The Hideaway

by Pam Smy

  Even though he was safely hidden inside the pillbox, Billy held his breath.

  Don’t make a sound.

  The old man reached down and took up the handles of a wheelbarrow from behind the gravestone. He walked a few steps, as if heading away from where Billy was hiding.

  And then he stopped.

  Slowly he put the wheelbarrow down, then he turned and stared directly at the pillbox.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no!

  ‘C’mon then, lad. Come out!’ he called.

  Billy panicked.

  ‘C’mon. Don’t spend your day hiding away. Come out!’

  Billy stepped out of the pillbox. It was the only thing to do. He stood awkwardly between the trees. The old man faced him across the mess of nettles and brambles.

  ‘So, you’ve been here all day, ’ave you? What are you doin’ in there? Ain’t you a bit old to be playin’ camps?’

  The old man peered at Billy through narrowed eyes.

  ‘I . . . um . . . I . . .’ Billy’s heart was thumping. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Won’t someone be expecting you home soon?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . please. Please don’t tell anyone I’m here. Please don’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me. Don’t make me go back! I can’t!’

  The words began to gush from Billy.

  ‘Please. I just need a bit of . . . time.’

  ‘Oh aye? Time is it? You young folk will talk about “needing time” and “having head space”.’

  The man shook his head slowly without taking his eyes off Billy’s face.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about needing time but I do know fear when I see it. And I see it in you, lad. You ain’t playing camps, are you? You’re hiding in there.’ The old man nodded towards the pillbox. ‘I thought when I saw you this morning that you looked a bit rough. No wonder if you’re sleeping in there. Isn’t there somewhere warmer you could go? Someone I could phone for you?’

  ‘I . . . I j . . . just need a few days . . .’ stammered Billy. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I’m here.’

  He glanced about him as if others were already closing in on him. The old man watched him steadily.

  ‘Well, I suppose for all you look like a fox startled by hounds, you must be pretty plucky, or pretty desperate to hide in a place like this. I’ll do you a deal. It so happens that I have a few busy days of work here. What do you say to helping me out and I keep quiet about you being here? Just for one or two days, mind.’

  He turned on his heels and picked up the wheelbarrow again.

  ‘C’mon then!’ he called over his shoulder.

  Billy watched as the old man settled at a tree and started to cut away at the branches with long-handled secateurs. Not knowing what to do, Billy hesitated behind him, glimpsing the almost hidden gravestones that the tree had twisted round. The man tugged and muttered as branch after branch was stripped away. ‘Don’t just stand there, lad, take these to that pile over there. Make yourself useful!’

  So Billy picked up one branch after another and carried or dragged them over to the corner of the graveyard, again and again and again. It seemed to take hours before the gravestone was free from the cluster of branches. The man had cut an archway framing the stone and was on his knees, tugging at handfuls of ivy round the base.

  Billy moved closer. Over the old man’s shoulder he read on the crumbling headstone:

  Here lies

  Reverend Thomas Caldwell

  1794–1875

  At rest

  ‘Why are you doing this? Surely it should be people in high-vis jackets working through this lot with strimmers? Shouldn’t the council be doing it? Or is that a family grave?’

  ‘This old place is just looked after by volunteers supposedly. But people are so busy these days, ain’t they? Not many find the time. No, these aren’t all my family but they are my friends and I like it to look nice for them. I’ve done it for the captain and his family over there.’ He pointed. ‘And the Spicer sisters there and the Collins there and young Private Ernest Engles over there . . . There’s so much to do and so little time!’

  As he gestured around the graveyard Billy noticed, among the tall grass and nettles, that a neat passageway had been carved through the undergrowth round the graveyard and that more of the headstones were tidy and weed-free.

  Billy didn’t quite get it or see why there was a rush to get it done but he had to keep his side of the deal and he was glad to be busy – it kept his mind off his troubles. He knelt down alongside his gruff companion and started to clear the weeds and ivy from the next grave. And, as the crows cawed and swirled overhead, preparing to roost in the trees above the graveyard for the night, the only other sound to be heard was the swooshing and scraping of undergrowth being cleared away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  31st October, 24 Brownsfield Close, 6.30 p.m.

  The key slid into the lock and Grace stepped wearily into the hall. It had been a long and a tiring shift. Her limbs felt slow and heavy as she unbuttoned her coat and hung it up. She slipped off her trainers and her socks and pulled her work tabard over her head. It had food stains down it from Mavis, who had struggled to swallow her dinner, and dried orange juice from when Mavis’s husband, Albert, had thrown his cup at them both in temper.

  ‘Hello?’ she called up the stairs.

  No reply.

  Jeff must be down the pub. She sighed with relief and shrugged some of the tension out of her shoulders.

  Grace plodded wearily along the hall. I need a cuppa, she thought. But with her hand on the kitchen door handle she stopped. The house was unusually quiet. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Where was Billy? She turned back and noticed that his coat was not hanging beside hers. His shoes were not in the rack beneath.

  ‘Billy?’

  Quickening her pace she went upstairs. Billy was always in. He didn’t go to after school clubs. He didn’t ‘hang out’ with other kids. He was always here. Quiet, steady, dependable Billy. Her Billy. Her boy.

  She opened the door to his room. It was empty, as she already knew it would be.

  ‘Billy?’

  She thought over her day in her mind. When had she last seen him? Which day? This morning at breakfast? No. Yesterday? No. Hurrying downstairs she checked the answer machine in the hall for messages. None. She scrabbled in her handbag for her mobile. No missed calls. No messages. She called his number.

  And from upstairs she heard the buzz of Billy’s mobile echoing through the empty house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Billy and the old man had worked until it was too dark to do any more. The autumnal winds rustled the branches above their heads and leaves danced and scattered around them. A robin hopped nearby, his beady eye looking out for the worms and beetles that had been tugged up in the tangle of weeds they had cleared. Billy had dirt on his knees and under his nails and blisters on his hands from cutting back the undergrowth. He had been so absorbed in his task that he had barely noticed that the afternoon had slipped into evening.

  The old man had walked back and forth with his wheelbarrow, carrying off piles of weeds and brambles and returning to fill the barrow again. He hadn’t talked much to Billy except to point him in the direction of one headstone in need of attention after another, with comments such as ‘Young Marion, she always liked things proper. Would have gone on to be a great scientist if it weren’t for that old man of hers,’ or ‘That ivy will need cutting back; you can barely see the names of those young nippers of Sanjeev’s,’ or ‘Lovely Eva. Shame her family moved away’. More often he seemed to mutter to himself: ‘I’ll never get it done in time,’ or ‘Every year the same and I’m not getting any younger.’ And sometimes to the stones themselves: ‘Not long now, Mabel. We’ll get everything looking just right for you.’

  He was an odd character, thought Billy, but he seemed kind for all his gruffness and Billy was grateful for the company.

  The light had turned to the blue-grey of early evening when t
he man stood up, stretched his back and announced, ‘That’s enough for one day, I think, lad.’

  Together they surveyed their handiwork. A corner of the graveyard was now tidy. The shapes of stones set off against neatly trimmed shrubs or bushes, each stone surrounded by halos of cropped fresh grass.

  ‘More tomorrow?’ the man asked as he wiped the dirt from his tools. ‘I’ll meet you here bright and early. We’ve still got plenty to do and it’s good for you to keep busy, lad. There’s a tap over there; why don’t you go and clean yourself up a bit?’

  Billy scrubbed his hands under the freezing water, scratching the ground-in dirt with his nails. It was only when he turned back to the graveyard that he realized just how much the gloom had set in. He stepped back along the path to where the old man had been. There was no sign of him at all.

  No wheelbarrow. No tools.

  No one.

  He had disappeared.

  Billy shrugged and picked his way back towards the pillbox, suddenly feeling very small, tired and alone. As he pushed aside the ivy that covered the entrance he stumbled against something at his feet. Billy reached down and picked up an old drawstring bag. Once inside he lit a candle and settled down to see what was in the bag. His fingers closed round a squat thermos flask. An elastic band held a piece of paper and a spoon to the side. Delving into the bag again he pulled out the torch he had dropped last night and a checked woollen blanket. Billy wrapped it round his shoulders and slipped the paper from the flask.

  It was a note . . .

  IF YOU’RE KEEPING YOUR SIDE OF THE DEAL, YOU’LL NEED TO KEEP YOUR STRENGTH UP.

  Billy unscrewed the lid. It was a flask of stew. A warm dinner.

  He stood in the doorway of the pillbox looking out through the ivy and over the field in the blue of the early night sky. The cosy woollen blanket still wrapped round his shoulders. Slowly he spooned the warm stew into his mouth and his whole body was flooded with the glow of knowing that someone was looking out for him.

  That old man had been so thoughtful. So kind.

  Curious old chap, Billy thought, as he stretched and stepped into his hideaway for the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  31st October, 24 Brownsfield Close, 6.45 p.m.

  Grace tapped Jeff’s number into her mobile.

  ‘The person at this number is currently unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone . . .’

  She tried again straight away and got the same voice message.

  ‘Jeff. It’s me . . . Call me! I don’t know what to do. It’s Billy . . . Call me back.’

  She clicked off the phone.

  Should she wait for Jeff to call?

  What if he doesn’t?

  What if he doesn’t hear her message?

  She stepped out of the front door and looked around the street. All those houses with lights on. All those people living so close, whose houses she walked past every day, and she didn’t know any of them. All those people who could have seen Billy. Who might know where he is. We don’t need them others, Jeff had always said, holding her a bit too tightly. We’ve got each other. His voice was so clear in her head that she actually hesitated.

  Then she thought of Billy.

  Well, I need someone now! thought Grace.

  Should she call the police? Her mind rushed back to the time, years ago, when she had watched helplessly as two young constables laughed and joked as they climbed back into their police car, Jeff’s hand gripping her already bruised arm tightly as he waved them away. His hissed whisper in her ear as the door closed behind them, ‘That is the first and last time you’ll ever call the police. Do you understand?’

  She had understood.

  But now. What should she do?

  Grace clenched her jaw, took a deep breath and stepped over the shrubs that separated their house from the neighbour’s and knocked on the door.

  The light went on in the hallway and Grace saw the silhouette of a figure walking towards her.

  Please hurry, she thought.

  A key clicked in the lock and a young woman peeped out from a crack in the opened door.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ she said, opening the door wider to reveal her neat hair, a grey skirt and pink nails. ‘It’s you from next door, isn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘I’m so glad to meet you. I’ve been meaning to pop over and say “hi”. Um . . . are you all right? Is everything okay?’ The woman peered past Grace as if to check to see whether anyone else was there. ‘Are you on your own? Do you want to come in?’

  The door opened wider and Grace felt a rush of relief.

  ‘Y . . . yes! Yes I do,’ stuttered Grace as she stepped on to the doormat. ‘Thank you.’

  She looked at the young woman, searching for the right words . . .

  ‘I need your help.

  Please.

  It’s my Billy.

  He’s gone.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Billy had made himself cosy. He had lit some candles and lined them up on the stone ledges inside each tiny window. He had wrapped himself in the blanket, snuggled down inside his sleeping bag and finished the stew. It had been comforting. Warming him from the inside. The combination of being out in the fresh air all afternoon and the sensation of being well fed made him feel drowsy. And now he felt safe and warm in the flickering candlelight, cocooned from the dark night.

  Instead of the sound of Jeff’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, there was the occasional hoot of an owl. Instead of the rumble of Jeff’s voice, there was the rush of the night breeze in the trees outside. He felt a greater sense of comfort out here in a pillbox in a graveyard, in the dark, than he did in his own home.

  Until he heard the snap of a twig outside . . .

  Then the rustling of footsteps in the tangle of ivy and brambles.

  Billy held his breath.

  Someone was there.

  Right outside the pillbox.

  He scrambled to peep out of the slots in the stone, but the candlelight was too strong to see anything out there.

  He blew hurriedly at the flames and in the sudden darkness he looked out again . . .

  He was looking straight into a face that was peering in through the ivy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  31st October, 26 Brownsfield Close, 6.47 p.m.

  ‘Okay. So let me just check this . . .’

  The young woman was calm and laid a steady hand on Grace’s arm.

  ‘Billy is your son? . . . And Billy . . . isn’t home? He’s taken his pillow but not his mobile. You last saw him the day before yesterday teatime but he could have slipped out at any point after that. You don’t know when he left?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’ Grace’s eyes darted nervously. ‘I don’t know what to do. It’s so unlike him.’

  ‘That’s okay. I think the first thing we should do is call the police . . .’

  ‘No! Please, no!’ Grace looked desperate. ‘We don’t call the police. Jeff wouldn’t want me to.’

  The memory of the sounds she had heard through the wall last night flooded back to the young woman and the vision of the man smoking at the end of the garden path. And was that the hint of a bruise on her neighbour’s cheek under the make-up? If it is then I can see why he wouldn’t want the police called, she thought . . .

  ‘Okay . . .’ she said slowly. ‘We don’t need to do that yet if you don’t want to. ‘Maybe we can check with the other neighbours in the street first? Let’s see if anyone else saw Billy yesterday, or this morning, just in case. And if not, then we’ll have to call the police, okay?’

  She looked down at Grace’s bare feet.

  ‘You go back and put some shoes on and get a jacket. I’ll change out of my work clothes and we’ll go round together. I’ll leave the front door on the latch so you can come in when you’ve got your stuff.’

  Grace twitched a brief smile of relief.

  The young woman held Grace’s gaze and smiled back.

  ‘Go on, get your stuff and bring your phone –
you’ll have a photo of Billy on it, won’t you?’

  Grace nodded as she headed out of the door.

  ‘Oh, I’m Suzie, by the way . . .’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Hello?’ called a voice.

  Billy stepped back to the middle of his hideaway.

  It definitely wasn’t the old man. It was a young voice.

  He’d been discovered. Already! What was he going to do? It was too soon.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice was moving round the outside of the pillbox. Billy could hear footsteps rustling through the undergrowth. He felt like a trapped animal, his heart banging furiously in his chest.

  Now the voice was at the other window.

  ‘Hello?

  Hello?

  I can see you, you know!’

  Billy circled helplessly, hopelessly, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Look, I know you’re in there. Why don’t you just come out? Or maybe I can come in? Where’s the entrance?’

  Oh no! Not in here. This was his place. His hideaway. Billy shrugged off the blanket, clicked on his torch and stepped out through the ivy-covered doorway.

  ‘Billy! Billy McKenna! I knew it was you!’

  It was a slight girl with tight black curls, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise.

  Billy knew her. She was from school.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ She almost whispered, amazement in her voice.

  Then the memories of the girl’s blushing face as she was moved to sit next to him in maths came tumbling back. He had kept his head down as always and barely looked at her, but he still remembered jeers and whistles from James Johnson and Max Hilliard at the back of the room.

  ‘Oh, um, hi, Izzie,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’