The Taking of Annie Thorne

by C. J. Tudor

  36

  I do not believe in fate.

  But sometimes there is an ineluctable quality to life, a course it is difficult to alter.

  It all started here, at the pit. And this, it seems, is where it will end.

  Not quite how I imagined. Not quite how I planned. But then, that’s the problem with plans. They never work out like you think. Mine, it seems, never work out at all.

  We pull up in Hurst’s Range Rover. He hasn’t said a word throughout the short drive. But I can see the dazed look in his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he tries to digest what he’s learned. Tries to comprehend how Marie could have betrayed him. Lied to him.

  I expected anger. But he just looks broken. Diminished. I was wrong about him. I thought Marie was just another trophy, like the house and the car. But Hurst loves her. Always has. And, despite everything, he still wants to save her.

  I spot a yellow Mini parked carelessly by the side of the road. I can’t see Gloria or her car. I’m not sure if this is a concern or a relief.

  We both climb out.

  ‘Where is she?’ Hurst asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I scan the fence with my torch, find the gap I squeezed through before. ‘Come on.’

  I slip through; Hurst follows. I hear him curse. It isn’t just his wallet that is better padded these days.

  ‘About time.’

  I jump. Gloria emerges from the shadows by the fence. Unusually for Gloria, she is wearing a dark coat over her normal pastel hues. Dressed for business.

  I look around. ‘Where’s Marie?’

  ‘In the boot of my car.’

  ‘You bitch,’ Hurst says.

  Gloria turns to him. ‘Stephen Hurst, I presume? Actually, I’m joking. She set off over that hill about twenty minutes ago.’

  I quickly intervene. ‘Gloria, Marie has your money. More than thirty grand. Over seven hundred and fifty. We just need to bring her down.’

  She looks at Hurst. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You said Marie, his wife, has the money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what use is he?’

  ‘Gloria –’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  She moves so fast I barely see the gun. I just hear a pop and suddenly Hurst is writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching his leg. Dark red blood is gushing – actually gushing – from the wound. I drop to my knees beside him. I grasp his arms.

  ‘Jesus!’

  I look around. The road beyond the fence is deserted. No one around. Even the headlights of a passing car wouldn’t illuminate us, here in the shadows.

  ‘Femoral artery,’ Gloria says, lowering the gun, which has a large silencer attached to the end. ‘Even if I apply pressure, he will bleed out in approximately fifteen to twenty minutes.’

  Hurst’s eyes find mine. Gloria grabs my arm and hauls me up. ‘You’re wasting time. Go and get my fucking money.’

  ‘But what about –’

  She presses a finger to my lips. ‘Tick, tock.’

  I scramble up the hill, torch bobbing wildly up and down in front of me. It isn’t a lot of use. I’m guided by gut instinct and fear. I didn’t bring my stick, so I stumble, limp and scrabble up and down the rocky, slippery slopes. My bad leg provides a near-constant accompaniment of pain. My ribs join in on percussion. But another part of me feels disembodied from the whole experience, like I am above myself and watching as a tall, thin man with a smoker’s wheeze and wild black hair staggers around the countryside like a drunken tramp.

  I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all; laugh until I scream. The whole thing feels like some terrible, macabre dream. And yet, I know, deep down, that this is unremittingly real. A waking nightmare that started twenty-five years ago.

  And finishes tonight.

  At the bottom of the hill I see her, sitting cross-legged, at the entrance. A camping light is beside her, a rucksack at her feet. Her head is swathed in a scarf and a hood is pulled up against the chill. She hunches over and for a moment I think she is praying. Then, as she straightens, I see that she is lighting a cigarette.

  I flick off the torch and watch her. But I’m not really seeing her. I’m seeing a fifteen-year-old girl. A girl who was beautiful, clever … and cold. I wonder how I never saw it before, but then a pretty face can blind you to a lot of faults, especially when you are a fifteen-year-old mass of hormones yourself. You don’t care what lies beneath. The darkness. The rotten bones.

  I take a step forward. ‘Marie?’

  She doesn’t turn. ‘I knew it would be you. Always you. Since we were little kids, a thorn in my side.’

  ‘By name, by nature.’

  ‘Go home, Joe.’

  ‘Okay. If you come with me.’

  ‘Nice try.’

  ‘Try this then – if you don’t come with me, a crazy lady is going to kill your husband.’

  ‘Even if I believed you, why should I care? When this is done, Jeremy and I are leaving Hurst and this shithole. For good.’

  ‘You must know that this is insane.’

  ‘It’s my only chance.’

  ‘The clinic in America was your only chance. Did you ever intend to go? Or was it all just a ploy to get the money?’

  Finally, she turns her head towards me. Her face, in the lamp’s illumination, looks frighteningly thin and terrifyingly calm.

  ‘Do you know what the remission rate was – 30 per cent. Just 30 per cent.’

  ‘I’ve bet on worse odds.’

  ‘Did you win?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Thought not. And I don’t want to take that chance. I don’t want to die.’

  ‘We all have to die.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, when you’re not about to.’ She blows out smoke. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like? Closing your eyes every night, wondering if this time will be the last. And some nights you hope it is because you’re scared and in pain. Others, you try to stay awake, to fight it, because you’re so terrified of falling into the darkness.’

  Her eyes find mine. The lamplight gives them a feverish glow.

  ‘Ever thought about death? Really thought about it? No feeling, no sound, no touch. Not existing. For ever.’

  No, I think. Because we all try not to. That’s what living is. Keeping ourselves busy, averting our eyes so we don’t have to stare into the abyss. Because it would drive us insane.

  ‘None of us knows how long we have.’

  ‘I’m not ready.’

  ‘It’s not your call. We don’t get to make the choice.’

  ‘But what if you could? What would you do?’

  ‘Not this.’

  ‘Says you.’ She glances towards the tunnel. ‘We both know what’s down there.’

  ‘Bones,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘That’s what is down there. Bones of long-dead people who didn’t have drugs and chemo and pain relief. Who still believed in God and the devil and miracles. We know better now. It’s not real.’

  ‘Don’t fucking patronize me, Joe. You were there. We all were.’

  ‘Marie, you are ill. You’re not thinking properly. Please. There is nothing down there that can help you. Nothing. Believe me.’

  ‘Fine.’ She stubs out her cigarette and reaches into the rucksack. She takes out a bottle of vodka and a packet of sleeping tablets. ‘If you really believe that, then let me go. I’ll take these and that will be the end of it. At least I get to make the choice.’

  I don’t reply.

  She smiles. ‘You can’t, can you? Because you know. Because of what happened to your sister.’

  ‘My sister was hurt. She got lost. She came back.’

  ‘From where?’

  I swallow the hard lump in my throat. ‘She didn’t die.’

  She laughs. A horrible, brittle sound, devoid of humour or humanity. And a part of me wonders if she was always like this, on the inside. Or if something changed in her
, that night, when we went down there. Maybe something changed in all of us. Maybe guilt and regret weren’t the only things we brought back.

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Her mouth twists: ‘She was dead. No way she survived that blow. I know because –’

  She breaks off. I freeze. Every nerve ending suddenly humming.

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Nothing. It was nothing.’

  But that’s a lie. It’s everything. And suddenly I can see it all again. Annie in a small, crumpled heap. Hurst a short distance away. The crowbar on the ground. Marie clinging to Hurst’s arm. But Marie hadn’t been standing there before. She had moved. She was closer; to me, to Annie.

  ‘It was you,’ I say. ‘You were the one who hit her.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. I panicked. It was an accident.’

  ‘You let Hurst take the blame. He covered for you, protected you.’

  ‘He loves me.’

  And now it all makes sense. Why she stayed. Why they married. He loved her. But he also had something over her. She couldn’t get away from him. And maybe the swimming pool and the bi-fold doors helped. Just a bit.

  ‘Were you really going to leave us down there?’

  ‘I tried to talk him out of it.’

  But that’s not quite true. I remember her placing her hand on his arm. The look that passed between them. I thought she wanted to help us. But now, I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything any more.

  ‘And Chris? I told you where I was meeting him that evening. Did you send Hurst after him? Was that your idea too?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t like that. You know what Hurst was like. I was scared of him.’

  I recall the bruise around her eye. Her right eye. And then I picture Hurst pouring my whisky. Right-handed. Another chunk of the pedestal crumbles.

  ‘He never hit you, did he?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. No, he didn’t. I’d had a scrap with Angie Gordon after school.’

  ‘So you lied about that too.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, it was twenty-five years ago. What happened happened. I can’t change it. I wish I could.’ She glances at the entrance to the cave. ‘Please, Joe. Just let me go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I’ll do anything. I can give you money, whatever you want.’

  ‘Whatever I want?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I think about Hurst bleeding to death in the dirt. I think about the money I owe. I think about Annie’s wide eyes staring out of the window one bright, snowy morning and her small, crumpled body lying on the cave floor.

  I think about the explosives I placed in the cave and the mobile detonator in my pocket. I look at Marie. Hatred burns bright.

  ‘You can tell me something,’ I say.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Where are all the fucking snowmen?’

  She opens her mouth. The side of her head collapses. Bone, blood and brain matter explode into the air and rain down like confetti. Her skull is an open crater, bone torn apart like papier mâché.

  Her eyes barely widen in surprise. It is too sudden for that. There is no moment of reckoning or understanding. One minute she is alive. The next she is dead, folding to the ground in an ungainly pile, like someone pulled the switch. Cut the power. Off.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I spin around.

  Gloria stands behind me, holding the gun.

  ‘You killed her!’

  ‘She wasn’t going to give you anything. I’ve dealt with bitches like her before.’

  ‘Where’s Hurst?’

  ‘Turns out he was a fast bleeder.’

  Hurst. Dead. I try to comprehend this. For years, I thought I wanted him dead. Wished for it, even. But standing here, I don’t feel anything, except sick and tired. And scared. Because now, it’s just me and Gloria.

  ‘You didn’t have to let him die –’

  ‘Afraid I did. But look on the bright side. I have two extra bodies to dispose of, so I really don’t have time to kill you slowly.’ She points the gun at me. ‘Any last words?’

  ‘Don’t shoot me?’

  ‘I wish.’

  There’s no point begging. Not with Gloria. I could try. I could tell her that I am a teacher. Teachers do not get shot. We’re not that interesting. We die slowly, several years after people presume we’re already dead. I could tell her I have another plan. I could tell her I want to run away with her. I could tell her I’m not ready. It won’t make any difference.

  I shut my eyes.

  The gun cocks. ‘Hope you’re wearing your boogie shoes.’

  I close my hand around the mobile handset … and press Call.

  Not a rumble this time. A roar. It bellows up from the earth and shakes the ground I’m standing on. I open my eyes. I see Gloria stumble, the gun waver. Have I got time to run, charge her? She looks back up. The gun steadies. Her finger tightens on the trigger …

  No reprieve. No last-minute escape. No second chance.

  Gloria drops through the ground.

  Like a rabbit down a hole, a penny down a well. Not even a scream. Gone. Vanished. I stare in shock at the spot where she was standing; at the sink hole that has just opened in the earth.

  I limp over. I can just see a glimmer of pink, a strand of blonde hair. The ground shakes again. Soil and grass start to fall away beneath the toes of my trainers. I stagger backwards. Just in time, as the sides of the hole fold in and more gravel, earth and rocks pile on top of her body.

  I peer into the deep chasm, feeling dazed and sick. My vision falters. Something warm trickles down my cheek, past my ear. My head hurts. I raise a hand to touch it. The area above my eye feels sticky and strangely soft. I don’t have time to dwell on it. There’s another growl from below. A warning. I need to get out of here before I join Gloria. Down there. In the darkness. Among the bones of the dead.

  And other things.

  It seems to take a long time to make my way back. My balance is off. I stagger and sway over the inclines and descents. Several times I fall. There’s a ringing in my left ear and one eye doesn’t want to focus properly. This isn’t good. Not good at all.

  I’m almost at the old colliery gates when I feel the final aftershock rumble through the ground. I stop and glance back. Black smoke mingles with the charcoal sky.

  Something falls on my face. It feels like flakes of snow. It takes me a moment to realize that the flakes are black, not white. Flakes of coal. I stand for a second or two and let them fall around me.

  And then I sit down. This is not a conscious decision. My legs simply give way, like the instructions from my brain have stopped working. Clocked off for the night. Maybe for good. I’m tired. My left eye is clouded with red. It occurs to me that I might not get up again. I don’t care.

  I lie back on the stony ground. I stare up at the sky, but it feels like I’m staring down, into a deep black hole. The darkness tugs at me.

  Someone grabs my arm …

  37

  Two Weeks Later

  ‘I’m not big on emotional goodbyes.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Should we hug?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  Beth gives me a look. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘You know what people say about hugs?’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just an excuse to hide your face.’

  ‘Well, for some people, that’s probably a good thing.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Missed your chance.’

  ‘I’ll get over it.’

  ‘And I thought you were drowning your sorrows.’

  Beth raises her glass towards me. ‘Cheers.’

  I click my Coke against her pint.

  ‘And don’t think, just because you are pissing off and leaving me to deal with the fall-out, that I am buying all night,’ s
he says.

  ‘By “the fall-out”, I presume you mean your new position as deputy head?’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know – tomayto, tomahto.’

  ‘Tomahto.’

  She gives me the finger.

  Harry resigned a few days ago, along with Simon Saunders. I can’t be sure, but I think it probably has something to do with some emails the police found on Stephen Hurst’s computer that showed evidence of bribery and corruption. Undue influence upon Harry and payments to Simon Saunders in exchange for doctoring his son’s course work. All very unfortunate.

  Miss Hardy (Susan, history) has taken the role of acting head and she has appointed Beth as her deputy. I think they will make a good team. In fact, if I were an optimist I might go even further and say that I think they could really turn Arnhill Academy around, especially as it looks likely that one of its major problems – Jeremy Hurst – will not be returning.

  Currently, he is living with foster carers and being counselled by a psychiatrist. He is in shock after the sudden, violent deaths of his parents. I would like to say that I feel sorry for Jeremy. But then I remember Benjamin Morton.

  I’ll never know for certain, but I believe Jeremy took him to the cave. Maybe a joke, maybe an ‘initiation’. Whatever. Something happened to Ben down there. Something bad. And maybe he wasn’t the first. I think about Beth’s niece, Emily. Another child who changed. Another life cut tragically short.

  And Jeremy didn’t tell anyone. Except, maybe, his mother.

  Hurst’s and Marie’s bodies were found on the old colliery site. Police are still investigating the circumstances of their deaths. Hurst had some questionable associates and more than his fair share of enemies, not to mention a holdall containing a bloodstained crowbar in his boot, so getting to the bottom of it all may take some time. I have a feeling, without any further information, they may never really solve this one.

  The sink hole is due to be filled in very soon. The country-park scheme is under review. Houses will never be built on the land. No council would ever approve it.

  The police came to talk to me, of course. PC Taylor and another, large – very large – sergeant, DC Gary Barnes. They could place me in Hurst’s car, which I admitted – I told them he had given me a lift home one night. However, once that had been ticked off, the questions seemed perfunctory.