Little Bones Read online

  It’s five-thirty and already so dark I have to use the torch on my phone to light my way. Fortunately, I parked my car just down the street from the shop, so my time in the shadows is limited.

  Climbing into my little Ford, I strap on the seatbelt and then twist on the engine. It sputters out its anger at being disturbed, yet fortunately gurgles to life.

  In the summer, I walk to work. I only live half a mile away from Dawson’s Food, but in the winter months, when the nights close in quicker, I use the car. I don’t much like the dark.

  Opening my front door, I find a quiet house. I check my mobile and find Leo has texted to say they’ll be late. He has included an emoji my phone can’t read. I’m guessing it’s supposed to be some sort of frustration face. They were at his mum’s today, and she has a habit of making dinner later to keep them longer.

  I pull off my boots and place them by the door, leaving space for Leo and Robin’s shoes when they get in. I grab a microwave meal from the fridge, then pop it on. I run upstairs to see if I can change clothes before it’s cooked. Pulling off my apron, top and jeans, I wriggle into a pair of corduroy trousers, and tug on a blouse and a jumper. I bound downstairs just in time to see three seconds ticking down on the microwave. It’s a small life victory.

  Clutching my meal, I plop down onto the couch, turn on the TV, and check the clock. I have over an hour before I need to pick up Tracy, so I can fit in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Ever since I saw the medical series could be streamed, I’ve binge-watched it. I’m only on season four; it’s comforting that I have at least another eleven seasons to spend with the feisty surgeons.

  Reaching for the remote, I’m about to change the channel when I see a boy’s face filling up the screen. He looks only a little older than Robin, and is sporting a chocolate-smeared grin and a Christmas jumper with a fat reindeer on the front. The caption reads, Thomas Doncaster, age ten. I want to change the channel over; I won’t be able to see a full episode of Grey’s if I don’t, but my finger doesn’t want to press the button on the remote. Something bad has happened.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Thomas Doncaster disappeared last night between the hours of six and eight. He was last seen outside the newsagent’s on the Rosemount Estate in Northampton wearing a navy Adidas jacket, blue jeans and white trainers. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact the hotline number below.’

  The local newscaster glares at the audience for a second longer than necessary, as if she knows the guilty party is watching and she can force her contempt at him through the screen. Suddenly, the camera angle changes. The newscaster twists around to a second camera, meets the viewers with a fake smile, and then proceeds to talk about the latest knife crime statistics.

  Rosemount is only fifteen miles from my house in Oak Cross. A thought wrapped in a memory bobs up to the surface of my mind; I let it sit there a while before I mentally burst it. What could have happened to this little boy? His parents must be so worried, consumed with the worst thoughts in the world. What could be happening to him right now? Will they ever see his chocolate grin again, or give him a Christmas present?

  I have to find out more about Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance, but I barely get to sign in on my laptop when I hear rattling keys. My front door crashes open and in floods Hurricane Robin. He throws off his shoes, and they land like two little bombs on the floor.

  ‘Mummy!’ he yells, throwing himself at me.

  Catching him, I pull his flailing body into my arms. As I do, his red Puffa jacket deflates, making a fart noise. He giggles.

  A gush of cold air hits me, and I look up to see Leo closing the front door. A bottle of wine nestled in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Hey, bloody freezing out there. You still going out tonight?’

  ‘Yes, Tracy will kill me if I don’t.’

  ‘Okay, you better wrap up warm,’ he says, and then walks into the kitchen.

  I hug Robin again. He wriggles, but I hold him steady so I can whisper, ‘You know never to accept lifts from strangers, right?’

  ‘I’m eight years old. I’m fully aware of stranger danger, Mum,’ he replies, pulling away from me.

  ‘Even if there’s another child with them. Never get into a stranger’s car.’

  ‘I get it. I won’t.’ Robin shrugs off his jacket. I can see he has eaten spaghetti at his gran’s house; there are speckles of red all over his beige jumper. Leo’s mum quite often leaves her mark on my son.

  ‘Get changed into your PJs, sweetie,’ I say.

  Robin scrambles up the stairs.

  ‘He was looking forward to us watching TV together tonight,’ Leo states, lounging against the wall with a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘We both were.’

  ‘We watch TV together every night,’ I say.

  ‘But Saturday nights are special family time.’

  I had been looking forward to sharing tonight’s special family time.’

  I wanted to tell Leo about Tracy’s supernatural entertainment tonight; we could have laughed about it later. Right now, though, a twinge of guilt stops me. I should be staying in with my family. Spending my time with them, not gallivanting off to see some second-class sideshow. My future is obvious: sitting on the sofa holding Robin close, drinking wine and laughing with Leo. What more could a psychic say to me anyway? It’s not like she could dig up anything about my past I don’t already know. Just as I think this I get a text from Tracy: Looking forward to tonight Cherry Pie. With my best friend’s hatred for grammar, I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement; however, I do know I made a promise.

  I text back: See you soon x.

  Leo walks over to me and hands me his wine.

  Looking at the half-empty glass, I go to swig the rest, but stop. ‘Oh, you’re sneaky, are you trying to get me drunk so I can’t drive tonight?’

  Letting out a playful laugh, Leo says, ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying. Tell you what.’ He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me close. ‘I’ll leave a glass out for you for when you come back.’

  ‘Deal.’

  The lower level of our house is open plan with strategically placed kitchen units and bookcases separating the spaces between the dining room, kitchen, and living room. So, while I spend an inordinate amount of time doing my make-up on the dining table, I can still watch Leo loading the dishwasher in the kitchen, and hear Robin bumping about upstairs.

  ‘How can putting on PJs end up such a noisy performance?’ Leo asks after a particularly big bump.

  ‘He’s dancing. Practising the moves from Strictly with that teddy your mum bought him last Christmas.’

  Leo grins. ‘I hope the teddy isn’t leading.’

  It’s only a night out with the girls, but I need to make an effort to look at least passable. I touch up my foundation, hiding the dark circles under my eyes. I pick out a new lipstick I bought last year; it’s pillar-box red and claims to be kiss-proof. I gently apply it, pucker my lips then blot it with a tissue. Just as I finish up, Leo places a glass and half the bottle of red wine in front of me.

  ‘Don’t get excited; like I said it’s for when you get back. It’ll be waiting for you right here – that and this.’ He lifts his jumper to reveal his distinctive hairy dad bod, then has the good grace to laugh.

  ‘I can hardly wait. You know,’ I say. ‘This lipstick is kiss-proof.’

  ‘That’s a bold claim,’ he replies sitting down beside me. ‘Shall we test it out?’ He leans in to kiss me but hesitates when there’s a thunder of footsteps down the stairs.

  Sitting back in his chair, Leo says, ‘Hey, tiger, you excited for Strictly?’

  Robin nods, then looks over at me. ‘You look pretty, Mum. Just like one of the dancers.’ He then grins. ‘Dad told me to say that.’

  ‘Oh, you were meant to keep that part secret and earn brownie points with your mum.’ Leo turns to me. ‘He never lets me get away with anything.’

  ‘And neither should he.’ I get up t
o hug Robin, but Leo intercepts. He wraps his arms around my back and dips me into a Hollywood kiss. Soft lips and the taste of red wine overpower me. Only Robin’s giggling breaks the spell. I wriggle out of Leo’s embrace and quickly check my face in the mirror. I have visions of me looking like a clown-demon who crawled out of Stephen King’s imagination; however, my lip line is perfect. It really is kiss-proof. Good to know not everything about my life is a lie.

  ‘Are my lips as red as Mummy’s lips?’ Leo asks Robin, puckering his pout.

  ‘No, your lips aren’t red at all, Dad,’ Robin replies. He turns to me. ‘Is your lipstick magic?’

  I reach out to Robin and kiss his cheeks, his forehead and his nose. He laughs at first, but quickly complains, so I let him go. There’s not a single red mark on him. I look up at Leo to see he has vanished back to the kitchen.

  ‘Mummy, you’re so embarrassing.’

  ‘That’s a big word. And to be embarrassed there needs to be someone else here to see me kiss you,’ I say.

  My son wrestles out of my arms. ‘Nostrom is here. He sees you.’

  Robin has drawn Nostrom a few times; he looks like a red robot, all boxy with bright lights. It could be much worse. His imaginary friend could be a six-foot-tall man in a dirty rabbit costume like in Donnie Darko. Leo’s mother doesn’t approve of imaginary robot friends but I don’t mind him. As long as he’s good for my son, he’s all right by me.

  ‘Well, perhaps I should kiss Nostrom, too?’

  ‘Robots don’t like kisses. You can kiss me again instead.’

  I tickle my son and kiss the top of his head.

  ‘Hey, I see you just had a microwave meal, again,’ Leo says from the kitchen door. He reaches behind him and produces a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘I know you’re not drinking tonight, but it can’t hurt.’

  We sit and eat together. Leo wolfing down the sugary treats, while Robin takes his time sucking the chocolate from the biscuit. Too soon, Leo says, ‘Come on, tiger, Strictly will be on any minute.’

  Robin shoots off the chair and jumps onto the couch. Leo gets up, bends down and kisses the top of my head. ‘Have a good night and be careful,’ he says, then follows Robin.

  As I go to leave, I hesitate. I would prefer to stay home. I’m not even sure why I agreed to this psychic thing in the first place. Leo looks up, winks and playfully lifts his jumper again.

  I grab my car keys and yell, ‘Bye!’

  Tracy is never ready on time and tonight is no exception. I knock on her door and her gran greets me. Tracy has lived with her since her parents died. My best friend never talks about what happened to them, and I’ve never asked. Our friendship has grown on mutual, unspoken boundaries.

  ‘Aren’t you seeing Mariah tonight?’ Tracy’s gran asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’m not expecting much,’ I say, checking my watch. It’s past seven.

  ‘I’ve been to psychics and mediums all over the country; she’s one of the best. My sisters used to visit her up North. I can’t believe she moved down here.’

  ‘What’s the difference between a psychic and a medium?’ I ask, then realise it sounds like the set-up to a crude joke.

  Tracy’s gran doesn’t hesitate. ‘Well, psychics can see your past, present and future. Mediums talk to the dead. Mariah’s both.’

  The house suddenly feels warm. I undo my coat and shrug it off. ‘I don’t want to talk to the dead,’ I mutter.

  ‘Pardon, Cherrie?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter. I might not even bother with a reading. Perhaps I’ll wait outside, just listen to what she has to say to the other girls.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s booked for four. You have to go in. Four bookings is the minimum,’ she reminds me.

  I’m about to ask about her visit to Mariah, when I hear Tracy coming down the stairs.

  ‘Sorry for being late, Cherry Pie. Perfection takes time.’ She smooths down her long, straight hair.

  I put my coat back on and grab Tracy’s arm. ‘Come on, we still have to find Mariah’s house. Who are we meeting there?’

  ‘Our wayward Creeker sisters Shania and Gurpreet.’

  ‘I’ll text Gurpreet. Tell her we’ll be late.’ I fish out my mobile to fire off a quick text.

  Once we’re in the car, I ask Tracy for the address.

  ‘Bramble Court on the Hackerwood Estate, Mariah’s number seven.’

  I turn off our estate and head towards the main road. There’s probably a quicker route, but this is the only one I know, and Tracy’s not offering any help. We get onto the A13. I drive until I see the Hackerwood sign.

  ‘Did you hear about that boy Thomas Doncaster going missing?’ I ask.

  ‘No, but kids go missing all the time,’ Tracy says staring at her mobile.

  ‘Not really, not like this.’

  ‘Like what? Are you just assuming something sinister happened?’

  Carefully, I reply. ‘No, I just think …’ A stream of answers flood my mind: Kids can be taken, strangers want children for horrible things, and terrible fates can befall lone boys. ‘I just worry, that’s all.’

  Tracy looks over at me and shrugs. She has no children, perhaps until she does, she won’t understand my concern.

  We drive on towards Hackerwood; a sinking feeling settling in my gut the closer we get.

  ‘I saw what you did today,’ Tracy suddenly blurts out.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The vagrant preggo. I saw you give her the food,’ she says.

  ‘I thought you’d already gone home.’

  ‘Nah, I had to sort out some paperwork in Mr Dawson’s office. Why did you help her?’

  ‘She needed it. Her name’s Kylie.’

  ‘You know her?’ Tracy asks.

  ‘No, I only met her today. I gave her the stuff we would’ve binned or taken home ourselves.’ I’m not sure I like Tracy’s tone, maybe she’s nervous about tonight, and if she’s worried, perhaps I should be too.

  ‘I’d already done the out-of-date stuff. I took it all home,’ she says.

  ‘Well, you missed some. Don’t be mean.’

  ‘I’m not being mean,’ she replies, her childish lilt betraying her. Tracy then turns away from me to stare out her window. Now and then, she opens her mouth, yet no words come out.

  I veer off into Bramble Court. It’s a long, curvy road twisting around new houses built on the edges of an older estate. The fresh cream buildings look bright against the scarlet bricks of the old council terraces; they glow against the dark night like clean bones.

  ‘Well, we won’t be in business much longer if we keep giving food away,’ Tracy finally says, fiddling with my heater.

  ‘Kylie can’t eat enough to put Dawson’s out of business.’ I laugh.

  ‘Don’t joke; I’ve seen the books.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s it, number seven, right there.’ Tracy points at a new, beautiful detached house with a gravel drive. Bringing the car around, I park next to Gurpreet’s Honda.

  I twist off the engine and watch as Tracy struggles to find her seatbelt clip.

  ‘Is Dawson’s Food in trouble?’ I ask.

  She huffs at me, then gets out. ‘Let’s just enjoy tonight. I wonder how many dark, handsome strangers I’ll have in my future.’

  Heading to the door, we walk past an expensive black Audi sitting in front of a double garage.

  ‘The psychic business must pay well,’ I say, staring at the perfect paintwork and leather interior. It’s immaculate inside. My car sports hundreds of sticky patches all in the shape of Robin’s fingers.

  ‘Come on, Cherry Pie.’ Tracy grabs my arm, pulling me away from my car envy.

  At first glance, the house looks every other on the street; however, the source of the glow from the windows of this house is not electric but candles. Dancing flames beckoning you with their heat, until you get too close and you lose part of yourself in a bargain you never meant to make. I shouldn’t be here.

  Before I know
what’s happening, Tracy rings the bell. Quickly, the door opens wide, making us both jump, but instead of the expected clichéd clairvoyant, it’s a man in the doorway. He’s thin, of average height, and has a downturned mouth; it clearly takes extra effort for him to smile, as he gives us a withering look.

  We must have the wrong house. Does this poor man continually suffer random weirdos arriving on his doorstep expecting to have their fortunes told?

  I’m about to apologise when he asks, ‘Are you here to see Mariah?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tracy answers, stepping over the psychic’s threshold.

  As she pulls me in with her, I expect a melodramatic clap of thunder to ring out across the shadowy sky, but of course, it doesn’t.

  ‘And you are?’ the man asks, fiddling with a clipboard like a mild-mannered doorman.

  ‘Tracy Carter and Cherrie Forrester.’ Tracy nudges me.

  He drags his finger down the page. ‘I’ve got a Tracy, but no Cherrie.’

  My name’s not down; perhaps I’ve successfully wormed my way out of this uncomfortable night. I can spend my money on a takeaway, eat the sinful snack with Leo, and stay up late watching TV programmes that wash over you like a lazy dream.

  ‘Yeah, my gran, Donna Carter, had a reading the other night instead. Cherrie has taken her place tonight,’ Tracy says.

  ‘Oh, I’ll change it.’

  He writes in my name, and the dream of an all-night TV and fatty food binge with my boyfriend evaporates in a scribble of biro. Oh crap, will Mariah sense I don’t want to be here? You don’t need to be psychic to spot a reluctant visitor. She’ll think I’m rude, which could be the least of tonight’s worries.

  Grinning, Tracy pulls me further into the house. We walk down a thin, beige corridor to find a tiny living room with barely enough space for the two massive couches squashed into it. This house is like the anti-TARDIS, big on the outside and small on the inside.

  On one of the couches are Gurpreet and Shania. Huddled together, they stop whispering when they see us in the doorway.

  ‘See,’ says Gurpreet. ‘I told you she’d come.’

  Clearly referring to me. I step forward, bend and hug Gurpreet, my defender.