Chapter 1   Never go back. That's what people always tell you. Things will have changed. They won't be the way you remembered. Leave the past in the past. Of course, the last one is easier said than done. The past has a habit of repeating on you. Like bad curry. I don't want to go back. Really. There are several things higher up on my wish list, like being eaten alive by rats, or line dancing. This is how badly I don't want to see the craphole I grew up in ever again. But sometimes, there is no choice except the wrong choice. That's why I find myself driving along a winding road, through the North Nottinghamshire countryside, at barely seven o'clock in the morning. I haven't seen this road for a long time. Come to think of it, I haven't seen 7 a.m. for a long time. The road is quiet. Only a couple of cars overtake me, one blaring its horn (no doubt the driver indicating that I am impeding his Lewis Hamilton-esque progress to whatever shitty job he simply must get to a few minutes sooner). To be fair to him, I do drive slowly. Nose to the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel with white, peaked knuckles slowly. I don't like driving. I try not to whenever possible. I walk or take buses, or trains for longer journeys. Unfortunately, Arnhill is not on any main bus routes and the nearest train station is twelve miles  away. Driving is the only real option. Again, sometimes you have no choice. I signal and turn off the main road onto a series of even narrower, more treacherous country lanes. Fields of turgid brown and dirty green sprawl out on either side, pigs snuffle the air from rusted corru­gated huts, in between tumbledown copses of silver birch. Sherwood Forest, or what remains of it. The only places you're likely to find Robin Hood and Little John these days are on badly painted signs above run-down pubs. The men inside are usually more than merry and the only thing they'll rob you of is your teeth, if you look at them the wrong way. It is not necessarily grim up north. Nottinghamshire is not even that far north--unless you have never left the hellish embrace of the M25--but it is somehow colorless, flat, sapped of the vitality you would expect from the countryside. Like the mines that were once so prevalent here have somehow scooped the life out of the place from within. Finally, a long time since I've seen anything resembling civiliza­tion, or even a McDonald's, I pass a crooked and weathered sign on my left: Arnhill Welcomes You. Underneath, some eloquent little shit has added: To Get Fucked. Arnhill is not a welcoming village. It is bitter and brooding and sour. It keeps to itself and views visitors with distrust. It is stoic and steadfast and weary all at the same time. It is the sort of village that glowers at you when you arrive and spits on the ground in disgust as you leave. Apart from a couple of farmhouses and older stone cottages on the outskirts, Arnhill is not quaint or picturesque. Even though the pit closed for good almost thirty years ago, its legacy still runs through the place like the ore through the earth. There are no thatched roofs or hanging baskets. The only things hanging outside the houses here are lines of washing and the occasional St. George's flag. Rows of uniform sooty-bricked terraces squat along a main road, along with one dilapidated pub: the Running Fox. There used to be two more--the Arnhill Arms and the Bull--but they shut down a long time ago. Back in the day (my day), the landlord of the Fox--Gypsy--would turn a blind eye to some of us older kids drinking in there. I still remember throwing up three pints of Snakebite, and what felt like most of my guts, in the filthy toilets, only to emerge to find him standing there with a mop and bucket. Next door, the Wandering Dragon fish-and-chips is similarly un­touched by progress, fresh paint or--I'm willing to bet--a new menu. One glitch in my total recall: the small corner shop where we used to buy bags of penny candy and Wham bars has gone. A Sainsbury's Local stands in its place. I suppose not even Arnhill is completely immune to the march of progress. Except for that, my worst fears are confirmed. Nothing has changed. The place is, unfortunately, exactly as I remember it. I drive further along the high street, past the run-down children's play area and small village green. A statue of a miner stands in the center. A memorial to the pit workers killed in the Arnhill Colliery Disaster of 1949. Past the village's highlights, up a small hill, I see the gates to the school. Arnhill Academy, as it is called now. The buildings have been given fresh cladding, the aging English block, where a kid once fell from the very top, has been pulled down and a new seating area put in its place. You can roll a turd in glitter, but it's still a turd. I should know. I pull into the staff parking lot around the rear of the building and climb out of my worn-0ut old Golf. There are two other cars in parking spaces--a red Mini and an old Saab. Schools are rarely empty during the summer holidays. Teachers have lesson plans to write up, classroom displays to organize, interventions to supervise. And sometimes, interviews to attend. I lock my car and walk around to the front reception, trying not to limp. My leg is hurting today. Partly the driving, partly the stress of being here. Some people get migraines; I get the equivalent in my bad leg. I should use my cane, really. But I hate it. It makes me feel like an invalid. People look at me with pity. I hate being pitied. Pity should be saved for those who deserve it. Wincing slightly, I walk up the steps to the main doors. A shiny plaque above them reads: "Good, better, best. Never let it rest. Till your good is better and your better is best." Inspiring stuff. But I can't help thinking of the Homer Simpson alternative: "Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try." I press the intercom beside the door. It crackles and I lean for­ward to speak into it. "I'm here to see Mr. Price?" Another crackle, a piercing whine of interference, and then the door buzzes. Rubbing at my ear, I push it open and walk inside. The first thing that hits me is the smell. Every school has its own individual one. In the modern academies it's disinfectant and screen cleaner. In the fee-paying schools it's chalk, wooden floors and money. Arnhill Academy smells of stale burgers, toilet blocks and hormones. "Hello?" An austere-looking woman with cropped gray hair and spectacles glances up from behind the glass-fronted reception area. Miss Grayson? Surely not. Surely she'd be retired by now? Then I spot it. The protruding brown mole on her chin, still sprouting the same stiff black hair. Christ . It really is her. That must mean, all those years ago, when I thought she was as ancient as the frigging dino­saurs, she was only--what?--forty? The same age I am now. "I'm here to see Mr. Price," I repeat. "It's Joe . . . Mr. Thorne." I wait for a glimmer of recognition. Nothing. But then it was a long time ago and she's seen a lot of students pass through these doors. I'm not the same skinny little kid in an oversized uniform who would scurry through reception, desperate not to hear her bark their name and rebuke them for an untucked shirt or non-school-regulation trainers. Miss Grayson wasn't all bad. I would often see some of the weaker, shy kids in her little office. She would apply bandages to scraped knees if the school nurse wasn't in, let them sit and drink juice while they waited to see a teacher, or help with filing, anything to provide a little relief from the torments of the playground. A small place of sanctuary. She still scared the crap out of me. Still does, I realize. She sighs--in a way that manages to convey I am wasting her time, my time and the school's time--and reaches for the phone. I wonder why she's here today. She isn't teaching staff. Although, somehow, I'm not surprised. As a child, I could never pic­ture Miss Grayson outside of the school. She was part of the structure. Omnipresent. "Mr. Price?" she barks. "I have a Mr. Thorne here to see you. Okay. Right. Fine." She replaces the receiver. "He's just coming." "Great. Thanks." She turns back to her computer, dismissing me. No offer of coffee or tea. And right now my every neuron is crying out for a caffeine fix. I perch on a plastic chair, trying not to look like an errant student waiting to see the headmaster. My knee throbs. I clasp my hands together on top of it, surreptitiously massaging the joint with my fingers. Through the window, I can see a few kids, out of uniform, messing around by the school gates. They're swigging Red Bull and laughing at something on their smartphones. Déjà vu swamps me. I'm fifteen years old again, hanging around the same gates, swigging a bottle of Coke and . . . what did we hunch over and giggle about before smart­phones? Copies of Rolling Stone and stolen porn mags, I guess. I turn away and stare down at my boots. The leather is a little scuffed. I should have polished them. I really need coffee. I almost give in and ask for a damn drink when I hear the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum and the double doors to the main corridor swing open. "Joseph Thorne?" I stand. Harry Price is everything I expected, and less. A thin, wrung-out-looking man somewhere in his mid-fifties in a shapeless suit and slip‑on loafers. His hair is sparse and gray, combed back from a face that looks as though it is constantly on the brink of receiving terrible news. An air of weary resignation hangs about him like bad aftershave. He smiles. Crooked, nicotine-stained. It reminds me that I haven't had a cigarette since I left Manchester. That, combined with the caf­feine craving, makes me want to grind my teeth together until they crumble. Instead, I stick out a hand and manage what I hope is a pleasant smile in return. "Good to meet you." I see him quickly appraise me. Taller than him, by a couple of inches. Clean-shaven. Good suit, expensive when it was new. Dark hair, although rather more shot through with gray these days. Dark eyes that are rather more shot through with blood. People have told me I have an honest face. Which just goes to show how little people know. He grips my hand and shakes it firmly. "My office is just this way." I adjust my satchel on my shoulders, try to force my bad leg to walk properly and follow Harry to his office. Showtime. Excerpted from The Hiding Place by C. J. Tudor All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.