by C. J. Tudor
‘Did she say anything about school, stuff that was bothering her?’
‘Nope. And when I asked she just clammed up.’
Lauren returns and plonks down two more bourbons. If they are doubles, then the optics are malfunctioning. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe she does like me.
Beth takes a sip. ‘Now, I think I should have pushed her. Made her talk to me.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. Push teenagers too hard and they’ll just go scuttling back into their shells.’
‘Yeah. But you know the shit thing? I didn’t even hug her goodbye. We always hugged. But this time she just walked away. And, I thought – cool auntie – I’ll let her go. Give her time. Turns out we didn’t have time. Two weeks later she was dead.’ She sniffs, wipes angrily at her eyes. ‘I should have hugged her.’
‘You couldn’t have known.’
Because life never gives you a heads-up.
‘Well, I should have done. I’m a teacher. I should have realized this wasn’t the usual moody teens. I should have spotted the signs of depression. She was my niece. And I let her down.’
Guilt washes over me in a wave. I feel crippled by it for a moment. I swallow.
‘What happened to your sister?’
She shakes her head, gathering herself. ‘She couldn’t stay. Not in that house, where it happened. She moved back to Edgeford, nearer to Mum. She’s still having a hard time, dealing. I go back as often as I can, but it’s like Emily’s death is this barrier between us and we can’t seem to work our way around it.’
I know what she means. Grief is personal. It isn’t something you can share, like a box of chocolates. It is yours and yours alone. A spiked steel ball chained to your ankle. A coat of nails around your shoulders. A crown of thorns. No one else can feel your pain. They cannot walk in your shoes because your shoes are full of broken glass and every time you try and take a step forward it rips your soles to bloody shreds. Grief is the worst kind of torture and it never ends. You have dibs on that dungeon for the rest of your life.
‘Is that why you came here?’ I ask. ‘Because of Emily?’
‘When the job came up a couple of months later it seemed like it was meant to be.’
Funny how that happens.
‘Why didn’t you tell me at the start?’
‘Because Harry doesn’t know. I didn’t want him to think I was here for the wrong reasons.’
‘Like?’
‘Revenge.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘At the start, maybe. I wanted someone to be held accountable for Emily’s death.’ She sighs. ‘But I couldn’t find anything. At least, not anything specific. Just the usual friendships and fall-outs.’
‘What about Hurst?’
‘She never mentioned him –’
‘But?’ I prompt.
‘Something isn’t right in that school, and Hurst is a part of it. When you let a kid like Hurst get away with the stuff he does, you create a place where cruelty is the norm.’
I wonder if that’s all. I remember what Marcus said: about Hurst taking kids up to the old colliery site. Kids who wanted to fit in. Perhaps even a young girl desperate to be accepted in a new school. The pit could get to you in more ways than one. Like it did with Chris.
‘You’ve gone quiet.’
‘Just thinking that history has a shitty habit of repeating itself,’ I say bitterly.
‘But it shouldn’t. The only way schools like Arnhill Academy change is from the inside. Teaching is not all about league tables and Ofsted reports. It’s about helping our young people to become decent, rounded human beings, and getting them through their teens in one piece. If you lose them at this age, you lose them for ever.’ A small shrug. ‘You probably think that sounds naive.’
‘No, I think it sounds brave and commendable and all the stuff that is going to make you give me a one-fingered salute any second now and … yep, there it is.’
She lowers her finger. ‘For all your cynical, world-weary crap, you almost sound like you understand.’
‘I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my reasons for being here are far less worthy.’
‘So what are they?’
I hesitate. Of all people, it is Beth that I would like to tell the truth to. But then, of all people, it is Beth whose opinion I care about.
‘Like you said, only two types of teachers come to Arnhill – I couldn’t get a job anywhere else.’
‘I thought we were being honest here.’
‘I am.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘There really isn’t.’
‘I can see it in your face.’
‘That’s just my face. It’s a curse.’
‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, there is something?’
‘All right – I used to gamble. I ended up owing a lot of money. I needed to lie low somewhere until I could clear my debts. There is no noble reason for my return. I am a poor gambler, a mediocre teacher and a questionable human being. Happy?’
She glares at me. ‘Bullshit. You might be a twat, but you’re a twat who’s here for a reason. Something important to you. Otherwise, you would have turned tail the minute Hurst’s cronies beat you up. But if you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I thought we were becoming friends. I was obviously wrong.’
She stands and grabs her jacket.
‘You’re going?’
‘Nope. I’m storming out.’
‘Oh.’
‘Leaving you looking like a sad loser.’
‘Hate to break it, but I don’t need you for that.’
She slings on her jacket. ‘You need somebody.’
‘Everybody needs somebody.’
‘Meaningful.’
‘Blues Brothers.’
‘Piss off.’
And with that, she turns and stomps out of the pub. Nobody so much as glances up from their drink.
I remain sitting at the table, like a sad loser. But at least a sad loser with two half-full glasses of bourbon. Every cloud. I pour Beth’s glass into mine and take a large swig. Then I reach into my pocket and take out a piece of paper. I have scribbled an address on it.
Time to make a house call. Brighten someone else’s evening.
In a card game there is always a moment where you can see the other players’ hands, as though the cards are transparent. You know what they are holding. You can see the odds in your head. The next moves. It’s all there, as clearly as if someone had written it in fluorescent marker in the air in front of you.
And usually, you are wrong.
If ever you think you have got a handle on everyone else in a game, that you know how it is going to play out, the moves you should make, the bluffs you should call, you are in big trouble.
Because that is the point when it will come crashing down around your head.
I thought I had been clever working out the Ruth and Marcus connection. Thought I knew what was going on. Ruth lived here back then, she knew me, she knew Arnhill. She also knew Ben and Julia. It was possible that she somehow got hold of my email and phone number and sent those messages. It was all possible. But why?
Now I have another explanation. It doesn’t make a lot more sense. I do not know what cards the other player is holding. But at least I know who I am playing.
I step forward and ring the doorbell. Then I stand back again.
It takes a moment. There are no lights on behind the curtains in the front room, but I’m sure she is here. I’m right. Seconds later, through the glass of the front door, I see a light come on in the hall.
The blurry outline of a figure approaches; I hear a cough, a sniff, and then the sound of a key in the lock, and the door edges open …
‘Mr Thorne.’
She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. But then, she has spent a lifetime perfecting a calm and unemotive exterior. What else has she spent a lifetime doing? I wonder.
/>
I smile politely. ‘Hello, Miss Grayson.’
26
1992
‘Bones!!’
Hurst’s face lit up with so much joy it was like someone had yanked his pants down and given him a blow job right there and then.
It took me a moment to realize what it reminded me of. The look of ecstasy, the glow of the miner’s light illuminating his features. And then I got it. It reminded me of that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazis are staring into the Ark … just before all the demons pour out and their faces start melting right off their skulls.
I thought I couldn’t feel any more afraid. As usual, I was wrong.
‘Bones!’ The word shuddered around the group like a dark echo.
They stared at the bones laid into the rock. Some were more yellow, up close. Older, maybe. They were also small. Although some had obviously been broken or cut to form the symbols and shapes, others were still whole. They looked delicate, fragile even.
Hurst stretched out a hand and touched one, surprisingly gently. Then he dug his fingers in and pulled it from the rock. It gave, far more easily than I expected, in a small cloud of dust and rock fragments that crumbled to the ground. Hurst stared at the bone. An arm, I thought. A small arm.
‘Jesus fuck!’ Fletch yelled. ‘Have you seen this?’
We turned. He was holding up one of the yellowed rocks, except it wasn’t a rock. It was a skull. Tiny. It barely filled his hand. Not an adult’s. A child’s. Nearly all of these dismembered skeletons were children.
‘I think we should go,’ I said, but my voice sounded distant and weak.
‘Are you joking?’ Hurst said. ‘This place is the balls. And it’s ours.’
That was when I understood what truly deep shit we were in. You didn’t own something like this. You could never own a place like this. If anything, it owned you.
Fletch grinned and chucked the skull at Marie.
‘Dickhead.’ She ducked and the skull hit the ground and split neatly in two.
‘Gross,’ Marie moaned. She didn’t look so great. Maybe it was the sight of all the bones, maybe it was the effects of the cider kicking in, but her face had gone a pallid grey colour.
Hurst was prowling around the cave now, gouging out more bones from the walls with the crowbar, whooping each time. Actually whooping.
Fletch grabbed some more skulls and started to boot them across the cavern, like he was playing football. My gut twisted in horror. But I didn’t do anything. I just stood by. Like I always did.
‘Here!’ Hurst yelled, brandishing the crowbar. Fletch picked up a skull, clasping it like a bowling ball with his fingers in the empty sockets. He lobbed it towards Hurst. Hurst swung the crowbar. The metal and skull connected with a crack. The skull shattered. My stomach rolled.
I looked over at Chris for some help, some back-up, but he just stood, arms hanging at his sides, staring blankly. As though, now we were here, now he could see what he had found, the trauma had shunted him into catatonia.
My voice finally broke: ‘For fuck’s sake, these are the bones of dead kids.’
‘So?’ Fletch turned to look at me. ‘Not like they’re gonna complain.’
Hurst just grinned. ‘Lighten up, Thorney. We’re just having fun. Besides, finders keepers, right?’
He picked up the half-skull from the ground. ‘What’s that Shakespeare shit? “To be or not to be?” ’
He threw the skull into the air and whacked it with the crowbar. Fragments of bone flew across the cavern.
I winced, but I was distracted. I thought I had heard something. Coming from the walls. A weird sort of sound. Not scratching, exactly. More like a skittering, chittering sound. I thought about bats. Could there be bats down here? Or rats even. They liked dark underground tunnels, didn’t they?
‘Did you hear something?’ I asked.
Hurst frowned. ‘Nope.’
‘Are you sure? I thought I heard something – bats or rats?’
‘Rats!’ Marie’s head whipped round. ‘Shit!’ She bolted for a far corner and loudly threw up.
‘Fuck,’ Fletch said. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have brought her.’
Hurst’s face tensed. I wasn’t sure if he was going to have a go at Fletch or shout at Marie. But then there was another noise. This time more distinct. A small cascade of stones rattling down from the steps above.
We all spun around (aside from Marie, who was making heaving, groaning noises in the corner). The cavern hung heavy with the smell of vomit and sweat. Still, it seemed to me that the air felt cooler. Cold even. But not normal cold. Weird cold. Creeping cold, I suddenly thought. Like the shifting shadows. Not static. Moving, alive.
We swung our torches back in the direction of the noise. Towards the steps. They rose unevenly up into darkness.
‘Hey!’ Hurst called. ‘Anybody up there?’
Silence, and then another small fall of stones.
‘You’d better get down here or I will come up and …’
His voice tapered off. A shadow reared up on the wall. Tall and spindly, clutching something in its elongated fingers, something that looked like a baby …
We all fell quiet, even Marie’s moans subsiding. I could hear the other sound again. The skittering, chittering sound. Closer. The shadow rounded the corner. My scalp tightened. Hurst raised the crowbar. Slowly, the shadow shrank and melted into a solid figure. A small figure in a grey hoodie, pink pyjama bottoms and trainers. In one hand, she held a torch. In the other a plastic doll.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Hurst lowered the crowbar.
‘You are shitting me,’ Fletch muttered.
I stared at Annie. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
27
We sit, the pair of us, in the back room. It is dimly lit, furnished only with two sturdy leather armchairs, a desk and a reading table. A faded but probably once expensive rug covers the bare floorboards. Tall bookshelves take up most of the wall space, jam-packed with books whose spines are all pleasantly cracked and worn.
Never trust a person whose bookshelves are lined with pristine books, or worse, someone who places the books with their covers facing outwards. That person is not a reader. That person is a shower. Look at me and my great literary taste. Look at these acclaimed tomes that I have, most probably, never read. A reader cracks the spine, thumbs the pages, absorbs every word and nuance. You might not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can definitely judge the person who owns the book.
‘So,’ Miss Grayson says, placing a cup of coffee on the table beside me then sitting down in the other armchair with a mug of Lemsip. ‘You have some questions.’
‘Just a few.’
She sits back. ‘Probably the first being am I a crazy old woman with too much time on her hands?’
I reach for the coffee and take a sip. Unlike the slop she first served me at the school, this is rich and strong.
‘It’s up there.’
‘I imagine it is.’
‘You sent me the email?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Process of elimination. I knew you’d become a teacher. I tracked you down to your last school, explained you were applying for a position here and I’d lost your contact details.’
‘But that was before I applied for the job here.’
‘That’s right.’
Something else occurs to me.
‘Did the school mention how I left?’
‘It came up.’
‘So you knew I faked the reference I gave Harry.’
A glint in her eye. ‘I was impressed with your inventiveness.’
I let this sink in. All along, she has been playing me.
‘And the folder?’
‘I collated it. Marcus left it for you – I thought it would attract less attention.’
‘But the text came from Marcus’s phone?’
‘An old one he didn’t use. But then his iPhone was smashed a
nd he needed a spare.’
‘Why? Why go to all this trouble? This pantomime? You didn’t think to just call me? I hear that the post even delivers such things as letters?’
‘Would you have come back if I had just called?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We both know that’s not true.’
Her voice is sharp. And I feel rebuked. Like a child caught in a lie.
‘I learned a lot,’ she continues, ‘working with children all these years. One – never ask anything outright. They will only lie. Two – always make them think it is their idea. And three – make something interesting enough and they will come to you.’
‘You missed out four – never let them light their own farts.’
A small smile. ‘You always used sarcasm as a defence mechanism, even as a boy.’
‘I’m surprised you remember me as a boy.’
‘I remember all my pupils.’
‘Impressive. I can barely remember my last class.’
‘Stephen Hurst – sadistic, amoral but clever. A dangerous combination. Nick Fletcher – not a bright boy, an excess of anger. A pity he couldn’t have found a better way to channel it. Chris Manning – brilliant, damaged, lost. Always searching for something he could never find. And you – the dark horse. Deflecting blows with words. The closest thing Hurst had to a real friend. He needed you, more than you realized.’
I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper.
‘You forgot Marie.’
‘Ah yes – a pretty girl, cleverer than she made out. A girl who knew how to get what she wanted, even back then.’
‘But we’re not children any more.’
‘We’re all still children inside. The same fears, the same joys. We just get taller, and better at hiding things.’
‘You’re pretty good at hiding things yourself.’
‘I didn’t mean to deceive you.’
‘Then what exactly did you mean to do?’
‘Persuade you to return. In which I succeeded.’ She starts to cough, pulls a tissue out of her sleeve and covers her mouth. Once the coughing has subsided, she says: ‘I presume you found out through Marcus.’
I nod. ‘He was worried you’d get into trouble. I promised him you wouldn’t … as long as you told me the truth.’
