Page 31 of Snared Rider

Chapter Nine

Grandad’s housesits on the edge of former Hazelwood Colliery. A number of buildings make up the sprawling compound, which once stood as a sign of the wealth and affluence in the town. Now, the red bricks are faded, the mortar crumbled, and the walls painted with graffiti. Trees and shrubs grow through the broken windows and ivy swamps everything it touches. Looming above the buildings, iron structures that were once used in the mining process stand like rusted metal skeletons of the past. They used to move coal by the tonne, now, they provide homes for birds and other wildlife.

The mine closed back in the early nineties, but you could still get into the old shafts for years after. Over time they filled with water and some of the tunnels collapsed. With no one to repair the supports more and more of the mine was lost until eventually the local council took action. Fearing someone would get hurt, government contractors boarded up the building and put fences around the complex—not that fences kept the kids out; we found ways around it when we were younger, and I’d hazard a guess the current generation of Kingsley teens do too.

I park the car Dean loaned me yesterday outside Grandad’s house and make my way to the front door. I knock when I reach it, my gaze shifting back to the colliery. It stands over the newer homes below and the older properties built to accommodate the miners when the colliery first opened. It’s strange to think an industry that made this community wealthy only lasted eighty years before its death drove the town to its knees.

The sound of the key turning in the lock drags me from my musing and I turn as Grandad pulls the door open. I don’t see joy or welcome in his expression. Instead, his eyes, which mirror Dad’s, narrow on me.

“Three days you’ve been in town and this is the first I’ve seen of you since your party.”

His reaction, while unfair, is not unexpected. I make a note to carve out more time for Grandad while I’m here. I should do this anyway because I love the cantankerous old bugger and I’ve missed him.

He turns and disappears back into the house. I take the open door as an invitation to follow him. At least he didn’t slam it shut in my face.

I move into the narrow hallway, which is filled with framed photographs of Club members throughout the years and other family portraits of Dad, Gran, and me as a baby. Grandma Goddard died when Dad was a kid. Grandad never remarried. In fact, he never took up with another woman again, as far as I know; she walked on water for him.

I hover as Grandad lowers himself into the armchair near the window in the living room. He’s wheezing as he flops down into the cushions, and that has my anxiety spiking. That he’s breathless walking to and from the front door is worrying.

“Shall I make us a brew?” I ask tentatively. I don’t want to start my visit on an argument, which will undoubtedly happen if I point out his health problems.

“Mine’s a black coffee with one sugar,” he grunts. “Shit’s all in the kitchen. Yell if you can’t find anything.”

“Yes, sir,” I mutter with a grin.

I see he hasn’t lost the bossy streak since I last saw him. This is good. It means he’s still himself. This realisation reassures me and helps a little to soothe my anxiety.

Moving into the kitchen, I flick the switch up to boil the kettle and have to search through Grandad’s cupboards to find where he keeps everything. I’m pleased to see his food supplies are well-stocked, meaning the Club is taking care of him. That comforts me; I don’t like the thought of him being here on his own.

While I wait for the kettle to boil, my mind wanders. I wish I lived closer so I could offer support and companionship too. Grandad did a lot for me growing up. Gina didn’t stick around long enough to be a mother, so Grandad (and most of the Club) helped Dad raise me. This only adds to the guilt I feel about leaving these people.

After I make the drinks for us both, I carry the mugs into the living room, placing the coffee in front of Grandad and taking my own cup with me as I sit on the sofa. Grandad interlinks his fingers on his stomach and eyeballs me.

“How are you, Grandad?” I ask, trying to break through the irritation growing in his expression.

“I’m perfect.” He says this while pulling out a packet of cigarettes. I want to run across the room and tear it out of his hands, but I don’t. It’s not my choice.

“Are you being looked after?”

He snorts. Loudly. “Sweetheart, I have more visitors since I got this stupid lung thing than I’ve had my entire life.” He looks disgruntled as he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights up. “I have brothers knocking on the door all day and if it’s not brothers, it’s bleedin’ old ladies. I never get a minute’s peace.”

“They just want to make sure you’re okay out here on your own.”

He eyes me. “You get old and people suddenly think you stop being able to think for yourself.”

“I’m sure no one means to make you feel like that, Grandad. They just love you and want to see you’re being looked after.”

“I can look after my-bloody-self.”

I resist the urge to look at the ceiling for divine intervention, mainly because I understand how it feels to be babied when you’re an adult. My entire family (blood-related and non-blood related) do it to me all the time. It’s frustrating, even if you know it comes from a good place.

Instead, I blow the steam from my coffee and take a tentative sip.

“So, why didn’t that man of yours come with you?”

And I nearly choke on my drink.

Because he’s a stuck-up arse.

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