force my lungs to drag in some much-needed oxygen. And then I give up, pull out my cigarettes and light one. I thought that when I got out here I would feel some instinctive recall, a twinge, like an internal divining rod. But there is nothing. The only twinge I am feeling is from my bruised ribs. Perhaps I have worked too hard to forget. I am not sure if that makes me disappointed or relieved.
I stare around at the undulating lines of brown and green. Scraggy grass and hard thorny bushes, slopes of slippery gravel and deep hollows filled with muddy marsh water and swaying reeds.
I can almost hear them whispering to me: You thought you could just stroll up here and find your way back? It doesn’t work like that, Joey-boy. Haven’t you learned anything by now? You don’t find me. I find you. And don’t you fucking forget it.
I shiver a little. Perhaps this little hike up memory hill, like many of my actions, is a fruitless exercise. Perhaps the email isn’t important either. Or the text. Or any of it. Maybe the best thing to do would be to get what I’m due and get out. I’m not the hero type. I’m not the guy in the film who goes back, solves the mystery and gets the girl. If anything, I’m the deadbeat friend who never makes it past the second act. What happened here was a long time ago. I’ve lived twenty-five years without having to revisit it. Why bother now?
Because it’s happening again.
Who cares? It is not my problem. Not my battle. With any luck, the excavators will cause the whole rotten village to fall into the earth, and that really will be the end of it.
I start to turn but something catches my eye. Something fluttering on the ground. I stare at it for a moment. Then I crouch down and pick it up. A Wham bar wrapper. I’d recognize that bright blue and red anywhere. Chris’s pockets used to be stuffed with them. If he had made it to adulthood, I doubt his teeth would have done the same.
I straighten and look down the hill. I’m sure it isn’t steep enough. But still, I tuck the wrapper into my pocket and scramble down the slope. It’s actually steeper than I gave it credit for at the top and halfway down my bad leg gives, my feet slip out from under me and I skid the remaining few yards on my backside.
I lie at the bottom for a moment, winded and shaken. Getting vertical again seems like an effort. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
‘You never called my mum.’
I start and sit up. A young woman, her pale face framed by a hooded parka, stares down at me. She’s holding a small, scruffy black dog on a lead. Something about her is familiar, and then it clicks. The charming barmaid from the pub. Lauren.
If she notices that I am lying prone, covered in dirt, it doesn’t register on her face.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘Old bloke fell up here last year. Died of hypothermia.’
‘Thank God a good Samaritan like you found me.’
I grab my stick and force myself clumsily to my feet. The dog sniffs around my boots. I like dogs. They’re uncomplicated. Easy. Unlike people. Or cats. I reach to tuck him under the chin. His lips draw back and he snarls. I snatch my hand back.
‘He doesn’t like being stroked,’ Lauren says.
‘Right.’
There’s a patch of missing fur, almost like a ring, around hi
s neck: an old scar.
‘What happened to him?’
‘He got caught on some barbed wire, slit his throat open.’
‘Amazing he survived.’
A shrug.
‘Is he your dog?’
‘No. Mum’s. She’s had him years.’
‘You walk him up here a lot?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Many other people walk up here?’
‘A few.’
The words ‘blood’ and ‘stone’ come to mind.
‘I hear some of the kids from school hang around here too.’
‘Some of them.’
‘When I was a kid, we used to do that. We’d look for ways into the old shafts.’
‘Must have been a long time ago.’
‘It was. Thanks for rubbing it in.’
She doesn’t smile. ‘Why haven’t you called Mum?’
‘I don’t need a cleaner right now. Sorry.’
‘Okay.’
She turns to go. I realize I am missing an opportunity.
‘Wait.’
She looks back.
‘Your mum – she cleaned the cottage for Mrs Morton?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So she knew her?’
‘Not really.’
‘But she must have spoken to her?’
‘Mrs Morton kept herself to herself.’
‘Your mum never mentioned Mrs Morton acting oddly – seeming upset, disturbed?’
A shrug.
‘I heard Ben went missing. You think he ran away?’
Another shrug. I try one last time.
‘Was Ben one of the kids who came up here? Did they find something? Maybe a tunnel, a cave?’
‘You should call Mum.’
‘I told you, I don’t –’ Then I catch myself. ‘If I call your mum, will she talk to me?’
She stares at me. ‘She charges ten pounds an hour. Fifty pounds for a deep clean.’
I get the drift. ‘Right. I’ll bear it in mind.’
The dog edges towards my boots again. Lauren gives it a little tug on the lead. It wrinkles its grey muzzle at her.
‘He must be pretty old,’ I say.
‘Mum says he should be dead.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.’
‘Yeah, she does.’ She turns. ‘I have to go.’
‘See you then!’ I call after her.
She doesn’t return the farewell, but as she walks away I hear her murmur, almost to herself: ‘You’re in the wrong place.’
Weird doesn’t really cover it.
A white van is parked outside the cottage when I get back. There’s a picture of a large tap on the back. I make a wild guess that it belongs to a plumber. Bearing in mind my current bathroom issues, this would be fortuitous. If I had called a plumber.
As I draw closer my worst fears are confirmed. The name on the side reads: Fletcher & Sons Plumbing and Heating. I watch as the doors swing open. Unwise Hair climbs out of one side. Another figure, less familiar these days, climbs out of the driver’s side. He spits yellow phlegm on the ground.
‘Thorney. Fuck me. Never thought I’d see you back here.’
I can’t say the same. I always knew Fletch would never leave. Some kids, you just do. It’s not that they don’t want to move somewhere else. It’s just that the thought that there is somewhere else has never even occurred to them.
‘What can I say?’ I hold out my arms. ‘I missed the warm welcome.’
Fletch looks me up and down. ‘You’ve not changed.’
Again, I can’t say the same. If the years have not been kind to any of us, they’ve been really hard on Nick Fletcher. Always a blunt-faced youth – one of those kids who probably looked old even in nappies – he has lost the sinewy muscle that once made him such a formidable bouncer for Hurst. Now, he is thin to the point of skeletal. His shorn hair is a dirty nicotine yellow and his face is criss-crossed with deep creases that only illness or a lifetime of drinking and smoking can carve.
He walks up to me, Unwise Hair lurking behind in a way that I presume is supposed to be menacing but just makes him look a bit constipated. I note the swollen look of his nose and bruises beneath both eyes. Gloria. I wonder if his brother is still nursing his injured shoulder. I feel a sliver of satisfaction.
Fletch himself has the gait of a man – not dissimilar to me – battling some kind of pain or stiffness in his joints. Arthritis, maybe? The malformed knuckles of his hands are a further giveaway. I guess pounding heads takes its toll after a while.
As he draws nearer I can smell him. Juicy Fruit and cigarettes. All Fletch ever smelled of was Juicy Fruit and cigarettes. Perhaps he hasn’t changed that much.
‘You’re not wanted here, Thorney. Why don’t you do everyone a favour and fuck off back to whatever shitty stone you crawled out from.’
‘Wow. That was a long sentence for you. A bit clichéd. A slight mix of adjectives and verbs, but not bad.’
His face darkens. Unwise Hair lumbers forward. I can sense the barely contained violence. He’s not just ready to beat the crap out of me. He’s eager for it. Slavering like a dog eyeing a juicy bone.
Like father, like son. Fletch always preferred to punch first and ask questions later. He didn’t need an excuse to hurt someone, but Hurst helpfully gave him one. Fletch enjoyed smashing teeth and blacking eyes. He was a mean and dirty little fighter. And he didn’t give in. I’d seen him take on bigger lads than himself and wear them down with sheer viciousness and persistence. If Hurst hadn’t held his leash, I think, even then, he could have easily beaten someone to death.
He holds up one misshapen hand to his son, who stumbles to a halt.
‘What do you want?’
‘World peace, fair wages for all, a better future for our children.’
‘Still think you’re funny?’
‘Someone has to.’
The hand wavers.
‘I want to see Hurst,’ I say quickly. ‘I think we can come to an arrangement that will suit both of us.’
‘Really?’
‘I have something he wants. I’m happy to give it to him. For a price.’
He snorts. ‘You know, Hurst said to take it easy on you the other night. Maybe he’s not feeling so generous now you’re threatening him.’
‘I’m willing to take the gamble.’
‘Then you’re more fucking stupid than you look.’
‘Really? Because it looks to me like your son took a pretty good beating last night too.’ I smile at Unwise Hair. ‘How’s your brother’s shoulder?’
His face reddens. ‘You got lucky, cripple.’
‘Yeah,’ Fletch says. ‘No big mates around to help you now –’
Big mates? So his sons couldn’t admit to being beaten up by a woman.
‘And no one fucks with my lads,’ Fletch snarls. He lowers his hand.
Unwise Hair lunges. But this time I’m prepared. As he raises a fist I swing the stick. It catches him hard above his ear and he drops to the ground. I jab the stick into his stomach then smash it across his back. He folds like a particularly ugly piece of origami.
Fletch starts towards me. But he is older and slower than his son. I sidestep and bring the stick up between his legs. He yelps and crumples to his knees. I’ve picked up a few hints on causing pain myself over the years. I lean over him, panting slightly.
‘You were wrong,’ I say. ‘I have changed.’
He squints up at me, eyes full of tears. ‘You are so fucking dead.’
‘Says the man clutching his balls. Now you tell Hurst I want a meeting. He can choose the night. But it has to be this week.’
‘You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.’
Unwise Hair starts to rise. He looks dazed, and is younger than I first assumed. I feel a twinge of guilt. But only a twinge. I swing the stick and smash it across his swollen nose. Blood spurts out. He screams and clutches at his face.
‘No. You have no idea what I’m g
etting myself out of. You’ve got five minutes to get out of here or I call the police.’
I turn and stagger towards the cottage. Now the adrenaline is fading, my battered body is complaining loudly at my exertions.
Fletch shouts after me: ‘Your sister’s dead. You can’t bring her back …’
The sentence hangs. He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t need to.
19
1992
We had agreed to meet back at the pit at 9 p.m. No one went up there that late and we didn’t want anyone to catch us and ask what we were doing.
I planned to sneak out some time after dinner. Mum was busy with a pile of ironing and Dad would be down the pub. There was just something I needed to do first. I crept out of the kitchen door and over to the shed in the backyard. It was where Dad kept his tools and his old mining equipment.
I had to delve a bit, brushing aside cobwebs and dead spiders. Then I found it. An old work jacket, sturdy boots, rope, a torch and … yes … a miner’s helmet. I picked it up, wiped off some dirt and fiddled with the light at the front. I half expected it not to work but, to my surprise, a robust yellow beam flared out.
‘What are you doing?’
I jumped and spun around, almost dropping the helmet.
‘Shit! What are you doing, sneaking up on me?’
Annie stood in the doorway, skinny silhouette framed by the fading evening light. She was dressed in her pyjamas – pink, with a picture of a Care Bear on – and her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
My little sister. Eight going on eighteen. Funny, feisty, stubborn, silly. Stupidly intelligent, annoyingly sweet. Hilarious, frustrating, entertaining. The boniest yet somehow also the softest little body to ever envelop me in a gangly web of arms and legs. A toothy smile that could shatter the hardest heart. A tough little tomboy who still wanted to believe in Santa Claus and magic. But then, who doesn’t?
‘You shouldn’t swear,’ she said.
‘Okay, okay. I know. But you shouldn’t sneak up on people.’
‘I didn’t. You just weren’t listening properly.’
One of many pointless things in life is arguing with an eight-year-old. Doesn’t matter how smart you are, eight-year-old logic always wins.