Dark Corners

I approached the bar and waited for the barman, who had his back to me doing something in the till. As I waited, I could hear rain start to hit the window to my right. At first it was light, gentle, but soon picked up to become a full winter deluge. It made me feel colder. On a night like this, there was nothing better than a warm whiskey and a log fire. The drink wouldn’t be an issue. But the fireplace that sat in the middle of the pub looked like it hadn’t been lit in a very long time. I half expected there to be weeds cracking thought the flue, much like the car park of the social club.

The barman, his back still to me, asked what I wanted, and before I could see his face, I knew who it was – to my horror, it was Jamie’s dad. His ‘forty a day’ voice was unmistakable. I wanted to turn and leave but was frozen to the spot and, as our eyes met, there was a hint of recognition from him behind his tired, sleep-deprived expression. It quickly faded. I collected myself and ordered a whiskey and Diet Coke and he nodded. As he made my drink, I watched him. His movements were slow, deliberate, like it was taking all of his effort to complete the task, a sloth moving along the thick branch of a tree. I couldn’t begin to understand how he must have been feeling. But wondered, why wasn’t he out looking for his son? Then I thought about it. Where else would he be? Jamie had been missing for four days. He obviously wasn’t close by, and if I was his father, I’d want to be somewhere Jamie could find him when he decided to come home. I almost offered a kind word. I didn’t. Instead, I thanked him for my drink, and sat beside the fireplace.

If anything it was colder in front of it as the wind whipped down the chimney breast. But the chill didn’t last long, as the warmth of my drink soon spread through me. I took off my damp coat and slung it over the back of the Chesterfield chair to dry before walking back to the bar and ordering another from Jamie’s dad. Seated again I held it in both hands, like a child with a plastic cup and I looked into the fireplace trying to picture a log burning and the sound it would make as heat cracked the wood. When I was younger, we would sometimes sit in the pub whilst Jamie worked, mocking him in his green polo neck T-shirt with ‘The Miners’ Arms’ embroidered on it. We would laugh and tease as he cleaned tables and washed pint glasses. It was always harmless, and he would often join in. A fire was always on back then. The pub was always warm. Now, it felt so cold I wasn’t sure if the seatback I leant against was damp.

Outside the rain persisted, heavy droplets thrumming against the window with such violence I waited for the glass to crack. The whiskey in my stomach buried the sick feeling I’d had all day, replacing it with a burning that I knew I’d regret tomorrow. But that was then, this was now, and I was beginning to feel less terrified. I drank it quickly and got up to ask for another. Just one more that I would sip as I prepared myself to see Dad. In that time, I hoped the rain would ease. As I approached the bar, Jamie’s dad stopped busying himself and watched me.

‘May I have another?’ I asked quietly, almost like I was the 16-year-old girl I once was, trying her luck at the bar.

‘I’ll make you a double,’ he replied, eyeing me once more with a curious look. ‘Save you coming back so fast.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, embarrassed.

He turned to face the optics and poured two measures. The whole time, he kept an eye on me in the mirror that sat behind the counter.

‘You’re not local,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.

‘No, I guess I’m not.’

‘But you were once, am I right?’

‘Do you recognise me?’

‘I recognise your accent.’

‘Oh.’

‘I guess the question is, should I recognise you?’ he asked as he turned towards me and handed me my drink.

I swallowed hard, unsure of how he would react.

‘I’m Neve Chambers, I was once… umm, friends with Jamie.’

I waited for his gaze to harden, and his tone to either become angry or cold. But the opposite happened, and a sad smile came over his face.

‘It’s been a long time.’

‘It has,’ I said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I’m really sorry for what’s been going on.’

‘Thank you, so am I.’

He poured a double vodka for himself and raised his glass.

‘To Jamie coming home.’

‘To Jamie coming home,’ I echoed, my voice catching in my throat.

‘So, what brings you back here?’

‘I wanted to help, if you’ll allow me to.’

‘Of course, I’m very grateful you’ve taken the time.’

‘I thought you would be upset at me wanting to be here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what happened when Chloe…’ I didn’t finish my sentence.

‘That was a very long time ago,’ he said quietly.

‘Feels like yesterday.’

‘Maybe. But it was a different life. How did you find out about Jamie?’

‘Holly connected with me.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled.

There was an uncomfortable silence for the briefest of moments, and I felt his eye appraising me, either in silent judgement or wanting to ask the questions I supposed most people in this village wanted answers to, seeing as I was the last person to speak to Chloe before she vanished. He must have sensed my paranoia, and changed the subject.

‘Are you staying with your father?’

‘Yes,’ I answered too quickly.

‘Tell him Derrick says hello. I’ve not seen your old man in a very long time.’

‘I didn’t know your name; you’ve always been Jamie’s dad,’ I said smiling.

‘Well, that’s my name too, my more important one,’ he replied, a sad smile lifting on the right side of his face once more. ‘He speaks of you often. Jamie, I mean.’

‘He does?’

‘He said you had a business in London?’

‘A café, yes.’

‘He’s really proud of you.’

‘He was? I mean is. Sorry.’ I couldn’t believe I slipped up, speaking of Jamie in the past tense. This place and its ghosts had already begun seeping into my marrow.

‘Yes.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He works here with me still, looks after the place more often than not. It’s not much, but it’s ours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about your café.’

‘Well, it’s not much, but it’s mine,’ I smiled, one he returned.

‘I think my son never quite let go of you in his heart.’

I was taken aback to know Jamie had kept me in his mind. It was quickly followed by the crushing guilt that I hadn’t reciprocated. I buried everything I could about the village, even those I once loved. I finished my drink and without needing to ask, Derrick turned and poured us both another. We raised our glasses again, this time without words, and drank silently. I wanted to ask how Jamie was before he vanished, if he was happy. What his life had been like in the past twenty years. I wanted to say that a part of my heart still belonged to him, my first love. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went to pay for my drinks, and he told me they were on the house.

‘If I can do anything…’

‘I’ll be fine, thank you, Neve.’

Nodding, I walked back to the chair and picked up my coat. Putting it on, I gave Derrick a smile and headed for the door. I looked over my shoulder, but Derrick had already turned his back to me, working away at cleaning glasses that looked unused. And in the furthest corner, around the side of the bar where the old pool table sat, was a man wearing a flat cap. The peak obscured his face from me, and I couldn’t tell if he was looking down at his pint, which was in his hands, or if he was looking directly at me. I didn’t wait to find out. Yet another shiver ran up my spine. Pretending I hadn’t noticed him, I turned and left.

Chapter 13

22nd November 2019

Night

As soon as the cold air hit me, the alcohol that had lain warm and dormant in my stomach sprang to life, making me feel unsteady on my feet. Regardless, I thought if I got out of the rain and back into my hire car, I could still make the mile’s drive to my dad’s house. Reaching the driver’s door, I dug into my bag to find the key, cursing myself for not doing so when I was in the dry pub. Eventually, after several rummages, a handful of swear words and one large bead of ice-cold water that escaped my mane of hair and had run down my neck, I found it. As I pulled it out, it slipped from my hand and landed by my feet. I stooped to pick it up, the image no doubt comparable to an elderly lady trying to fit a shoe, and as I stood up again, I hit my head on the wing mirror hard enough to knock it out of its casing and send a white flash across my eyes. I tried to focus so I could pop the wing mirror back in, but as I attempted to fix it, the whole thing came off in my hands.

Perhaps it was the fact it was raining, or that I was drunk again, or maybe it was being back in the village where Chloe vanished from, but I burst into tears, clutching the broken wing mirror to my chest like it was a teddy. That was how the car that approached from behind, its main beam on, found me. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, which was pointless as I was now soaked through. I felt the car slow as it drew close to me, and I wanted to look, but didn’t. Keeping my head low, I opened the Corsa’s door, dropped the wing mirror on the driver’s seat and closed it again. It wasn’t a good idea to drive; I couldn’t even get into the bloody thing without damaging it.

Stumbling to the back of the car I unlocked the boot, and watched the car pass out of the corner of my eye. I took out my bag, pulled my coat collar as high as it would go, and started to walk. I should have turned right towards Dad’s, but I turned left instead and kept walking. I thought about how I used to spend the evening in or around the pub, waiting for Jamie to finish working. I thought about the two occasions when I waited on my own, before we walked hand in hand in the direction I was now heading. The ground beneath my feet was the path we had walked on twenty-one years before as a couple, before going to the place where we would spend the evening making out. My mind began to drift to one night in particular, where, after meeting near the hut, we snuck into Jamie’s bedroom above the pub via the fire-exit stairs. But as I tried to recall what happened next, I was stopped by the realisation that the boy who was my first love was now missing.

Pushing the thought down, I pressed on, and after a few minutes I stood at the mouth of the lane but the darkness made it impossible to see much. However, I knew, down that lane, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was a brick building that was once ours. A part of me, the curious part, wanted to continue walking down the lane, which felt smaller, narrower than it did back when I was young. I began but stopped after only a few paces. When we were young, all of the lights that lined the path were broken, the power disconnected, but now, far in the distance, one burnt. I guessed that was because of Chloe. A familiar and long-forgotten shudder ran up my spine. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but still I felt spooked and turned to walk away. As I did, something caught the edge of my peripheral vision, a shadow moving quickly through the light cast by the only streetlamp. I spun quickly, almost losing my footing, but I couldn’t see anyone.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounded small, the dark night swallowing it whole. I started walking backwards, uneasy on my feet, and didn’t breathe until I was on the main road. As I moved in the direction of the pub, I convinced myself it was nothing, my mind playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was no one there, no shadow, no person, and certainly no ghosts. I needed to get back to Dad’s, sleep off the booze and tomorrow, I would show my face, and then, go home. There was a reason I didn’t live here anymore, and I felt stupid for thinking that it would be all right, that I would be all right if I came back.

I walked past the pub again, past the hire car that sat lonely out front. After a few minutes I drew level with Chloe’s old house. It was quiet, dark. All of the curtains were drawn. Were it not for a small light on somewhere upstairs, I would think the house was empty. I kept my head down, walked on. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I didn’t know if Chloe’s mum Brenda still lived there, but I wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Up ahead, two lights from a car shone, again, the main beam on – I slowed and shielded my eyes as it passed; the driver was looking towards me. Turning, I watched their taillights as they drove past the pub and out of the village, my gut telling me that although I couldn’t place them, they had recognised me.

I knew I should have gone back to Dad’s and got the awkward moment of saying hello over and done with, but I wasn’t quite ready. There was another place in this village I needed to visit first. Somewhere important. Somewhere I had never been before. Chloe’s grave. The cemetery was a short distance behind Chloe’s house. I remembered, when we were young, when her mother worked evenings, we would look out of her mum’s bedroom window across the gravestones, talking of ghosts walking among them.

With Chloe’s house far enough behind me, I turned and doubled back on myself. Climbing a gate, I began to search for her stone, ashamed that I didn’t know where my childhood best friend had been laid to rest. Eventually, right in the middle of the cemetery, I came across it.

CHLOE LAMBERT

1982-1998

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.

I stood silently, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at the slab of granite in front of me. I expected I would feel something: sadness, regret, even fear. But there was nothing. And I didn’t know why.

Behind me I heard a noise, a cough, and turning quickly, I could make out a person in the cemetery, near the gate I’d climbed over, but I couldn’t make out any details. For a brief moment I thought it was him, the man from our past. They coughed again, and I heard it wasn’t a him at all – it was a woman. She approached and, when she was close enough to see her features, I knew exactly who it was.

Chapter 14

22nd November 2019

Night

‘I heard you were back,’ she said, her voice deep and harsh.

Hearing her voice again after so long made me want to shiver. News travelled fast; it had to have been Derrick. Or maybe Dad expressed more interest than I thought. ‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.

‘Because Jamie has gone missing?’

‘Yes.’

Reaching in her pocket, she took out and lit a cigarette. ‘Want one?’

‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke.’

There was nothing in the way I replied that was funny, but she smiled at me, like she knew something I didn’t.

‘How are you, Brenda?’ I asked, filling the unbearable silence. When we were young, Brenda terrified me. It seemed time didn’t change everything.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said, taking a drag on her cigarette, the glowing tip intensifying, throwing ugly angles on her face. ‘Come to say hello to my daughter?’

‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.

‘It’s a bit weird you’re here in the middle of the night, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so, I’ve just got back. Wanted to pay my respects.’

‘Pay your respects.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s nice,’ she said abrasively, taking another drag on her cigarette, her eyes catching in the glow. Eyes that were hard, unblinking. ‘And then are you going to see your father or run away again?’

I didn’t like her tone, but she intimidated me, so I didn’t challenge it. ‘Yes, I’m staying with Dad for the night.’

‘That surprises me, you’re just like your mother.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘We don’t abandon our own, Neve,’ she said, her eyes steely. She waited for me to reply, but the words caught in my throat. Smiling, she took another drag on her cigarette, looking from me to Chloe’s grave before exhaling. ‘I often come here at night. It’s more peaceful. I get to talk to my daughter without any interruptions.’

‘Interruptions?’ I asked, regretting it instantly.

‘I know some folk here think I had something to do with her disappearance.’ She smiled, bitterly. Taking one more drag she stubbed it out on the top of Chloe’s grave. I recoiled in shock.

‘Well, it’s not like she’s actually buried here, is it, Neve? I’ll leave you to pay your respects,’ she said, turning and walking away.

I watched her scramble over the gate and head back towards the main road. Only once she was out of sight did I let out the breath I had been holding. I didn’t want to be here anymore, so without speaking to Chloe, I walked away. My eye kept being drawn to the window in the row of houses that I knew was Brenda’s bedroom. It was dark, but for a moment, I thought I saw a curtain move, like someone was peering from behind it. It was impossible, there was no way Brenda had managed to get back that quickly. This place… it was already doing funny things to me.

I climbed the fence, almost breaking into a jog as I headed further away from Chloe’s house, the pub, the mine behind them all. After what felt like the longest time, I was standing at the bottom of Forest Road. Up the steep hill, beyond where my eye could see, was Dad’s house. I’d not walked up this hill for over twenty years, the two visits since my childhood I brought a car both times, quickly in, quickly out. When I was a teenager the walk made my calves ache, but it was now so hard I needed to stop on three occasions to ease the burn in my muscles. With laboured breathing I eventually made it to the top of the approach to Dad’s door. Hesitating before stepping onto the front path, I looked at my watch, my eyes struggling to focus on the hands. It was only just after ten thirty, and yet the house was dark. I gingerly made my way to the door, after taking a deep breath.

I rang the doorbell and waited. No lights came on, no movement within, and for a while I thought he was out. But, through a gap in the living-room curtain I could make out the eerie glow of a television screen. Pressing my nose into the glass I cupped my hands and could just about make out the shape of his arm on the chair in front of the TV. I knocked on the window, but he didn’t respond. I knocked louder, longer, and still nothing. A wave of heat flooded into my face – the same feeling I’d had once many, many years ago – and I rushed back to the front door, kicking over a potted plant beside it. I slammed the knocker down three times, loud enough to wake the neighbours, and still nothing. Grabbing the door handle, I turned it, I expecting it to be locked; Dad was a real stickler for locking and bolting the front door like he was sure we would be burgled if he didn’t. To my surprise, it opened, and I knew something was wrong.

I held my breath and moved towards the lounge. From the doorway I could just see the top of his bald head above the high-backed chair he sat in. I listened but I couldn’t hear him breathing. My hands began to shake, and I forced myself to exhale the breath I’d held at the front door, forced myself to take in another. Stepping around the chair I looked at him, his face longer than the last time I saw him, his skin ashen. I shook his shoulder gently and jumped when he sat bolt upright.

‘What, what is it?’ he slurred, getting to his feet and looking around at everything but me stood in front of him.

‘Dad, it’s me,’ I said, startled but relieved.

‘What time is it?’ he said, squinting towards a wall where we once had a clock that was no longer there.

‘It’s late, Dad.’

He looked at me then, and I didn’t see any happiness in his eyes. I hoped he would be delighted his little girl was home. But there was nothing.

‘You woke me.’

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘Well, make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, sounding formal, unsure of how else to behave.

‘Good, good.’

He hesitated, and for a moment, we looked at each other like strangers. I wanted to know what he was thinking, as if I weren’t vulnerable enough already.

‘I’ve had a long drive, and I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna go up.’

‘Yes, it’s late. You should get some sleep.’

‘Shall I sleep in my old room?’

‘Yes, your room is your room.’

‘OK, I’ll see you in the morning?’

‘Yes. In the morning.’

‘Night, Dad.’

‘Bye, Neve.’

I hoped he would get up and hug me, stroke my arm, even ask for a bloody high five. But nothing. I headed for the stairs, taking my time as I ascended. In my peripheral vision, I watched him slump back into his armchair, like I wasn’t even there. When I reach the top, I flicked on a light, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed, nothing in twenty years. The wallpaper was the same, as were the light shades and doors. I could see into the bathroom; the loo and sink were still the same olive green that was all the rage in the Eighties.

I opened the door to the room that was once mine. The single bed was still tucked up against the wall furthest away from the window, on it an old suitcase and a few boxes. Dad had forgotten I was coming. Or he didn’t care. Likely both. The wardrobe still had the corners of posters that had remained stuck with sellotape long after the rest had been torn down, and through the window, the headstocks of the mine looked in. The wheels atop it once spun 24/7 looked like two beady eyes, always watching. I dragged the case and one of the boxes from the bed. The other box was too heavy for me to move on my own, not without creating a deafening bang when I dropped it on the floor. I pushed it against the wall and lay down, curling my body around it like I used to with Oliver when he slept with his back to me. I wanted nothing more than for the alcohol that made the room spin to take me into a booze-infused sleep. But it didn’t and laying there, wrapped around a huge box, I thought of Oliver, of Dad, of Jamie. I thought of Chloe. Turning to face the window I listened to the rain that had started back up, lash against the glass, while the eyes of the headstocks looked in.

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