Little Bones Read online

  As I make Robin’s robot costume, I find the painting oddly soothing. The constant swipe of the brush coupled with the long thick straight lines of the paint hypnotises me. Even the smell is intoxicating. It takes me back to when I was young and painted with Dad, but not the dark crafts in his studio, the pictures we would paint in the park and by the lake; when I would wear one of his shirts and stand before an easel ready to capture light and beauty. All too soon, I’m lost in colours and glitter. I even cut out round discs for robot buttons. Carefully, I paint each one, shaking the glitter over the tacky paint.

  Mum and Dad didn’t make me costumes for Halloween. Why bother when I was already wearing enough masks as Leigh-Ann: daughter, student, artist’s apprentice, serial killer’s assistant.

  I remember Mariah’s Halloween costumes. It would be wonderful to have a little girl. To dress her up as a witch, a pirate, a princess – anything she wanted to be. I wouldn’t change Robin for the world; nonetheless, I’d like a daughter. Someday.

  Quickly I lose myself in the fantasy of having a second child; how much fun we’d all have together on summer holidays, birthdays and Christmas. The daydreams prove a wonderful escape, so it takes a while to hear the noise. There’s an odd sound coming from the extension. I stop painting and walk towards the door. It’s soft, a sort of rustling. I edge towards the plastic-covered door separating the old part of the house from the new. Maybe Leo has come home early. Quite often, he gets straight to work on the extension, forgetting what shifts I’m on and that I’m home. Wait, he has a late meeting today; he won’t be home until teatime.

  My fingers hesitate on the door handle. If I go in and find nothing, it will piss Leo off that I saw his handiwork before he was ready to show it. But, what if something is wrong?

  The muffled noise comes again. It sounds like crying. No, it can’t be crying. No one is in the extension. I’m hearing things. But then again, I thought the noises from Dad’s cupboard were in my head too.

  My palms are itchy. Goose bumps prickle my skin. I hug myself, yet find no warmth. I walk to the front door, grab my coat off its hook and pull it on. I’m still cold. Slowly, I walk back to the extension door. I keep my footsteps light in case I hear the sound again. I don’t hear anything. It’s my imagination; it has to be, but what if it’s not?

  Fear scratches down my insides, clawing at my throat. I want to shout out; ask for help. I can’t. I hear the noise again, and find I’m rooted to the spot like a dead tree; a tree that needs ripping up, but no one is here to dig me up. I close my eyes and ball my fists.

  Trying to shake off the panic, I force myself to pace the length of my house until the fear shrinks back, and I can think again. I edge towards the door to the extension. My fingertips touch the cold, metal handle. It wouldn’t take much to allow the weight of my hand to drag it down; the door would simply ping open.

  Something is wrong. I feel it; like a stranger’s fingers forcibly exploring my guts. Nausea crashes into me. I don’t care; I have to know what the noise is.

  I pull down the handle and find it locked. More annoyed than shocked, I hunt for Leo’s keys in the kitchen drawer. Of course, he locks it. There are dangerous tools in there. Robin is a curious child; it is safer for the door to stay locked. The key is in the kitchen drawer with all the other random bits. Rustling around, I find the right one. As I push the key into the lock, I feel silly; there’s no sound coming from behind the door now. I’m letting things get to me again. Worry is making me hear things, but I should check it, anyway. Just to be safe. Leo could have left a piece of machinery on; it could start a fire. I click the lock … There’s a knock at the front door. My heart bangs, and I imagine the organ pushing against my yielding ribcage. There’s a second knock.

  ‘Coming!’ I yell.

  I shrug off my coat, throw it on the couch, and jog to the front door.

  There’s another knock.

  ‘Calm your boots,’ I say.

  As I pull the front door open, I realise that, once again, I should have put the chain on.

  Chapter 9

  Instantly, I recognise him. The man on my porch is the weirdo from Dawson’s Food. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday and holding his face in the same blank, yet friendly, expression, as if he doesn’t have a thought in his head. Eerily unreadable.

  ‘Cherrie,’ he says.

  I go to shut the door, but he shoves his foot between it and the wall.

  ‘Cherrie.’ He says my name as if it’s the only word he knows.

  I feel hot. I’ve heard people talk about seeing red when they’re angry – now I know what they mean. How dare this crazy man be at my home! Robin could have been here.

  ‘Take your foot away right now. I will call the police if you don’t leave!’ I yell at him. Angry tears threaten to cloud my vision.

  ‘Cherrie,’ he says again.

  ‘My husband will be back any minute. He’s a bodybuilder.’ I’m not sure why I say this; it’s just the first thing that comes to mind.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ the man whispers staring at his shoe blocking my door. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘You’re stalking me. There are laws against that. You’re breaking the law. Please leave.’ I struggle again to close the door, although I’m not even sure that would help. With my front door being almost wholly glass, anyone who wants to get through it could easily smash my only defence into sharp smithereens.

  ‘I need answers.’

  For a moment, when he looks up at me, his face is no longer blank. There’s a drip of sadness in his eyes. I feel his foot move a little in the doorframe, so I give it a more forceful push. His shoe slides backwards. I close the door. Both my mind and fingers are nimble through my panic. It takes milliseconds for me to lock the door and thread on the chain.

  Silence.

  His silhouette is still on my step. He’s not moving or speaking. Suddenly, his hand is on the door, the palm pushed hard against the glass. I can see the white of his finger bones through his flesh. For a moment, I imagine what his skeletal hand might look like, its joints clinging together by stringy sinew and bloody flesh. The image in my mind is more intricate than Robin’s drawing. It’s hypnotic in its raw beauty. Raising my palm, I rest it on the glass, covering his hand. I wonder what his bones would feel like against my skin. What they would weigh. How much force I would need to break them in two.

  His head bows to my door and, although muffled by the glass, I hear him say, ‘I’m sorry I scared you. I went to the shop again and they told me you had the day off. I was about to go home when I saw you walk in to speak to your friends. I followed you home. I’m sorry. This isn’t like me. I’m just; I’m just …’

  ‘A stalker?’

  ‘No, I just haven’t been right since my son was murdered.’

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ I yell, but he knows I won’t. I should, but I won’t. I now know who he is and what he’s doing here. I can also guess how he found me, that damn Flesh on the Bones podcast. I should leave him to it. Go back to making Robin’s robot costume. Ignore him until he goes away; but I can’t seem to take my eyes off the distorted shadow at my front door.

  ‘I don’t have any answers for you,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know why my dad killed your son.’

  For over an hour, he lingers by the door of my home. I stare at him the whole time; as if he will do nothing as long as I’m paying attention. Just like the Weeping Angels made of stone in Doctor Who. When his shadow finally leaves, I race upstairs to Robin’s bedroom window to watch him walk across the street. Twice, he looks back at my house, then gets into a dark car and drives away.

  Exhausted, I fall onto Robin’s bed. It smells of him, sweet kid sweat and Johnson’s talc. Closing my eyes, I let it comfort me. I must fall asleep because the next thing I hear is the phone. It’s Leo.

  ‘How’d the meeting go?’ I ask.

  ‘Great. We have a deal. Just a little more bureaucracy and all’s good. How’re things there?’


  ‘Nothing new here.’ I might have to say something about my stalker eventually, yet I need the point to be sharp enough for me to cut into the lies I’ve told. Maybe he won’t even come back. Perhaps he will realise what he’s doing will only dig up a carefully buried past. How can knowing why and how your son died help you move on?

  ‘Cherrie?’

  ‘Sorry, yes.’

  ‘You went quiet on me. You sure everything is okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. Mum called me; she wants to come to tea tonight.’

  I want to say that it’s not a good time, but don’t have the energy for an argument.

  ‘Sure, but it’s only chicken for dinner. She’d better like it or she’ll be the one who gets stuffed.’ I chuckle at my joke.

  Leo laughs. ‘I’ll let you tell her that.’

  Picking up my paintbrush, I work a little more on Robin’s robot costume. I even shake more glitter onto the red buttons; but it doesn’t help. I’m no longer relaxed. The previous magic I felt has gone. If that man comes back tonight, how am I going to explain him away to Leo’s mum?

  I leave Robin’s costume to dry, then check the download counter for The Flesh on the Bones. Still no new subscribers, yet there is now a ‘contact me’ button for Jai Patel. Righteous anger guides my fingers as they type a message to him:

  Dear Jai,

  How dare you expose my identity! I was only eight years old when I lost both of my parents. A victim’s father is now stalking me, looking for answers about my dad that I can’t give. I’ll now probably have to tell the people I love about my sordid family history.

  What if someone you loved did something terrible? Something that, as a child, you had no control over? What if you’d worked hard to get past it and have a normal life, and then some jumped-up, wannabe reporter spreads that secret while weaving in more lies? My mother couldn’t have known what my dad was doing. How dare you slander her name too!

  I initially sign it: Kind regards, Cherrie Forrester. No, best to end with: I will sue you if you don’t end this harassment, Leigh-Ann Hendy.

  My fingers hover above the mouse. I want to press send but I can’t stop repeatedly reading the email, as if I’m looking for an excuse not to send it. Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know this Jai. For all I know he might not scare easily and resent a threat. He could hit back even harder. Would he use my words; twist them into some damning quote? Am I starting a war? Should I take the high road and just ignore it all until it goes away?

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at my laptop, but my screen saver pops up three times; on the fourth, I look at my watch to see it’s time to pick up Robin. Now or never. I press send.

  As I pull up to the school gates, I feel a little better. Being passive might make for an easier life, but it’s not a life to be proud of. Jai Patel is bullying me with his accusations. If someone bullied Robin, I’d tell him to stand up to the thug. They’d soon find another target.

  Perhaps I’ll do this to my stalker too. Shout threats and beat my metaphorical chest until he leaves me alone.

  Robin is always the first one out of the school gates. He bounces down the path and tumbles into my car. Quickly, he straps himself in, and then twists around in his seat to grin up at me.

  ‘I got an A on my math test!’ He holds up the test paper to prove it.

  ‘That’s wonderful. You are a clever little thing,’ I say, leaning over to hug him. As I do, someone behind me in a BMW honks their horn. I wave at them, start my car, and move out of their way.

  ‘Nostrom helped me,’ Robin says. ‘That’s not cheating, is it?’

  As I pull away from the kerb, I consider his question.

  ‘No, that’s not cheating.’ Of course it isn’t. Nostrom is in Robin’s head. Whether the answers come from him or his imaginary friend, it’s all good.

  ‘Being a robot, Nostrom is great at maths.’ Robin slips off his school shoes, dropping them into the footwell. ‘And science. He loves science too.’

  ‘Well, Nostrom will be pleased; I made your Halloween robot costume today.’

  ‘You did! That’s awesome! I can’t wait to see it.’ He waves his little socked feet up and down.

  As we drive, I keep an eye on the streets we pass. It’s a dusky afternoon and there is a mass of dark cars around, but I don’t see my stalker lurking near any of them.

  I pull up into our drive. Robin climbs out of the car; leaving his shoes behind in the footwell. Just in socks, he makes a run for the house. I lean across to scoop up his shoes.

  Once safely inside. I lock the front door and loop the chain across it. I place Robin’s shoes next to mine by the door, leaving a gap for Leo’s.

  With the flourish of a tired magician, I reveal Robin’s costume to him. Part of me expects him to be frustrated it’s home-made. Another part of me knows my son better. A grin spreads across his face, and he shakes his little hands in delight. The paint is still a little tacky, yet somehow that makes him even happier, until he sees the glitter on the big red buttons lining the front.

  ‘Nostrom says glitter’s for girls.’

  Smiling, I kneel in front of him. ‘Well, maybe Nostrom is just jealous because his buttons are un-glittery.’

  ‘Un-glittery isn’t a word, is it?’ Robin pouts.

  ‘No, it’s probably not, but it’s fun to say.’

  He laughs. ‘Un-glittery.’

  ‘Hey.’ I take out my mobile phone and scroll to the photo of the fair poster. ‘Would you like to go?’ I show him my screen. His face lights up brighter than the artificial glow of my phone.

  ‘When?’

  ‘How about Friday night?’

  ‘Can I wear my costume?’

  ‘No, sweetie. That’s for Halloween. It won’t be a surprise if you wear it before.’

  ‘Okay,’ he mutters.

  As I peel carrots, Robin flutters about the kitchen, trying to help me, yet ultimately getting in the way. He knows his gran is coming to tea, which makes me wonder if Leo prearranged this impromptu visit on Saturday, and only disclosed it to me now.

  Suddenly Robin appears beside me. ‘A surprise for who?’

  ‘What?’ I then realise he’s been thinking about wearing his costume to the fair this whole time. I love how kids’ minds work. Things stick in them like bubble gum.

  ‘For everyone. We all like surprises at Halloween.’ It’s a rubbish answer, but it’s been a long day so it’s all I’ve got left.

  I’ve almost set the table when Leo texts to say he’s stuck on the M5, and will probably be late. He finishes his update with an emoji my phone can’t read, so all I see is an alien face. I text back to drive safely, and that I’ll leave him a plate in the oven if he’s home too late to eat with us.

  A moment later, I get another text. I hope it’s from Leo to say traffic is moving, but it’s from Tracy. Fed your stray x, it says. She means Kylie. I text back, Thank you, and I get back, You owe me dinner.

  Leo’s mum is always early, so I’m not surprised when she knocks on the door half an hour before she’s due. It’s as if she’s trying to catch me doing something wrong.

  In a rush to let her in, I forget about the security chain, so the door jars when I try to open it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to her fumbling with the chain. It’s not a great start. The one time I manage to put the chain on makes me look as if I can’t even open a door right.

  Mrs Duffill looks a lot like Joanna Lumley’s character from Absolutely Fabulous. Her pale blonde hair is coiffed to perfection, and her make-up is delicate yet prominent. Unfortunately, she’s not as much fun as the character in the Nineties TV show. Every time we’re together, she slips into conversation that I’m not good enough for her son. She has never offered for me to call her by her first name, let alone ‘Mum’. Robin calls her Gran; I address her as Mrs Duffill. She loves Robin, though. When she steps through the door, the old woman grimaces at me, but swoops in to give Robin a massive hug,
and a smile, which creases her perfect eyeshadow.

  ‘Gran! Come and see the costume Mum made me!’ He yells at her, dancing on the spot. He then offers his arm and escorts her towards the cardboard robot parts piled up in the dining room. My son, the little gentleman.

  I veer off to set the dining table. As I do, I flip on the laptop to check out the podcast. It’s just paranoia, but as long as it remains at two hundred odd, it’s okay; I can continue with my lovely, boring life and everything can go back to normal.

  As the page appears on the screen, I have to look twice. There are now over one thousand subscribers. I refresh the page, but find, as I do, the counter goes up two more. What the hell?

  ‘Dinner smells more than ready, Cherrie. Are you dishing up now?’ Mrs Duffill asks, loitering at the head of my dining room table. She sits down, and rearranges the cutlery beside her placemat.

  I can’t breathe. Over one thousand subscribers! This can’t be happening. I look down again at the screen.

  ‘Should you have your computer out? We are about to eat. Hopefully,’ she says.

  Robin bounces into the room. ‘Do you need help dishing up, Mum?’

  ‘No, no, sweetie, that’s okay. Sit down and keep your granny company.’

  I slam down the lid of the laptop and quickly move it to the sideboard. I then remember I haven’t put the roast potatoes in the oven. They will take at least forty minutes to cook. I grab the bag of potatoes from the vegetable drawer, then look for the peeler. It’s missing. As I fetch a small knife, I realise I need to heat the oil first, so spread two tablespoons over a baking tray. I bend to put it in the oven.

  ‘What’s taking so long, Cherrie? You knew I was coming tonight.’

  I open the oven door to see there are already burnt potatoes in there.

  ‘Why are we waiting?’ Mrs Duffill sings with Robin.

  Come on, Cherrie, you can get through this without stabbing that horrible, haughty piece of work in the heart with a spatula. Wringing my hands together, I imagine how much force it would take to push a piece of plastic through a person’s ribcage; quite a bit. I pull out three plates.