Little Bones Read online

  ‘Have you heard the podcast too?’ asks the unnamed mum.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it.’ At least I can tell the truth on that.

  ‘I remember when the Mr Bones thing happened here. I was about thirteen years old. It was the big, posh estate – Pine Holmes on the edge of town where the Hendy family lived, right?’

  Our house wasn’t that posh, but I nod anyway wondering how long I can stand here discussing my past with them. What is the etiquette for admitting that you’re the topic of conversation?

  ‘Oh, so do you think the daughter has the Doncaster boy?’ asks the unknown mum.

  Sharon looks at me, and I go cold. I do not have Thomas Doncaster, yet somehow someone saying it aloud that I might, ignites a searing guilt across my cheeks. A thick silence now lies between us; three women huddled together in a schoolyard, two stirring their cauldron of gossip, one thinking of how best to get the hell out before suspicion swings her way.

  ‘Maybe, but more importantly, Wendy Hendy. Did the mum know?’ Sharon asks.

  I try to look thoughtful, but perhaps end up just looking constipated. My hands itch, so I hold them behind my back to stop from wringing them together.

  ‘She knew. Who doesn’t know what their husband is doing with his time? I mean, really,’ says the mystery mum. What the hell is her name?

  ‘Well, lots of wives have no idea what their other half is doing. Are you one hundred per cent sure where your husband is right now?’ I say.

  Sharon snorts. ‘He’s at work. He’s an accountant.’

  ‘Is he? Have you seen him with your own eyes today; sitting behind his desk and typing numbers into his Casio?’

  ‘Well, no. He’s there, though.’

  ‘Husbands do all sorts of things when we’re not looking. Mine locks himself away in our extension every chance he gets.’ Lies, especially small ones, have a habit of piling up in conversations like these; I’m not married to Leo, but right now, they think I’m Mrs Duffill, and I must ensure that lie is maintained, even if sharing my almost mother-in-law’s name makes me shudder.

  ‘Yeah, no, I get that,’ says the other mum. ‘Man caves. They disappear all the time. Mine has an allotment.’

  Sharon purses her lips. ‘He grows nice carrots. Have you tasted her husband’s carrots?’

  They both burst out laughing. I chuckle at them, but not much of the laugh makes it past my gritted teeth. A strange, mischievous feeling builds in me.

  ‘Allotments are great for burying bodies and …’ I move closer to them to whisper, ‘I hear veg tastes better when it’s grown in human remains.’

  Sharon nudges her friend and they laugh.

  ‘Carrots in dead bodies – that’s funny.’ Sharon sighs, looking thoughtful.

  ‘How many people are listening to The Flesh on the Bones?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m a complete addict of the show, though. I love true crime. I’m telling everyone about it on Facebook.’ Sharon shows me her latest post on her phone about how shocked she is that child kidnapping and serial killings can happen right under our noses. ‘So, do you think the daughter had something to do with the Doncaster abduction case?’

  ‘More than likely,’ says the other woman, grunting and wrinkling her nose. The very thought of me is making her sick. I want to yell at them that Thomas is just missing. There’s no evidence of abduction – especially not by me, but I can’t.

  I feel hot. My coat is clinging to me in a clammy cocoon kind of way.

  ‘Gotta go to work, ladies,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Don’t forget the Harvest collection,’ Sharon says. ‘You do work at Dawson’s Food, right?’

  ‘Um, yeah. Bye.’ Okay, so they remember where I work, but at least they haven’t mentioned the name Cherrie Forrester. As Mrs Duffill, I’m safe, for now.

  I leave the mum-huddle and almost run back to the car; it takes three attempts to unlock it before I realise I’m trying to open someone else’s Ford. Mine is further down the road.

  Finally, inside the quiet of my front seat, I scream and slam my hands against the steering wheel. How long do I have? How long before the police are knocking on my door about missing Thomas Doncaster, if they assume the serial killer apple doesn’t fall far from the murder tree? How long before my bloody DNA loses me my family, my friends, my life? How long before rumours kill Cherrie Forrester?

  There’s only one answer. I’m surprised I haven’t considered it before. If I find Jai Patel’s address, I can pay him a visit. Threatening over email is one thing – face-to-face is different.

  I grab my phone and search for Jai’s details; an easy task as he’s listed his full information on the website. It’s an odd address for a recording studio, but I tap in the postcode in my satnav, scream one more time, pull away from the kerb, and then head towards the A13.

  It’s time to talk with Jai Patel.

  Chapter 11

  I expect to pull up outside a stylish office building with a soundproof studio nestled inside, everything bought with blood money and the ruination of innocent people’s lives.Instead, I find a house in a quiet, picturesque village cul-de-sac; well kept with a flower-packed garden wrapping around its sides. A family house. It never occurred to me he could be a husband and a father. A new plan forms; maybe I can appeal to that side of him? Ask that he see things from a parent’s point of view.

  While I muster my anger, I wring my hands together. I’m here now, so I might as well try to get Jai to take the podcast down, or at least delete the bit about me.

  I march up the grey gravel drive and knock on the door. An Asian woman answers; she’s in her late fifties and wearing tan trousers, which perfectly match her floral jumper.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Jai Patel,’ I say.

  ‘Jai is my son. I’ll get him for you,’ she replies, stepping aside to let me in.

  He lives with his parents. My game plan to appeal to his father-ethics shrivels into nothingness.

  Jai’s mum goes upstairs. I hear voices. A minute later, a young man follows her downstairs. Jai is about twenty. He is wearing an old Cure T-shirt and has thick stubble manipulated into a devilish soul-patch with matching moustache. Grabbing him by his chin, his mum tuts. Wriggling from her grasp, Jai whines like a puppy. His mum gives me a withering look.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m good, thank you.’ I smile at her.

  Jai’s mum walks down the hall and disappears through a door.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Jai stares at me.

  I stare back.

  After I stretch the silence between us as taut as it will get, I declare, ‘I’m Cherrie Forrester.’

  ‘Oh, snap!’ He puts his hands to his mouth and steps away from me, almost falling up his stairs.

  ‘I’m here …’

  ‘You’re finally here for an interview, right? Man, it would have been nice if you had called ahead; but, hey, a journalist’s life is always busy like this, right? We can record it in my bedroom.’

  He records here? How easy is it to start a podcast anyway? ‘I’ve not come for an interview. I need you to take down your podcast.’

  ‘No way, I’m getting too many subscribers. I’m probably gonna bag a job out of this. Something local, but it’s a stepping stone.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your job prospects; you are ruining my life. I was just a kid when my dad did what he did, and my mum was never involved. I changed my name to escape the media shitstorm back then. I’ve now carved out a new life for myself. I have a son now. You need to delete any mention of me from The Flesh on the Bones.’ I move towards him, and he backs away. Moving up on the first step of the staircase, he looms over me.

  ‘Don’t get all salty on me. You can’t suppress the truth.’

  ‘I’m not suppressing the truth; I’m stopping your lies. Your conjecture. You sensationalising a tragedy.’

  ‘Yeah, it might help find Thomas Doncas
ter, though.’ Jai steps down, pushes past me and goes into his living room. He grabs a bright blue laptop and fires it up. ‘Look, I want to show you the new graphics for the website.’

  ‘You think he’s still alive? Thomas is long gone. Some kids never get found,’ I yell at him, then realise that’s the exact opposite of what I’ve been telling myself, and everyone else. Anger has forced out the truth.

  Jai cocks his head. ‘Is that what you believe? Or is it what you know?’

  ‘What? Are you seriously accusing me of taking Thomas Doncaster?’

  ‘Naw, man. Just reading the room.’

  ‘What room? There’s only two of us here, you bloody idiot.’

  Jai drops his expression into a sarcastic smirk. ‘Okay, dial back the salt; so you didn’t take the Doncaster kid, but someone did. If your son was missing, you’d want me to raise awareness.’

  ‘My son? How dare you. You’ve already endangered my life, and my son’s life, with your bullshit. What do you think will happen to my son when people start talking?’

  ‘People are already talking,’ Jai says. ‘That was the point of the podcast. It’s the point of all true crime podcasts.’

  ‘And most podcasts are great, hell some have even solved cold cases. But that’s not what you’re doing here. You’re recording a dirty gossip-rag of a podcast.’

  ‘No need to get personal, Leigh-Ann.’

  ‘You already got personal. Now delete my name from your podcast.’

  ‘I can’t delete you. I’d have to re-record the whole second episode.’

  ‘Oh no, one more hour of your life taken up. Whatever will you do?’ I’m losing my argument through anger and sarcasm. I need to get back on track, maybe hit him where it hurts. ‘I will sue you. Let’s see how many newspapers or TV channels want you when you’re being sued for libel and reckless endangerment. The police might even arrest you. Revealing my identity has to be against the GDPR law. Not sure how many podcasts you’ll be able to record in prison.’ I highly doubt any of what I just said is true, but lies got me here, maybe lies can get me out.

  ‘Okay, okay. I get it. I’m sorry, okay.’ He puts his hands up. I see biro scrawls creeping vine-like across his skin. Notes of something – is it the next episode? I strain to read them. Suddenly, he puts his arms behind his back like a mischievous child.

  ‘Where did you get the information from, anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Your social worker. I caught up with him a few months before he died. The guy had a mega file on you and your family. He’d retired before the big GDPR scare. I think he was a bit obsessed with you; said you’d changed your name to Cherrie Forrester. It only took a short internet search to find you worked at that food place in town. There was an article on your shop being the only independent family-owned shop left in the town centre. You were cited in the photo.’

  I remember that day. Silly me, being excited to be in the newspaper for something good. I’d smiled at the camera as if my past was clean.

  ‘Re-record the episode and delete the mention about me.’

  ‘No, actually I won’t do that.’

  He knows I’m bluffing. I can’t sue Jai or call the police. Also, if I try, I’d be revealing even more of my past, and giving him more exposure to boot. I was relying on his fear, maybe even his decency, to help me. Right now, I’ve cultivated neither.

  Jai stares at me, fully aware there is nothing I can do to stop him, or his podcast’s quest to ruin my life. It’s not as if he has a boss I can speak to. Oh, but he kind of does. There’s one more card left to play.

  I push past him and head through the door where his mum is cooking in their kitchen. She looks shocked to see me, yet good manners demand she smile.

  ‘Your son is ruining my life. I’m an innocent person, and he is ruining my life. I hope you know what sort of man you’ve brought into this world.’

  If I’d heard those words about Robin, I’d be mortified.

  ‘What? What have you done, Jai?’ she asks, looking past me at the sheepish wannabe journalist.

  ‘I’m speaking the truth, Mum. It’s the podcast I’ve been working on.’

  ‘Your son has broadcast my personal details to the world. Thanks to this revelation, I now have a stalker. My family is in danger.’

  ‘Oh, my.’ Mrs Patel puts her palms up to her face. She walks towards me, takes my hands and cups them gently. ‘I’m so sorry. He’ll stop what he’s doing. Won’t you, Jai.’ A testament rather than a question.

  Jai lifts his hands to protest, but then nods instead.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Patel,’ I say.

  I push past Jai, continuing my momentum out of their front door. Behind me, I hear her yelling at him.

  With any luck, the last card I played will be the one that wins me this game.

  Chapter 12

  Fortunately, I sweep into my usual parking spot just outside the school, so don’t need to stand at the school gates. Robin jumps into the car, then fumbles his shoes off.

  ‘What did you do today at school?’

  Robin’s grin grows as he regales me with what he learnt from each lesson, which of his friends ate what at lunch, and informs me that Nostrom has recommended he try out for the football team next week. Nostrom has a lot to answer for.

  When we pull onto the drive, Robin suddenly stutters into silence. His lips disappear into a soft gummy line.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘Anya at school found a flyer on her mum’s car this morning and brought it in to show everyone. There was a missing boy on it. What happened to him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sweetie.’

  ‘I hope he comes back soon. I bet his mum and dad are worried. You’d be worried about me, right?’

  Tears sting my eyes. ‘Of course, sweetie, but nothing will ever happen to you.’

  Suddenly, I remember Mariah’s words of warning, but quickly, I push them from my mind. I have more significant problems right now than a crazy fraud who reckons frightening people is funny.

  I make dinner and Robin seems to forget about Thomas Doncaster. He plays with his robot costume and reads his science book aloud to Nostrom.

  Leo comes home just before I’m about to leave for my shift. He hugs me, then – as if it isn’t the most earth-shattering question ever spoken – he asks, ‘Who does that dark car belong to, the one parked on the street outside?’

  I rush to the window and see it pulling away. I should say something. Perhaps now is the right time to tell him about the dad who’d appeared on our doorstep, maybe even about my own father.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re probably visiting the neighbours.’ I regret each word as they fall from my lips. I should say something, anything just to start the painful task of unravelling the ball of secrets and lies I’ve created, yet I still can’t heave out the right words. Perhaps, with my name deleted from the podcast, things could settle down. The gossiping mums at school will soon have another obsession. No one I love has mentioned the podcast or Mr Bones. Maybe the whole six degrees thing is crap. Kevin Bacon will never know.

  ‘They must be good friends with the neighbours. That’s three times I’ve seen that car around here. Nice model too. We should buy a new car when I sign the Hackerwood building contract.’ Leo takes off his trainers and places them next to Robin’s school shoes by the door.

  ‘I need to get to work. I have the late shift.’ I go to leave, but Robin grabs my hand.

  ‘We’re still going to the fair tomorrow, right? I told everyone in school we’re going. Nostrom is really, really, really looking forward to it.’

  ‘Sure, but I want to eat before we go out, okay?’

  ‘But I’ll still get hot dogs and cotton candy?’

  ‘Yes, but only if you share your treats with me.’

  Robin sighs. ‘Let’s shake on it.’ He extends a hand out for me to shake as if he’s just completed a business deal.

  ‘Have a good shift,’ Leo calls out from the kitchen.

&
nbsp; Waving, I leave before I hear him moan about having leftover chicken for dinner.

  Tonight, I walk to work, checking each street for the dark car driven by my stalker, but I don’t see him.

  The shop is busy for a while; I serve several customers in a row. Backstage, Tracy is slowly doing stocktake.

  It takes less than an hour for everything to calm down. A big meat delivery then appears, so we both start to unpack it.

  ‘Hey, did some guy ask about me the other day?’ I enquire as casually as I can.

  ‘Tall, good-looking and only slightly past his sell-by date?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yeah, I told him you weren’t in. Oh, is there something you want to tell me? Are you playing away?’ Tracy waggles her eyebrows.

  ‘No! Nothing like that. He’s kind of stalking me.’

  ‘What? Cherry Pie, you should have told me. I’d have radioed it in. Got his ass capped by security.’

  ‘It’s not like that. He thinks I can help him with something.’

  ‘Then help him.’

  ‘But I can’t. He only thinks I can help.’ Things would be easier if I could tell Tracy everything; blurt out about me, my dad, what he did, the podcast and the shit I’ve been going through lately, but I can’t. She’s my best friend, I need her, and I’m unsure as to how she would react if she heard the truth about me.

  For a moment, Tracy ponders what little she knows. ‘He probably just fancies you. Tell him you’re happy with Leo.’

  I stop lifting pork chops onto the counter. ‘Please, if he comes in again, just don’t talk to him. Can you tell Gurpreet and Shania too?’

  ‘Okay. No worries. We’ll go all Chinese wall. He’ll get the message. Or, perhaps Shania can help him.’ She waggles her eyebrows again.

  I spend the rest of my shift chatting nonsense with Tracy. I’m tempted to at least tell her about Mariah coming to the house, but even those words jam in my throat. She’d probably let it slip to Leo the next time he picks me up from work, and right now I want this whole thing shoved under the rug, even if it makes an unsightly lump.