The Hiding Place(6)

I pick up Annie’s doll and sit her on top of the chest of drawers, where she can regard me with her lopsided gaze every day and every night.


—



For the rest of the afternoon and evening I potter, trying to warm up. My leg bothers me if I sit still for too long. The cold and damp in the cottage aren’t helping. The radiators don’t seem to be working too well—probably air in the system somewhere.

There’s a wood-burning stove in the living room but an extensive search of the cottage and the small shed outside doesn’t reveal any logs or kindling. However, it does reveal an old electric heater in one closet. I switch it on, the bars crispy-fry a thick layer of dust and the air fills with the smell of burning. Still, it should throw out a decent amount of heat, if it doesn’t electrocute me first.

Despite the vague dilapidation I can tell this was probably a cozy family home once. The bathroom and kitchen are tired but clean. The garden out back is long and football-friendly, fringed by open countryside. A nice, comfortable, safe place for a young boy to grow up. Except he never did.

I don’t believe in ghosts. My nan was fond of telling me, “It’s not the dead you need to be scared of, love. It’s the living.” She was almost right. But I do believe you can still feel the echoes of bad things. They imprint on the fabric of our reality, like a footprint in concrete. Whatever made the impression is long gone, but you can never erase the mark it left.

Perhaps that’s why I haven’t gone into his room yet. I feel okay about living in the cottage, but the cottage does not necessarily feel okay. How could it? A terrible thing happened within its walls, and buildings remember.


—



I haven’t gone shopping for food, but I’m not hungry. Once the clock slips past seven I open a bottle of bourbon and pour a quadruple. I can’t use my laptop because I haven’t sorted out an Internet connection yet. For now, there’s not much to do but to sit and adjust to my new surroundings, trying to ignore the ache in my leg and the faint, familiar itch in my gut. I take the pack of cards out and place it on the coffee table, but I don’t open it. That’s not what the pack is for. Instead, I listen to some music on my phone while reading a much-hyped thriller that I’ve already guessed the ending of. Then I stand at the back door and smoke a cigarette, staring out at the overgrown garden.

The sky is darker than a pit hole in hell, not a single star piercing the blackness. I’d forgotten what countryside dark is like. Too long living in the city. It never gets properly dark in the city, nor this quiet. The only sounds are my own exhalations and the crinkling of the cigarette filter.

I wonder, again, why I really came back. Yes, Arnhill is isolated, a half-forgotten dot on the map. But abroad would have been safer. Thousands of miles between me, my debts and people who do not take a losing streak kindly. Not when you can’t pay.

I could have changed my name, maybe got a job bartending in some shack on a beach. Sipping margaritas at sundown. But I chose here. Or perhaps, here chose me.

I don’t really believe in fate. But I do believe certain things are hardwired into our genes. We’re programmed to act and react in a certain way, and that’s what shapes our lives. We’re incapable of changing it, just like our eye color or propensity to freckle in the sun.

Or perhaps that is just so much bullshit and a handy excuse to avoid taking responsibility for my own actions. The fact is, I was always going to come back one day. The email just made the decision easier.

It arrived in my inbox almost two months ago. Surprising, really, that it didn’t get shunted straight into junk.


Sender: [email protected]

Subject: Annie

I almost deleted it immediately. I’d never heard of the sender. It was probably a troll, someone playing a sick joke. There are some subjects that should remain closed. No good can ever come of opening them. The only sensible thing to do was to delete the message, empty the trash and forget I ever saw it.

That decided, I clicked Open:


I know what happened to your sister. It’s happening again.





3





Parents shouldn’t have favorites. Another stupid thing people say. Of course parents have favorites. It’s human nature. Right back to the time when not all your young would survive. You favored the stronger chick. No point getting attached to the one who might not make it. And let’s face it, some children are just easier to love.

Annie was our parents’ favorite. It was understandable. She was born when I was seven. My cute-toddler phase was long behind me. I had grown into a serious, skinny little boy with permanently scabbed knees and dirty shorts. I didn’t look sweet anymore. I didn’t even make up for it by enjoying a kick-about with a football in the park or wanting to go and watch a match with my dad. I’d rather stay in and read comics or play computer games.

This disappointed my dad and annoyed my mum. “Get outside and get some bloody fresh air,” she’d scowl at me. Even at seven I felt fresh air was overrated, but I would reluctantly oblige and inevitably end up falling over or into or onto something, come home filthy and get yelled at all over again.

No wonder my parents hankered for another child: a sweet little girl they could dress in pink and lace and cuddle without her frowning and squirming away.

I didn’t realize back then that my parents had been trying for another baby for a while. A little brother or sister for me. Like it was some sort of special gift or favor they were bestowing. I wasn’t too sure I needed a brother or sister. My parents already had me. Another child seemed, in my opinion, surplus to requirements.