Little Bones Read online

  ‘The delivery will be here soon. Why don’t you have a tea break before you go on the till?’ I suggest.

  ‘Sure, I’ll prepare myself to get rushed off my feet,’ Shania replies with a smirk.

  I busy myself with cutting ham; all the while, the podcast weaves between my thoughts. If everyone discovers my past, there will be a synchronised shunning. It’ll be as if I’m wearing my dad’s bloody deeds strapped to my chest; like a character in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter. I’m not melodramatic; growing up it happened too many times to Leigh-Ann. People look at you differently when they assume they know what you are capable of doing.

  Two hours of serving the odd customer, and wrestling tortured thoughts later, the delivery of fresh meat arrives. The driver is an unfamiliar face; I’ve barely seen the same one twice. He helps me move the meat towards the counter. That way, I can unpack it, yet keep an eye out for customers at the same time.

  I’m too busy deciding if I will buy a chicken for tonight to notice the man by my counter straight away. He’s only the fifth customer of the day, and it is past 4 p.m.

  When I do clock him, I see he’s in his late fifties, tall and handsome. Typically, customers barely look up to acknowledge me. They are too busy drinking in the meat, picking their choice cuts, yet this guy is looking straight at me. Not smiling. Not talking. Just staring.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask him.

  ‘Two pork chops, please.’

  I reach down to fetch the meat. I’m supposed to give customers the older cuts, but instead give him the fresh ones delivered today.

  ‘These are good for at least four days. It’ll be £3.30. Is that okay?’

  ‘That’s fine, thanks, Cherrie.’

  ‘Hey, how do you know my name?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re wearing a nametag,’ he replies.

  As I wrap the chops, I watch him. His expression is the same; it hasn’t changed throughout our entire interaction.

  ‘Oh, sorry. It’s just weird hearing a new customer say my name.’ I give him the pork chops. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thank you, Cherrie,’ he mutters, and then saunters towards the cheese counter to stare at some prewrapped Stilton.

  ‘You okay?’ asks a familiar voice.

  I focus to see Kylie at the counter, her baby bump straining out of her shoplifter’s massive coat.

  ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’

  ‘You don’t look all right. You look pale.’

  ‘The guy over there.’ As she turns her head, I quickly whisper, ‘Don’t look.’

  Casually, Kylie looks down at the meat, then slides a glance towards the man. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, he’s just weird. He called me Cherrie.’

  ‘That is weird. Although, that is your name.’

  ‘Yeah, but my nametag doesn’t get used much. I mean you didn’t notice it, right?’

  Kylie narrows her eyes at me. ‘No, and I’m still not noticing it. You’re not wearing a nametag.’

  Chapter 8

  My nametag is still in the apron I left in Tracy’s locker.

  I fumble for the radio.

  ‘This is Dawson’s Food, over.’

  It crackles, far too loudly. Security responds, ‘What’s the problem? Over.’

  I look up to see the man has disappeared from the cheese counter.

  ‘Did you see where he went?’ I ask Kylie.

  Quickly, she steps sideways to get a clearer view of the aisle. ‘He’s not there. I can’t see him.’ She walks up to the cheese and lifts up his two chops. ‘He left his dinner, though.’

  ‘Dawson’s, are you okay, over?’ comes the voice on the radio.

  I press the button. ‘There was a tall man, mid to late fifties, good-looking, just here, over.’

  The radio hisses. ‘You want us to find him so you can date him?’ security says, and laughs without saying over.

  ‘No, he was acting suspiciously, over.’

  Silence.

  ‘Okay, we’ll check the town’s CCTV, over.’

  I hook the radio back on my jeans. I feel hot, as if someone is smothering my body with a thick, scratchy wool blanket.

  ‘You should sit down.’ Kylie moves behind the counter and helps guide me backstage.

  ‘Have you seen that guy before?’ she asks.

  I think about it for a moment. He looked familiar, but I can’t place him.

  ‘Not sure,’ I reply.

  We both sit down on a crate of tinned tomatoes. My thoughts swirl around and around like oil on water. Could he be working with Jai on the podcast? Maybe he was going to ask for an interview, then lost his nerve? Which was a good thing; if he’d asked, I’d have belted him round the head with a leg of pork.

  ‘Was he a shoplifter?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t take the meat.’

  ‘If he were, I’d have tackled him for you.’ Kylie grins.

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘Need I remind you how we met?’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re my friend now, right?’

  Kylie’s eyes are wide, waiting for my response. Pregnant and alone, she must be so desperate for friendship, and who am I to be choosy? Serial killer’s child is way worse than young pregnant shoplifter.

  ‘Of course, we’re friends.’

  Heaving up her baby-filled belly, Kylie exhales loudly. ‘I’ll be glad when this little bugger is out.’

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘Boy. He’s trouble too. Just like his dad.’

  I shouldn’t ask, but I have to. ‘Where is the father?’

  ‘He got on the wrong side of the law. I’m not allowed to see him for a while.’

  ‘So, you’re not with him?’

  ‘No, not right now. I had to leave. It’s why things are a bit tight. I don’t normally make a habit of stealing food.’

  Funny, she’s not mentioned free food yet, and that must be why she came back.

  ‘My shift is over in ten minutes, but I need to get this delivery away before I go,’ I say.

  Smiling, Kylie nods. ‘I’ll stay and walk you to your car. If we see the creep again, I’ll push my bump at him. Baby boy here will gut-punch that stalker for you.’

  ‘Thanks, but foetuses don’t really punch people. They lack the upper body strength.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She winks.

  To my surprise, Kylie lifts up one of Tracy’s discarded aprons and ties it around her enormous bump. After washing her hands, she helps me square the rest of the delivery away. If Mr Dawson walked in now, I’d have some explaining to do, but I doubt he will. I’ve probably seen him three times in the last month; each time was to cut my hours.

  Once we’ve put everything away, I do a quick supermarket sweep, picking up items for Kylie. Shania is still on the tills. After serving an old man, who spends the entire transaction staring at her boobs, she comes over to us.

  ‘I didn’t know we had a new start,’ she says, eyeing Kylie with suspicion.

  ‘We don’t. Kylie is helping while we’re short-staffed.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Shania says. ‘You should liberate a few packs of new-born nappies while you’re here. They go through them like you wouldn’t believe, and cost a small fortune.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kylie rubs her belly as if she’s also channelling her son’s gratitude.

  ‘Wow that is nice of you. What have you done with the real Shania?’ I joke.

  ‘No biggie. You gotta make hay while the sun shines.’ With that odd pearl of wisdom, Shania smiles and settles herself back behind the till.

  Food going out of date is one thing – nappies are entirely different. I’m not sure how I will explain the missing packs on the next stocktake, but if Shania and Tracy are right about Dawson’s dangling off the insolvency precipice, it won’t matter. Also, Kylie should get paid for helping me. I get that he’s trying to save money, but Mr Dawson shouldn’t have us working on counters alone; that weird man could have attacked me – grabbed a knife and slit my thr
oat. He could have yanked me upside down like a piece of meat to bleed me dry. My bones could have been adorning his bedroom walls by now.

  It’s already dark when we get to the car park. A cold wind is fingering the fallen leaves in vivid swirls. It’s more than a little eerie, and I’m glad Kylie stayed with me.

  At the car, I offer to drive her home. She says no, as she lives in town.

  When I get home, I find Leo playing Xbox with Robin on the couch. I kiss them both, before heading to the dining room table.

  I want to tell Leo about the man in the shop, but he’s never been the protective type, so it feels pointless to pass on my worry. It was probably nothing anyway. I need to stop thinking everything is all about me, but it could be all about me.

  My laptop is still on the sideboard where I left it yesterday. I open it up and look at the podcast. There are 230 downloads. Hardly the roaring sensation I bet Jai Patel thought it would be, but it still sends a jolt of worry skipping across my brain; especially as there’s now more information on the podcast’s web page. There’s even a photo of Jai. At least he’s outing himself too. He is painfully average-looking, yet it doesn’t stop him from uploading a myriad of selfies in different poses, as if he’s on some novice-reporter dating site. I click around the page and am about to give up when I remember I still have half of an episode left.

  I put on my headphones, and press play.

  ‘William “Billy” Hendy was a failed artist who married into money. The Hendys had a comfortable life …’

  It carries on describing how my mum inherited her family fortune at thirty-five and quickly married my twenty-five-year-old dad after only dating for a month. Which is something I didn’t know. I’m not sure where he found all the information. I don’t have grandparents; both sets died before I was born. I don’t have aunts or uncles either; both my parents were only children. It was why disappearing into the new identity of Cherrie Forrester was so easy.

  How does Jai Patel know so much about my family?

  ‘Billy Hendy became the infamous Mr Bones when police found the skeletal remains of eleven young boys in the artist’s studio at his home on the Pine Holmes Estate. Billy would drive the dark streets of Northamptonshire looking to abduct the sons of this county, boil their poor bodies in peroxide, and then manipulate their bones into sculptures for his sick amusement.’

  I remember the nose-jarring smell of peroxide in our house. The way it made the air burn with each breath. Mum used to tell me it was for Dad’s art, that as his family it was our job to support him. Surely, she knew what he was doing; no one can be that naïve.

  Jai continues.

  ‘In later years, prison psychologists would describe Hendy as suffering from an extreme case of the eccentricity effect, where an artist of mediocre talent believes eccentricity will increase perceived artistic skills and the appreciation of their work …’

  ‘Mummy!’

  I look up to see Robin; a peanut butter smear on his face and a crust of bread crumpled in his fist.

  ‘Guess what? I saved you a bite of my sandwich.’ He thrusts the crust at me.

  Pulling off my headphones, I take the sticky bread. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

  I look around for Leo. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He went out to the chippie for you. He says you like chips, but everyone likes chips, don’t they?’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone yet who doesn’t like chips,’ I admit.

  ‘Maybe chips could unite us all?’ Robin looks thoughtful. I love him so much. He’s trying to solve the world’s problems with deep-fried potatoes.

  ‘You might be onto something, sweetie.’ I wrap my arms around him, pulling him to me.

  ‘What are you listening to?’ Robin picks up the headphones and tries to slip them over his ears, but I catch them and pull the wires away.

  ‘Nothing fun,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been drawing. Want to see it?’ His face is all shiny with happiness.

  ‘Sure, sweetie.’

  Robin runs upstairs. Moments later, he’s back, a white piece of paper flapping in his wake. ‘Look.’ He shoves the paper at me, covering my laptop.

  A sharp intake of breath almost chokes me. My son has drawn a child’s hand without the flesh – it’s just little bones.

  ‘What? Why did you draw this?’ I yell.

  My son’s eyes widen, tears suddenly glazing them. ‘I thought you’d like it,’ he whimpers and backs away from me.

  ‘It’s horrible. It’s a skeleton.’ I grab his arm and pull him back. ‘Explain this.’

  Robin can’t be like my dad.

  ‘I told you, we’re looking at the skeleton at school. We all drew him to make a whole one. The teacher made me draw a leg bone.’ He sniffs. ‘Leg bones are boring. I wanted to draw the hand, but Davie got one hand and Anya got the other. I only wanted to draw the hand, Mummy. I drew it for you. Please don’t be mad.’

  Worst. Mother. Ever. I lunge forward to hug him. He doesn’t know what bones mean to me. He has no idea of his grandfather’s deeds.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie.’ I stroke his hair and feel his body relax into mine. ‘Don’t worry. I get it now. You’re such a good boy.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy. I didn’t mean to scare you with the bones. We all have them and we kind of need them,’ he says.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Just as I say this, the front door opens. Leo steps in with a plastic bag carrying the unmistakable smell of fish and chips.

  ‘Who is ready for the delights from the Drunken Schooner?’ he asks, lifting them up so I can see them better.

  I let go of Robin, so he can run for the bag. Leo sidesteps him, strides into the kitchen, and begins to unwrap everything. I follow.

  Leo offers me a mound of greasy paper with a plate.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ I ask.

  Robin rummages through the bag until he finds his usual sausage and chips. He reaches up for a section of kitchen roll. It takes two tries for him to separate it from the roll.

  Leo grins at me. ‘Just thought we could all use a treat.’ He leans in to kiss me. His breath smells of salt and vinegar. I take my plate and follow Robin as he charges towards the couch.

  We sit together, watch mindless TV, and eat. All the while, I think about how my wonderfully dull life is in danger from Jai Patel’s thorough research, and what I can do to stop it.

  After Robin goes to bed, I have sex with Leo. It’s more for comfort than passion. The act reminds me I’m loved and wanted. The whole thing takes less than seven minutes to go from grunting to snoring. As I lie awake listening to his rhythmic wheezes – I remember Leo’s dream, the one in which I murder him. Each rattling breath knocking around his chest, like a pinball machine, makes me realise that, to get some peace and quiet, I could merrily smother him with a pillow. Just not a memory foam one – they are too expensive to waste as evidence in a murder trial.

  Even though I don’t have a shift today, I get up early to take Robin to school. The faint aroma of fish and chips still lingers in the kitchen; it makes me grin. Before Robin comes down for breakfast, I open the laptop to check the download figures of The Flesh on the Bones. It’s still at 230. Perhaps this whole thing will blow over without knocking me down.

  As Robin eats his breakfast, I discover he’s now utterly obsessed with Halloween. Thankfully, Nostrom has advised that it would be better for him to dress up like a robot rather than a skeleton. I think about the empty cardboard boxes at work and wonder how quickly I could paint them into a robot suit. I make him promise this is his last request for a costume, then plan how I’ll make it.

  After the school run, I nip in to Dawson’s Food. I talk with Tracy about her upcoming date with a new guy from a dating app. She is happy and hopeful. Gurpreet finds me some empty boxes of various sizes, and tells me to buy poster paint from the cheap shop in town by the post office. It feels good to talk to my friends about mundane, frivolous things. Before I leave, I ask Tracy to look out for Kyl
ie so she can give her the out-of-date stuff. Reluctantly, she agrees.

  As I park up in town, I see scraps of yellow paper fluttering in the autumn breeze. They are everywhere. After paying for my parking ticket, I check one of the flyers. It’s a missing persons poster for Thomas Doncaster. In the centre is the same grainy photo from the newscast; the copy is terrible and it’s tough to see his features. In truth, it could be any boy’s photo. There’s a tip-line phone number on the bottom. I can’t help but wonder how many of those tips are just bumf; and not just random stuff – information that takes the police off course. How many investigations are derailed by giving too much credence to the public?

  I slip between two shops so I can come out by the pound shop. Gurpreet is right on the money; they’re selling a rainbow of thick poster paints. I pick up a grey, a red, a black, a yellow, along with some red glitter. The woman behind the counter is sour-faced and rude. Smiling at her, I say, ‘Thank you,’ even after she unceremoniously shoves my paints into a flimsy bag that I didn’t ask for.

  Turning to leave, I notice there’s another poster on the outside of the shop. This one isn’t yellow but white. I walk towards it and see an enormous clown face splattered across the page in front of a whimsical animation of fairground rides. The clown is beckoning me to come to Crazy Clive’s Fair, which has moved into Black Friars Park. Robin would love this. I take a photo of the poster with my mobile. It’s in town until the end of October. I remember the money I got back from Mariah’s poor reading. This is the perfect place to spend it.

  As I’m checking the details, a shadow falls across the clown’s face, giving him a sinister air. I turn around, but find no one. I seriously need to stop being so paranoid.

  Back at the car, I see someone has put a fresh, yellow Thomas Doncaster flyer on every car’s windscreen. I pull mine out from under the wiper, so I can stare at the poor boy’s face again. I feel for the parents; I do, but I can’t help them. This has nothing to do with me. My hand goes limp. The wind takes the poster and spirits it away, out of my sight.

  When I get home, I recheck The Flesh on the Bones’ downloads and subscribers; they’re still the same. There won’t be a new episode until Saturday. I hope Jai will have given up on the whole thing by then. These low figures have to be soul-destroying.