Hide and Seek
‘They
played the game two or three days a week without fail. Never the
mother, just him and the two kids; the boy and the girl.’ The old
man snorted, spat to the side. ‘There was one time, mind, I
remember not seeing them for a while. The boy cut his hand on a
broken bottle. Scre amed so loud that the girl started crying too.
After that it was a couple of weeks before they came back, then every
few days without fail… until recently, of course.’
Standing,
legs apart, on an old tyre, James looked out across the field - a
maze of paths and patches of flattened grass, the houses in the
distance divorced from it by tall fences. He hunched his shoulders.
‘Dunno much about it mister.’
‘Best
that way. Nowt you can do.’
‘So…’
James paused a second. ‘Do you know then?’
The
old man shrugged.
‘Were
ye here?’
‘Not
on the day I wasn’t, naw, but plenty others I was. Often met them
when I was out with the dog. The bairns didn’t like it - the dog -
gave away their hiding places. Still, sometimes I wonder what
would’ve happened if I had been out that day, you know, it was the
time the dad took to find them in the end.’ The old man waited, as
if expecting a response from James. After a few seconds he went on:
‘He didn’t know the area, see, that’s another thing I could’ve
done to help. I grew up here. There’s not a single hiding place I
don’t know about. I practically invented them…’ He sighed and
scratched the end of his nose. ‘Similar thing happened a few years
back.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye,
a little boy went missing.’ The old man glanced James up and down.
‘How old are you?’
James
puffed his chest out and straightened his back. ‘Twelve and a
half.’
The
old man gazed a little longer at James, then nodded and set off along
the dirt trail, leading to the colliery, girding the heath. James
hesitated a moment then leapt off the tyre and followed.
Tracks
from heavy vehicles were baked into the trail. James balanced along
the peaks, his arms out to the sides, leaping over the dips and
dwindling puddles, that the earth drank slowly through its cracked
lips. The road was flanked on one side by dying trees and bushes:
rubbish for hiding behind, thought James, watching the old man’s
dog weaving through them. He took a run and jump at a large puddle,
catching the edge with his heels - a shock of water rising in his
wake - then ran to get alongside the old man. They walked in silence
for a bit, then James spoke: ‘What d’ you think happened?’
‘What
do I think happened?’ The old man hawked up some phlegm and spat it
out in front of him. He frowned at it for an instant before speaking.
‘The day started same as usual: the bairns running into the grass
till it rose above their waists, yelling for the dad to close his
eyes, count to fifty. He counted quietly at first, louder as he got
toward fifty, slurring the numbers to make his voice sound bored. But
at fifty he didn’t go, not straight away. He stood and waited,
rolling himself a cigarette, calling out “I know you’re in
there”, things like that, then walking off in the wrong direction,
or stepping straight past one of their hiding places, looking away,
pretending not to see, just to drag out time, build anticipation.’
‘Then
what happened?’
The
old man splayed his hands to the sides. ‘He found them.’
‘I
thought ye said he didn’t,’ scowled James.
‘The
first few times he did.’
‘Then
what happened?’ he said impatiently.
‘It
began as usual. The bairns telling the dad to close his eyes, turn
around, count to sixty.’
‘Fifty.’
‘Eh?’
‘Ye
said fifty before.’
The
old guy shrugged. ‘Fifty, sixty… do you want to hear the rest or
not?’
James
nodded.
‘The
dad closed his eyes and counted to fifty,
but this time something was different and he counted quickly, then
waded straight into the grass, eager to find them.’
‘How
do ye know he counted to fifty if you weren’t there?’
‘It’s
the rules,’ the old man stated, stepping to the edge of the field.
‘It’ll be easier if I show you.’
‘Can’t
ye just tell us?’
‘It’s
only a short walk,’ the old man said. ‘You want to know what
happened, aye?
James
gestured that he did. The old man smiled, lifted his hand, and
beckoned him over.
The
grass rose up above their waists - almost chest high on James. In the
centre of the land the old man stopped and looked around, shielding
his eyes from the sunlight. He shook his head and mumbled something
to himself, then took a few steps and searched again. He sniffed and
wiped his hand across his nose, it flattened against his face as
though it was rubber.
‘The
dad stopped about here to get a good view of the area, then cupped
his hands to his mouth. “I give up, you’re too good,” he
shouted. Something moved. The bairns! He smiled, relieved, ducked
into the cover of the grass, and crept slowly towards them.’
With
difficulty the old guy squatted onto his haunches, placing his
fingertips against the ground for balance. James eyeballed the thick
white hair spiralling into his scalp. The old man waved that he
should get down also. He stooped and bent slightly at the knees.
They
moved through the field, the yellowish green blades whipping into
James as his guide moved beyond them.
Suddenly
the old man stopped, James just managing to avoid a collision.
‘It
was a good one, much deeper than usual. When he got close enough the
dad burst out the grass and rushed toward the bairns, shouting and
holding his hands out, ready to grab them.’ He took a deep breath,
then screamed and jerked upright. He jogged forward, his hands in the
air, fingers crooked. James’s mouth hung open as though the
terrible cry was gargling up from his own throat. Ten of so feet
away, the old man doubled over, resting his hands on his knees. His
ruddy cheeks pumped in and out, saliva clinging to his lips. ‘But
they weren’t there,’ he wheezed, pausing to take a few breaths.
‘Just an old T-shirt tangled in the grass.’
A
few moments passed. James went over to the man. ‘Did ye have to
scream like that?’
‘He
did.’
‘How
d’ ye know he did?’
The
old man rubbed the small of his back and straightened up, sucking
through his lips as he did so. He clapped off the dried grass
embedded in his palms, then took a tobacco pouch from his jacket
pocket and began rolling a cigarette. His hands were shaking. Shreds
of tobacco jumped to the ground. The old man glanced at James, then
dropped his gaze back to the tobacco. He licked across the gummed
edge of the paper, then ran his fingers over to seal it. ‘Paul!
Sarah!’ he shouted. ‘Come out where I can see you now!’
‘Who’s
Paul and Sarah?’
The
old man shrugged. He picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue, then
lit the cigarette and inhaled.
‘I’ve
got to go,’ said James.
‘But
we’ve nearly found them.’
‘There’s
no one to find.’
‘There’s
always someone to find.’
James
tutted and made to leave but before he could do so the old man darted
forward and seized him by the arm. James tried to prise away the
fingers. The grip was strong and got stronger the more he attempted
to loosen it. Effortlessly seizing the other arm, the old man yanked
James up close. ‘Fifty’s the count,’ he whispered, then let go
and turned his back.
James
stood motionless for one through to three. Upon four he ran.
