The Hidden

by Tobias Hill

  –Not the one you reckoned, obviously. You know, I reckon you could be smart if you listened a bit harder.

  –Jason.

  –There have been a few, and they don’t all end happily ever after, not here. Here, some of them don’t end at all.

  –Jason.

  –What?

  Eleschen picked up a sheaf of notes, walked over to the sofa and dropped the papers in Jason’s lap. –Leave him alone. If you’re that bored you can do some work.

  Delicately, as if they were corrupt, Jason put the papers aside and stood, stretching.

  –I’ll pass. Looks like I’m out of a job anyway, now you’ve got Ben. It’s all so cosy with Ben here, isn’t it? Like a thriving cottage industry. Come on, let’s go. Eb? he said, and Eberhard nodded again, his bespectacled gaze moving from Ben to Natsuko and on to Eleschen.

  –You’re not coming for lunch?

  –Not today.

  –But you’ll come tonight.

  –Not too early.

  –Alright.

  –Phone me before. We’ll have to change.

  –Of course. Goodbye, Ben. Until tomorrow.

  The street door slammed behind them. He went back to work, methodically placing fragments on the scales. He cleaned the provisional marking from each shard as he catalogued it, dabbing it with polish remover and cotton wool. Hot pink, blue glitter.

  In the hush he could feel his heart going, still overclocked with adrenaline. Pointless to be angry. He had known that Jason disliked him. He had suspected it all week, ever since the afternoon in the car. It should have come as no surprise.

  It wasn’t Jason he should be angry with. It should be all of them, even Eleschen. Even Natsuko.

  The computers had gone quiet, the trickling of their processes as soft as those of egg-timers. There was almost no sound at all from Eleschen and Natsuko. It felt to him as if they were embarrassed, by him or by themselves. He kept his gaze on the scales and the inventory beside them, the core list of the lost and found.

  CATALOGUE SECTION 5: SMALL FINDS (ARTEFACTUAL, FAUNAL, PALAEOENVIRONMENTAL)

  AREA G

  Context 0212:

  #019-028: MH butchery debris.

  #029: MH partial prismatic blade.

  Context 0211:

  #105: LH2 drilled lentoid seal-stone. On one face an intaglio of a Gorgon.

  They worked on through the afternoon. There was little more talk, and what passed for conversation was desultory and nondescript, as if the morning had been a mistake or had never happened at all. At two Natsuko went downstairs and came back up with three pastries, greasy parcels of spinach and cheese still hot from the oven, bringing Ben his in silence, without meeting his eyes, with no more than a nod to his thanks.

  They finished after five. Natsuko went first, putting on her hat and coat and leaving quickly, as if afraid that Ben would try and go with her. Eleschen stayed behind to turn off and lock up, so that he ended up going down into the street alone.

  There was still an hour of daylight left. The sky was full of cloud again, but there was no more rain. The wind had picked up in its wake. It was blowing old leaves up into the trees, as if time were running backwards.

  Long Hearth. He was squatting by the open hole, Indian style, keeping more or less dry, the brothers below him lost in their work, when he glanced up and saw Max looking as strange as he ever had.

  The brow of the knoll half-obscured him. His habitual slouch was absent. He was very still, his face downturned. The land fell away so sharply beyond him that he seemed to be balancing, as if nothing but his concentration kept him from falling away towards the river.

  Giorgios’s voice came up to him, a muffled muttering command, and for a while there was work to do, buckets to be hauled, a mattock to fetch. Then he was unemployed again, and when he looked back Max was still there, still standing motionless over his excavation. He had moved around the Skull Room, though the adjustment was almost imperceptible. He seemed to be looking at the same spot as before.

  He got up, his calves protesting. Max made no acknowledgement if he heard him come up at all. He was staring between his feet. His head was cocked slightly to one side. The hole in which he stood was an inverted ziggurat, the broad floor of the Mycenaean room cut out in the middle to reveal its foundations; the largest of the foundation stones–two solid slabs of schist–laid carefully to one side, revealing a shaft grave beneath. Laco’s bones lay exposed. Her skeleton was almost complete. They had removed nothing except the ulna and the skull. Her hands were clenched into fists.

  As Ben reached him Max knelt, sniffed at the dirt, stood again.

  –What’s wrong?

  Max shrugged. He was still frowning at the pit floor. –Something is buried here.

  –That’s good, isn’t it?

  That earned him a look, quick and disparaging. He recalled the way Missy talked about Max, her admiration edged with envy. He was a natural archaeologist, his talents as uncanny as those of a water diviner. He could see colours and patterns in the earth–the telltale signs of subterranean metals and structures–as if the topsoil obscured nothing. He had discovered the Skull Room where none of the technologies had done so. None of the others had believed him, at first, but he had insisted. He had simply seen the room’s outline one morning in the lie of the dew.

  –Is it important? he said, and Max scratched his shaven head.

  –Maybe.

  –Something buried with Laco–

  –No. This is something new.

  –Newer than what? he asked, but Max was no longer listening, seemed to have exhausted his limited capacity for polite conversation. Already he was down on his hands and knees, his face inches from the damp clay, like a man praying towards Mecca. Only when he rolled back on his heels did Ben hear that he was still muttering, to Ben or to himself.

  –…Not yesterday. Before the rain. But it is hard to tell.

  –Can I help? he said, wanting to, curious and eager, anyway, to prove himself not as foolish as he must already seem; and Max glanced up at him and away, uphill towards the others. No one was in sight except Themeus. His accent was stronger when he grimaced.

  –Why not?

  –What do you need?

  –A trowel. A sharp one.

  He went and fetched his Iowan gift. When he got back Max was already digging with a trench shovel, and Themeus was leaning over him inquisitively. Max took the fresh blade and went back to work.

  He craned in closer. Firmly, delicately, Max was combing back the dirt. Silt clung to the blade. It reminded him of something, and after a moment he realised it was the nit comb. His own hands making that same motion, running the teeth through his daughter’s hair. The dust of the eggs holding to the steel.

  The dirt came away easily. Too willingly, as if it had already been turned. He wondered if that was what Max had noticed, and then what could have been buried there. The site had been untouched for three days. Something illicit, maybe; something stolen. But it was a long way from anywhere, Therapne, and any local would know that foreigners were working there.

  It came to him abruptly that it could be something more dangerous, guns or bombs, and thinking that he took a half-step back, just as Themeus gave out a smiling exhalation–Ah!– and there under his own Marshalltown blade was fur–lush, wet fur–and in it, a single unblinking eye.

  –What is that?

  Max shook his head. He paused, staring back at the eye, then went on with his excavation. The body of the thing in the pit was long but curved around itself, elegantly self-contained, like a cat by a fireside. At first it seemed perfect to Ben, unhurt, and for a moment he wondered if they had dug up some hibernating animal: then he saw that the eye was not dark at all, but wholly absent, the socket full of rusty blood.

  Beside them Themeus giggled. –Laghos.

  – What’s that?

  –He says it’s a hare.

  –What’s it doing here?

  If anyone knew they didn’t stop to
tell him. Themeus was turning away, his teeth white in his wide dark face as he called his cousin’s name, Elias, Éla, Éla! Whistling him over.

  Elias was a head shorter than Themeus but older, less prone to excitement or susceptible to laughter. He stepped down into the Skull Room, hunkered down beside Max, nudged the bigger man aside.

  –Laghos.

  –Eh.

  He pushed at the carcass with the heel of one hand, muttering to his cousin. Their Greek was strange, the language striated with alien grammars and intonations. Then, –Please give me this, Elias was saying to Max, his English unexpectedly clearer than his native tongue, his gesture indicating the trowel, and receiving the blade he hunched forward, turning the hare’s long cheek with the point, his own head cocked critically, like that of a builder or a sculptor.

  He touched the creature’s neck with the blade–as if checking one last time for death, though Ben could smell it now, the potent reek of its rot–then pressed the trowel into the clay. For a minute he sawed and chopped, working at the wet packed soil. Finally he turned his head and took a breath, then lifted the body out.

  It uncurled as it came away. Its underside lay torn apart. The raw blue meat lay bare. Bones jutted through the braids of guts.

  –Hah! Elias said, and sat back, wiped his hands, propped Ben’s trowel upright in the sod, and grinned at all and sundry, like a detective who has found the murderer’s identity.

  –Tsakal? Themeus said, and Elias shrugged, pushed out his lips, and echoed him.

  –Tsakal.

  –What’s he saying? Jason said, and looking back, Ben saw them all gathered around. Jason and Eberhard, Natsuko and Eleschen, Chrystos and Giorgios, with Missy peering anxiously between them. Eleschen shook her head.

  –I’m not sure. I think he said–

  –They say it is an animal. Chrystos, under his breath. –Maybe a wild dog. Maybe something that is more trouble. There is an animal like a little wolf. Sometimes they do this with their meat. It is a long time since they came round here. Themeus says that two nights ago their people heard them. They believed it was maybe just dogs, but these things do not sound like dogs. Nothing sounds like this animal. In Greek we call it tsakal. You know it?

  –No, Jason was saying, but Eleschen was nodding wordlessly. And suddenly it came to Ben too, a rare thrill of understanding going through him, electrical, as he crouched beside the coil of the hare, privy to its secrets.

  –Jackal, he said. He means jackal.

  –Canis aureus.

  –Golden dog.

  –Golden jackal. El looked it all up back at hers. She might be along.

  –Not the others?

  –They’re busy. Giorgios says they used to be like rats, but the farmers pretty much wiped them out. They go for the lambs and kids. Real kids, too. There were two children killed. It was a long time ago but you know how it is. People still talk.

  –How come they bury things?

  –Dunno, I don’t think El got that far. Dogs do it with bones, don’t they? Or is that just in the comics?

  Late night. Jason and Ben, drinking Metaxa in the Hard Rock Café. For an hour they had been working their way down through the grades. Seven star, five star, three.

  –What happened to four and six?

  –Stanton, probably.

  –Does she drink?

  –Doesn’t she just. The mantle lies heavy. Max wants to look for them.

  –We could try HellaSpar, if they’re still open.

  –Not the brandies, you muppet, the jackals, Jason said, leaning through the background music. –Max doesn’t think they’ll be far. Up in the hills, maybe. Max knows that kind of thing. There are caves up there like you wouldn’t believe.

  He had been at the hotel, watching a satellite film, shoes off, shirt off, lights out, when Jason had come for him. There had been a banging at his door and when he had opened it Jason had almost fallen through.

  So. How’s Shovelmonkey Number Ten this evening?

  Tired. Knackered. What do you want?

  Lazy monkey. Knackered is for nags. Tired is for wimps. Come on.

  Where?

  Out. You need a drink and I need another.

  They had found a snug at the back of the bar, a dim pool of light between claggy Naugahyde banquettes, cut off from the evening crowd by music and shadow, Jason shouting to be heard over the endless medley of U2 and AC/DC, resplendent in a scarab-green shirt and Eurotrash shades, his eyes straying to the girls on the dance floor, the diminutive body-built barman eyeing him with extreme prejudice each time he went up for more drinks.

  –Another?

  –Not for me.

  –Come on, it’s your round, and Oddjob likes you. He pours mine short, cheeky fucker.

  –Why’s that, then?

  –Don’t look at me. There was a ruck last time we were in here, some biker boys from Kalamata. It’s not like I had anything to do with it. I was just a bystander.

  He got the drinks, avoiding the gyrating crowds and the barman’s gimlet eye–he poured short for Ben too when it came to it–and lined them up beside the empties. Jason raised his tumbler.

  –To Canis aureus.

  –The golden jackal. So why does Max want to look for it?

  –Oh come on. Rabbits we could poach in Essex. This is different. This is real hunting.

  –You didn’t say he wanted to hunt it.

  –What did you think I meant?

  –Is that legal? he said, and Jason laughed.

  –You need to get out more. Rabbits aren’t exactly legal either. Eb and Max are the only ones with licences. The thing is, one, this isn’t England. People don’t go soft about animals round here. And two, the farmers hate rabbits the same way they hate taxes; and three, everyone hates the jackals, and last but not least–no one cares if you break the law anyway. They only care if you get caught. That’s the way it’s always been here. The Spartans were the same.

  –And if you’re caught?

  –Caught at what? Everyone knows we go hunting already. If we don’t get the jackal somebody else will. Come on, don’t tell me you’re not curious?

  He sat back with his drink. Was he? He felt something. A double-edged excitement. An uneasy urging. Not curiosity in the hunt half so much as in hunting with them. And not curiosity so much as…what?

  Gratitude. That was it. He was grateful to be asked. He recoiled from it out of pride, but had no doubt of it.

  –Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’d be useless.

  –Why?

  –I’ve never fired a gun in my life.

  –Yeah? Well that’s the thing about guns, it’s easy. All you have to do is point. So?

  –I’ll think about it.

  –Suit yourself, Jason said, and then he was looking away, the invitation to join them already forgotten; perhaps revoked, if it had been an invitation at all; his attention drawn back to the dance floor, two girls there leaning close to converse as they moved to a slow syncopation.

  A sense of regret filled Ben, a disappointment in himself, as if he should have given a different answer; as if he had missed a chance he wouldn’t have again, and feeling that he thought of Emine and Ness, five weeks and half a continent away, their lives still going on without him, otherworldly, transmarine.

  One of the girls was smiling at them, whispering to her friend, shaking her head. Don’t look. Don’t look! When Jason finally sat back he was grinning, the expression altering as his eyes ran over Ben.

  –What’s that, then?

  He looked down. Somehow he had his wedding ring on. It had been in his coat pocket again. He must have been worrying at it, as he so often did when Oxford or his family were at the back of his mind. The gold was blood-heat, though he had no memory of manipulation.

  –When’s the big day?

  –Funny.

  –Yeah, it is. I was just thinking we might do some hunting here, offhand, and then you would’ve had to have said something. Except you did, didn’t you? You
let your fingers do the talking. What’s her name?

  –Emine. We’re divorced.

  –Since when?

  –Since I left.

  –Right. I’m sorry, he said, and Ben was about to say thanks, the word jogged loose in surprise at Jason’s sympathy, when he ploughed on. –So, what are you, cock or cunt?

  –What?

  –Did she make a cock out of you? Or was it the other way round?

  –It’s not heads or tails.

  –No? My old man’s been divorced three times. My mum was number two. He’s got a picture of Henry VIII in the garage next to the calendars and the road maps and he looks more like that fat knobhead every time I see him. Funny thing is though, no one ever kicks him out. My mum still carries a candle for him. It’s the same every time. He’s the one who leaves.

  –It’s not like that. It’s not that simple.

  –Suit yourself, Jason said, and then, almost imperceptibly over the bar noise, Cunt, so that for a moment the dislike came flooding back, as if they hated one another, though they didn’t, when it came down to it. He had been wrong about that.

  –What about you, then?

  –Me? What do I look like to you?

  –A shovelmonkey, he said, and Jason’s eyes glittered in the mean red tint of the lights.

  –Takes one to know one. But you’re right. I’ve been living off digs for years. Somewhere hot every winter and then back to Europe with the swallows for the summer. I haven’t been home in a long time. Never liked it anyway. Nasty little country. I’ve seen the world. Plenty of women in this line of work too. I get fucked off with the hotels and the factor thirty greasepaint and the spadework, but I never get tired of the women. Just look at us. I mean us lot. I don’t know which way to look half the time. What about you?

  –What about me?

  –Which way do you look? I mean, you’re divorced, so who would you go for? Given half a chance. Which you don’t have, by the way, any more than I do.

  It was unnerving, the degree to which the others took him back to the past. Jason reminded him of the London markets, the raucous, rookish closeness of the men and boys there: but they all reminded him of the politics of childhood. The strange alliances, the unlikely allegiances. The playground laws and interrogations. Questions with no right answers. What football team, which TV show, which neighbourhood. Friend or foe?