Little Bones Page 4

The psychic looks down at the two remaining cards. These are the messages from the spirits. I’ve been lucky so far; she hasn’t uprooted any buried secrets. Will my luck continue?

  With a quick flick of the wrist, she turns both cards over. The first shows a dark-cloaked figure standing alone. The other depicts a heart with three swords piercing it from different angles.

  Mariah mumbles something I don’t catch.

  ‘What? Tell me, what do they mean?’

  Pointing to the cloaked figure, she says, ‘This is the Five of Cups. The spirits are telling me there is a dark shadow around you. The other is the Three of Swords. You will be hurt, not once, not twice, but three times. Deep wounds.’

  I’m about to question who would hurt me when I remind myself this is only a bit of fun. Everything she’s said has to be guesswork. I’ve watched Derren Brown; he would have been able to read me even better than her, and he definitely doesn’t have paranormal powers. Perhaps Mariah has found fear works better than hope in her readings and is dishing me up a big dollop of it, so I go away thinking hard about her dire predictions. If your mind marinates too long on anything you’ll make it happen like a crazy self-fulfilling prophecy, but she did get Leo’s name.

  As she moves the cards around the table, I watch her fingers, with their chipped black nail varnish, dance over the pictures.

  ‘Your son is in danger.’

  ‘What?’

  When I look at the cards, I see only meaningless images. What has she seen?

  ‘You can’t tell me that,’ I say, my voice getting higher and louder on every word. ‘You’re just mean.’ It takes a lot not to swear at her. A stray fuck you, paces behind my lips like a caged tiger.

  Suddenly, she launches herself across the table and grabs my wrist. ‘Please, you must believe me. Robin is in danger. A dark shadow haunts him. You must take heed of this warning.’

  ‘What danger?’

  Her chipped black nails are digging into my skin. I try to pull my arm away.

  ‘The spirits will not say, but they are giving you a warning. Take the warning. Guard your son.’

  ‘You’re hurting me!’

  Looking confused, Mariah releases me.

  ‘Unfortunately, our time has ended.’ In a swift motion, she gets up and heads to the door. Reaching out, I try to stop her. I have to know what she saw about Robin. Unfortunately, I’ve been sitting on the floor for so long, my legs have almost atrophied. I have to push my palms against the small table to stand up.

  ‘Wait,’ I say to her, but it’s as if I’ve ceased to exist. Ignoring my pleas, she rushes from the room.

  Great. She just told me Robin is in danger but didn’t bother to tell me anything else because my £25 worth of her time has run out. You’d hope a real psychic would have dug deeper if she believed in her words. Mariah has to be a fraud. None of what she said is real – it can’t be. If she was genuine surely she would have seen my past, and wouldn’t have ignored it; no one can ignore it.

  I follow her back into the living room.

  Now our business has concluded Jon spirits us out the house as quick as he can. It’s ten o’clock, so maybe Sarah can come down to watch TV with her parents. After all, it is Saturday night. Robin loves it when we stay up together; it’s his special treat for being good. For this reason alone, I don’t mind him hurrying me down their thin cream corridor, and then practically launching me through the front door like a bottle of champagne towards a new ship.

  Once outside, we all hug and start to say goodbye. Although not sure I should, especially as I can’t guarantee Mariah can be trusted, I tell them what the maybe-psychic said about Thomas Doncaster.

  ‘Good grief,’ Tracy says. ‘How morbid.’

  ‘What a bitch,’ Shania adds.

  ‘Do you think she said anything to Thomas’s mum? I mean, do we ring the hotline and give them this info anyway?’ Gurpreet, apparently the only one of us who received a favourable reading, is now a stone-cold believer in psychics. I guess you’d have to be to ensure the good predictions come true.

  ‘No, kids come home eventually. I’ve concluded that Mariah is full of shit.’ Shania bumps me with her hip. I nod; I think it’s the first thing we’ve agreed since we met.

  Gurpreet asks us all to go for a drink, and Tracy surprises me by declining the invitation. She must have seen my face after the reading; her curiosity is outweighing the need to punish her liver.

  Tracy climbs into my car and we set off. We’re quiet at first. I’m still trying to make sense of everything. Mariah got Leo’s name without hesitation, yet went off on a scary tangent about the safety of my son, which can’t be usual, or good for business. I turn off onto the A13. The long straight road of the dual carriageway gives me the latitude to twist my thoughts into speech. ‘What did she say to you?’ I ask.

  ‘I got the Death card,’ Tracy replies.

  ‘The Death card means a new beginning.’

  ‘This time, it meant death. She said someone close to me would die soon.’

  We’re both thinking the same name: Gran.

  ‘I’m not sure we should put much faith in her readings,’ I say. ‘Did she get anything right for you?’

  ‘Yeah, some stuff. That I worked with food and my parents died when I was little. It was eerie. What about you?’

  ‘She said some weird stuff.’ I turn off the A road and sweep onto the roundabout that leads to Tracy’s estate. As soon as I’m on a straight road again, I ask, ‘Did you talk about me with her?’

  ‘I didn’t pay £25 to talk about you, Cherry Pie.’

  ‘So you didn’t mention Leo’s name to her?’

  ‘No, why would I?’

  ‘She knew Leo’s name.’

  ‘Didn’t you put him down as your ICE contact on her form?’

  ‘Son of a bitch. I did.’ Tracy’s right. ‘Wait, didn’t you say your gran went to her too?’

  ‘Yes, Gran gave me Mariah’s details; hang on, yes. I bet she spilt my dead parent beans, and where I worked.’

  A mixture of anger at Mariah’s fakery and relief that the grim predictions are bull sinks into both of us.

  ‘Well, what a waste.’ Tracy laughs. ‘We should have gone for a drink.’

  I indicate to turn around. ‘What pub?’

  ‘The Hazel Tree. I’ll text them, let them know we’re coming.’

  ‘Just you. I’ll drop you off. I really have to get home. Leo left me half a bottle of wine to polish off, and I think, after tonight, I’m going to need it.’

  ‘Sure thing. Hey, maybe we should set up a psychic business. You’d be pretty good at it.’

  ‘I don’t want to tell people about imaginary disasters.’

  ‘You won’t have to. You can be a nice psychic who only gives good predictions.’

  ‘Predictions are a numbers game. Odds are higher for something bad to happen than something good.’

  I pull in at The Hazel Tree. Tracy pops her belt and leans across to hug me.

  ‘Think about it, like I said, we should go into business together, you and me. No more Dawson’s Food,’ she whispers, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  But my friend doesn’t answer me, she just wriggles out of the car, then disappears into the pub.

  A few doors down from the pub is the Drunken Schooner, a fish and chip shop who use beef dripping to cook its goodies. It’s now half past ten; I shouldn’t, but I pull the car in to park in front. I deserve a treat.

  The moment I open the car door, the smell of the most popular chips in three estates hits me. Tonight was long and pointless. I deserve deep-fried goodness. I buy a large bag, then all but sprint back to the car.

  Driving home always takes longer when you can smell chips drenched in salt and vinegar. I’d have eaten a few while driving if their wrapping was loose enough for me to steal a chip or two.

  At home, I find Leo and Robin have already gone to bed, so I grab a plate, settle down in front of the TV
with my wine and watch a couple of episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. The chips are the best thing about tonight.

  As I watch the fictional surgeons have inappropriate sexual encounters and pointless arguments, I mentally push out everything caught in my mind today. Tracy’s weird comments about Dawson’s Food, Mariah’s obvious con job, and Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance; then let it all go, like a fisherman who already has his catch and is releasing the rest back into the ocean to be trapped in his nets another day.

  It’s past midnight before I’m tired enough to go to bed. To avoid waking my family, I wash and clean my teeth in the downstairs toilet, then climb the stairs. I stop by Robin’s door. Mariah’s words of danger clatter through my mind. I should check in on him.

  I push open the door. Instantly, I see my son is not in his bed.

  Chapter 4

  My hand shoots out, groping for the light switch. The bright flash shatters the darkness, stinging my eyes.

  I rush forward and drag back Robin’s bedcovers as if it would somehow make him magically appear. I check under his bed. Nothing there but shoes and toys. The wardrobe. One door is protruding. I bound towards it. I reach for the handle, but hesitate. Do I hear knocking? I fling the door wide then push and pull at the clothes inside. Hangers slide and drop as I frantically grab at the wall of clothes before me. He’s not in there.

  Panic grips me; its clammy embrace making each rushed breath sticky and sore. Bending over, I put my hands on my knees. Perhaps Robin went to the toilet. I stagger towards the bathroom; yet even from the hall, I can see the door is open. No one is in there. I burst into my bedroom and am about to yell at my sleeping boyfriend when I see my son’s body curled up on my side of the bed. I clutch at my chest and ease my breathing down. I’m an idiot.

  ‘You all right?’ Leo asks sleepily.

  ‘I was scared when I didn’t see Robin in his bed.’

  ‘Tiger missed you, so I let him kip in here till you got home. It’s late.’ Leo looks over at our red neon clock. ‘Are you only just back in?’

  I could admit to getting back earlier, but don’t bother. I’m too tired to launch into tonight’s epic tale.

  ‘Yeah, the girls wanted to go to the pub.’

  I pull off my clothes and grab my nightie from the dresser. As I crawl over Leo, I accidentally knee him in the stomach.

  ‘Cherrie,’ he complains.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

  Robin stirs, but doesn’t wake up.

  ‘You smell like chips.’

  ‘I went to the Drunken Schooner.’

  ‘So you ladies were living it up in The Hazel Tree, eh?’ Leo whispers.

  I don’t want to lie anymore, so I neither confirm nor deny his deduction.

  Leo turns towards me. ‘Oh, I really fancy chips now. Give us a kiss.’ He moves in for a smooch, but I turn away.

  ‘I cleaned my teeth, no chips here, just minty freshness.’ I huff on him as proof.

  ‘Urg, why did you do that? Salt-and-vinegar breath is hot.’

  Laughing as quietly as I can I say, ‘Go to sleep.’

  We sleep in on Sundays, but Robin always wakes up early. I feel him twist around in the bed.

  I grin.

  ‘Did you have a nice time last night, Mummy?’

  ‘It was good. How was Strictly?’

  He tells me all about the dancers knocked out of the competition last night: what they wore, the songs they danced to, and the scores they got. My son has been entranced by the show ever since he saw his first episode. Between the music and the outfits and the sheer production, he unashamedly fell in love with it. Dancer became his first career choice, although lately it’s been pop singer and robotic scientist – I’m not sure whether he means he’s the robot or he works on them.

  All too soon, our whispers wake up Leo. He turns around and grabs us both in a big-armed hug. To get to Robin, he squeezes me a little too tightly. What would a passive observer see in this Sunday morning scene: a boy beloved by his parents, a loving husband, and a lucky wife?

  Leo gets up and makes breakfast: runny scrambled eggs and bacon burnt around the edges. Robin bounces around the living room trying to find where the lingering scent of chips is coming from.

  Watching my family on a morning like this warms my heart and makes me so grateful. There’s a mother on the Rosemount Estate waking up without one of her sons. A son who right now could be barefoot and lifeless, if you believe in psychics.

  ‘How’s your breakfast?’ Leo asks.

  I stare down at my untouched plate. ‘Great, thank you.’

  ‘You’d be hungrier if you hadn’t eaten all those chips last night.’

  ‘Can I have your bacon, Mum?’

  Smiling, I slide my plate across to Robin. He raises his fork, ready to stab at the food.

  ‘What do you say?’ I prompt.

  ‘Thank you!’ Robin brings the fork down to skewer a rasher.

  ‘I have some paperwork to do today; can you entertain the bacon-snatcher for the morning?’ Leo asks.

  ‘It’s Sunday. Like Saturday night, isn’t that special family time too?’

  My snide comment earns me an eye roll.

  ‘Well played,’ Leo says. ‘But my boss is putting pressure on me to seal the deal for the new housing estate up by Hackerwood.’

  I narrow my eyes at him. The new estate is already there. It’s where Mariah lives. ‘Oh, Tracy told me it’s already been built on.’

  Leo flops bread into the toaster. I watch him pull the slices down into the glowing red metal. ‘Yeah it is, but there’s room for more houses. They built them small. I want to secure the extra land.’

  Thinking back to Mariah’s tiny rooms, it makes sense. I’m not sure why I tried to catch him in a lie.

  ‘Okay.’ I look over at Robin. ‘How about we go to the park?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Robin replies, his words muffled by bacon and eggs. He stuffs a crust of toast into his already full mouth. With chipmunk cheeks, he rushes upstairs to get dressed.

  Since I have a few minutes, I grab my laptop to check out what’s happening with Thomas Doncaster. Maybe he’s home already? It wouldn’t surprise me; Mariah was royally full of crap. It would be the icing on the cake for the boy to make it home safe; shoes still on his feet, and his lungs clean of car fumes.

  Leo nudges me out of his way. ‘I need to borrow your laptop. Left mine at work. It’ll be free when you get back in.’

  ‘I’m ready!’ Robin yells from the hall.

  Leo leans across as if to kiss my cheek, but instead sniffs me.

  ‘What are you up to?’ I ask, moving back from him.

  ‘Just checking if you still had the Schooner’s whiff.’ He laughs.

  ‘That sounds like a godawful perfume. Ooh, you’re not leading up to a joke about seamen are you?’

  ‘Bye, Dad!’ Robin yells, reminding me it’s time to go.

  ‘See you, tiger,’ Leo yells back, then leans in and kisses my cheek. ‘Take care in the park. It’s colder than a witch’s nip out there.’

  I grab my thickest coat and meet my son at the door.

  ‘Which park are we going to?’ Robin asks.

  ‘Let’s not drive today; how about we go to Black Friars?’

  Robin’s hand jumps into mine, and we walk towards the park. Black Friars is a massive urban expanse connecting the surrounding estates. I remember it from when I was Robin’s age. Dad used to bring me here. He’d pack cheese sandwiches and Tab. We’d pretend we were explorers in a mysterious land, bringing back pinecones and conkers as our trophies. There are rumours there was an old monastery on the land hundreds of years ago. I’ve heard Robin and his friends telling ghost stories about headless clergy who push you on the swings, and monks who chase away little boys if they come to the park after dark.

  As we enter Black Friars, I notice how bright the sun is; its warm lustre strikes a glaring contrast to the cold morning air. I can imagine this place is foreboding when the sun goes d
own. All twisted trees and jagged bushes, yet in the Sunday morning light, it’s beautiful.

  As soon as we’re beyond the park’s tree line, Robin lets go of my hand to run ahead. I quicken my pace to keep him in my line of sight, but he’s too fast, and I have to jog a little to keep up. He disappears around a bend in the path. I run faster.

  ‘Look at me, Mum!’

  Around the bend, I see Robin swinging from a tree branch like a monkey. Laughing, he flops onto the ground.

  Another little boy emerges from the trees. Seeing him, Robin gets up and darts across to say hello. They begin to play together.

  There’s an old wooden bench, so I sit down to watch them laugh and run. I scan the park for the boy’s parents and quickly see the mother puffing up the path. We give each other the secret parent nod that can make friends from strangers, and she staggers over to sit with me.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ she says.

  ‘Nice bright morning, though,’ I say.

  ‘Too cold for me.’

  ‘Yes, cold,’ I say back, glad that Robin wore his warm Puffa jacket this morning.

  I nod and continue watching our sons play; chattering and sprinting about as if they were fireworks made of flesh and giggles. Their breath spirals through the air like the tails of rockets.

  The woman shivers and pulls her coat tighter about her neck. ‘Did you hear about the Doncaster boy?’

  ‘Yes, how awful.’

  I consider telling her about Mariah’s prediction of Thomas Doncaster. I’d love to erode the psychic’s words with mockery and gossip, but this woman is a stranger. What would her reaction be? Intrigue? Repulsion? Suspicion? I’m also now almost one hundred per cent sure Mariah is full of crap, anyway. I don’t need a stranger’s reassurance.

  ‘Look, Mum, look!’

  Following Robin’s outstretched finger, I squint and see he’s pointing at a grey squirrel. The fluffy creature inches out onto a branch, oblivious it is now starring in a one-squirrel show.

  ‘Look, Mum!’ shouts the other boy.

  His mum smiles. ‘Wow, good spot, Declan.’ She turns towards me. ‘Declan is such a good little boy. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

  I nod. ‘Yes, I know the feeling. Kids are so precious.’