Little Bones Page 9

  I burn myself four times retrieving the chicken from the oven. The potatoes are cold by the time I have the bird carved. The carrots are still hard and my peas are so soft they might as well be mushy. With no visible lumps, the gravy is my only redeeming culinary act. I bring in the plates, then sit down. I’m not hungry, and the act of eating dinner feels even more of a challenge than cooking it.

  Mrs Duffill bows her head and recites grace in the most sarcastic manner I’ve ever heard. Usually, I’d say something, but right now, all I can think about is that one thousand strangers know my secret. Mrs Duffill could have heard it. No, it’s doubtful she’d have sat on that killer-nugget of information much past stepping over the threshold.

  I listen to Robin’s voice while picking at my food. I don’t take in what he’s saying, but the sound of it is soothing.

  ‘So, what do you reckon?’ Mrs Duffill asks me.

  ‘Um, about what?’

  She tuts and rolls her eyes. ‘The fair. I could come with you on Friday night.’

  The fair is my treat to spend time with Robin. ‘We only have two tickets,’ I lie.

  ‘I could buy another one.’

  ‘They’re sold out.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. It would have been fun to go to the fair with a robot,’ she says winking. Robin lights up as if he’d just seen Santa playing Nintendo with the Easter Bunny.

  ‘He’s not wearing his costume to the fair,’ I say back. ‘It won’t last until Halloween if he does.’

  ‘Well, that’s what happens when mummies make costumes out of old boxes and don’t buy proper ones.’

  My blood is boiling. It is red hot and bubbling. I go to open my mouth but stop in case I cough and splatter red all over Mrs Duffill.

  ‘Mummy did a great job. My costume is awesome.’ Robin smiles at me. I love him so much.

  ‘Of course she did,’ Mrs Duffill says.

  I want to explain we don’t all have the money to buy pre-made costumes, but I’m still worried about speaking; I could easily transform Mrs Duffill from a regal Joanna Lumley lookalike into Carrie at the prom. It’s a ridiculous thought, yet I still can’t bring myself to open my mouth.

  The look on my face makes her change the subject. ‘Did Leo tell you I’m buying a second home in Spain?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Does Robin have a passport?’

  ‘Of course I do, Gran!’ Robin slips off his chair and runs upstairs. He knows where we keep all our passports, nestled together in the drawer next to my side of the bed. I hear him thump around, and then he thunders back down again to show her his passport.

  ‘Well, isn’t this wonderful. Spain can be your first stamp,’ Mrs Duffill says, looking at me with a sly smile.

  How dare she point out I can’t afford to take my son overseas for holidays right now. And say it in front of him. Casually, I twist my dinner knife around and around. The weight of the stainless steel steadies my thoughts.

  ‘Mrs Duffill,’ I begin.

  Fortunately, the front door opening interrupts me. There’s a bang. Damn, I put the security chain on, again. Leo swears. I rush over to unhook it.

  ‘You trying to tell me something?’ Leo taps the chain. He sees his mum at the dining table and smiles. ‘Hey, Mum. How’s the chicken?’

  Mrs Duffill pokes a piece of meat. ‘Dry and cold. How are you, my darling?’

  I go to fetch Leo’s plate of food from the oven; the plate I’d promised, but it’s not there. Didn’t I dish it up? Quickly, I pull together some leftovers and shove them into the microwave. I deliver Leo his dinner.

  ‘Great stuff,’ he says. ‘Thanks, babe.’

  He only ever calls me babe in front of his mum. Smiling, I slink back into the kitchen area to tidy up. As I move pots and pans around, I listen to my family laughing and eating without me. Robin talks to Leo about his maths test and his costume. Mrs Duffill complains I’m too distant and a crappy housewife.

  Still, all I can think about is all the people who have heard my name, and figured out where I work. It’s like a vice squeezing my brain. Each new person cranking it tighter until my mind implodes. I have to tell everyone now. One thousand is too many people, and this grisly revelation about my family is better coming from me than someone else.

  I look down at the chicken carcass on the kitchen counter. Its chest splayed out where I cracked it open to retrieve the stuffing. The bones are stained and broken. I want to throw it away, but I can’t stop staring at it; imagining it clean. How beautiful it could look, if I’d just taken the time to …

  ‘Everything all right in there, babe?’ Leo’s voice breaks my weird chicken spell.

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, then bundle up the old bird’s bones and throw them in the bin.

  As I go back into the dining room to clean up the dishes, I notice Robin has eaten everything but his carrots.

  ‘Eat your veg, sweetie,’ I whisper to him.

  ‘I don’t like them,’ Robin whines.

  ‘He doesn’t have to eat them if he doesn’t want to,’ Mrs Duffill states.

  ‘Yes he does, he needs to eat his vegetables.’ I place a hand on Robin’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you want to grow up big and strong?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine as he is,’ Mrs Duffill adds, then looks over at my son. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs to play?’

  I stand at the back of Robin’s chair so he can’t get up. How dare she! This is my house, my son, my carrots. She’s setting herself up as a hero in Robin’s eyes – the granny against vegetables.

  I see Robin is looking up at me, so I bend down and say, ‘How about we put some cheese on them; would it help?’

  I hate this, but sometimes to be a good mum you have to play the bad guy.

  ‘Or, how about the cheese spread you have in sandwiches?’

  He nods at me.

  Throwing Mrs Duffill a sour look, I fetch the cheese spread along with a knife. I want to plant the dull blade deep into her chest, but I don’t do that. The bloodstains would never wash out of my tablecloth. I scrape off a massive dollop of spread and smear it over the now-cold carrots. Robin picks up his fork, stabs a carrot, and then stuffs it into his mouth.

  ‘You’re such a good boy.’ I give his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

  I look up to see Mrs Duffill raising an eyebrow – not in the funny Dwayne Johnson way that Robin likes to imitate, more in a threatening, defiant way. Leo has been oddly quiet throughout the exchange. Usually, he would chime in on his mum’s side. I guess his silence is pathetic support for me.

  Watching Robin force down his vegetables, I feel a wave of anger and guilt. It’s a familiar feeling, yet it still metaphorically knocks me on my arse. Muscle memory kicks in before anyone notices my odd staring, and I clean up the rest of the table. After putting all the dishes in the sink, I slide down onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen to dissect my problems. Carrot-gate aside, I need to find out why The Flesh on the Bones has unexpectedly become so popular. I need to tell my family who I am, just not now. I’ll be damned if I prove Mrs Duffill right tonight, confirm that I’m not good enough for her only son; that I’m a terrible person because my dad turned out to be a senseless serial killer. Mum, at best she was weak; at worst, a killer too, but eight-year-old Leigh-Ann wouldn’t have known the signs. It’s only now as adult Cherrie I have my doubts about Mum, albeit doubts I hide deep beneath my memories that are just for me.

  Mrs Duffill leaves after her second cup of tea. While Leo puts Robin to bed, I get out the laptop and see there have been another three hundred subscribers to The Flesh on the Bones. I check the site and the links. How has this happened? I open my emails. There’s a reply from Jai Patel.

  Chapter 10

  The email is oddly professional. Jai apologises for outing me, yet claims the case of Mr Bones has never been more relevant due to the disappearance of Thomas Doncaster. He asks for a comment he can use on his next show. He also includes a link: a local newspaper has written a stor
y on The Flesh on the Bones. They do not name me, yet the headline reads: Is there a serial killer among us, again? The article quotes the podcast in several places.

  ‘I’m just going to do a little work on the extension. You okay?’

  I look up to see Leo. My lovely innocent boyfriend who I’ve lied to and hidden my past from. What was I thinking? For what I did, I don’t deserve this life, I shouldn’t have any happiness. Leo and Robin have done nothing wrong – they deserve better. ‘Yes, but I need to talk to you about something important.’

  Sighing, he comes over. ‘Mum is lonely. When Dad died, she went into hermit mode. It’s good she wants to go to the fair with you.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to talk about.’

  I put the lid down on the laptop.

  ‘Did you really only buy two tickets? Do you even buy tickets in advance?’

  I snort and shake my head.

  ‘Not the most convincing lie you’ve ever told.’ Leo laughs.

  If only he knew the true extent of my lying skills. I want to tell him everything; just unload it all like a massive, vomitus mixture of truth and secrets. Maybe he’d understand. Probably not. My mouth opens ready for my confession to come tumbling out.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Hey, nice robot costume. Another job off the to-do list for this year, eh.’ Leo doesn’t wait for a response, instead he walks away. With a clunk, he unlocks the extension door and disappears. I should have said something. My chance to come clean passed me by. I need to try harder; it’s just this secret is like a solid ball that’s lived in the pit of my stomach for years, and trying to cough it up could choke me.

  Years ago, when the full realisation of my father’s crimes hit me, one question stung my little mind: why? I didn’t want to know about other killers, just why my dad did what he did. Perhaps he wasn’t a monster, just sick. And when you love someone, you care for them when they are sick. I go upstairs and rummage in the back of my wardrobe. Hidden beneath a pile of old jumpers is a box. Most people hide porn and sex toys in secret boxes, but in mine, there are criminology textbooks. I haven’t looked at them since I met Leo. I didn’t have to; I know each one by heart. For years, I collected them, looking for answers. Why my dad? Why these crimes? Why include me? But, as fascinating as they were, there were no chapters on men who create artwork from children’s bones. No sentence revealing even a hint of what could be wrong with my dad. Not long after he was sent to prison, psychologists published their diagnoses; but they didn’t live with him, hunt with him. They didn’t create art with Mr Bones.

  I flip through the first book, the familiar dusty smell of the pages taking me back to when I first bought it from a second-hand bookshop. All the major personality types are covered. I stop at the chapter on Narcissists. Those who think the world exists for them alone. I’ve come across a few – I’m sure everyone does. They spare no thought about who their actions hurt. Wait, will telling Leo only help me? Would I be hurting him for no reason other than a selfish need for him to help shoulder my burden? No, I shouldn’t tell Leo anything. This storm could still leave me unscathed. Why ruin my life unless I have a reason to? If I did, I’d be a self-indulgent narcissist, just like my dad.

  As I carefully place my books back into the shadows of my wardrobe, my mobile beeps. I look down to see an email; it’s a Google Alert. I click into it to see my name on a true crime blog. ‘Cherrie Forrester’ is now like a tiny digital spider with bloody feet, leading a scarlet trail back to my life. One or two footprints won’t draw attention, but hundreds smeared across the internet will. The blogger talks about me as if I should be the number-one suspect in Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance. Like father, like daughter, it says and even includes a horrific meme from a slasher film.

  I don’t hear Leo come to bed; I wake up with him snoring beside me. He smells of fresh-cut wood and has red paint speckles over his forehead. Not being able to sleep, I lie awake watching the sunrise.

  When I finally doze off, I dream about my dad – something I haven’t done in a long time. I blame that damn podcast, the missing Thomas Doncaster, my stalker, and Dawson’s Food possibly shutting down. It’s all swirling around in my mind like the perfect storm of guilt and worry.

  In my dream, Dad is singing. He loved to belt out popular Eighties songs. In my dream, he dances in a sleek grey suit. When he offers his hand to me, I slap it away. I try to not dance to his beat, but I can’t help it; I sway.

  The surrounding landscape melts away; suddenly, I am in his art studio. Funny, it doesn’t look like the place I remember with its midnight-coloured walls; it is more like our dining area. In the centre, a table supports a pile of bones from eleven young boys.

  Humming, Dad works on his artistic creations; pulling out bones and sticking them together with superglue and coloured twine. I don’t want to look, but I’m not eight years old anymore; I’m an adult. It’s my responsibility to see what he’s doing. I edge closer. He’s grinning. My dad was never as happy as when he was working in his studio. I peer over his shoulder. The contents of the table morph into cardboard boxes painted to look like a robot. Fear floods my body.

  With a wink, he says, ‘Robin will love it.’

  I wake up.

  Lying in bed, I wring my hands together, and think through how much of my dream is my dark imagination and how much were regurgitated memories.

  Dad never scared me. When they arrested him, I was convinced it was a mistake. He couldn’t have really killed all those children. That wasn’t my dad. The man who called me a host of endearing pet names, and who danced with me to pop songs. Finally realising all those little boys I’d met didn’t exist anymore because of my dad was earth-shattering. Now it’s easy to look back and see what was happening, but eight-year-old Leigh-Ann hadn’t fitted all the pieces of the puzzle together yet. Hell, she didn’t even realise there was a puzzle.

  I shower early, so I can start breakfast before anyone else gets up. Frying eggs and bacon, I wait for Robin. He smells the food, and is down before I get the chance to recheck the laptop.

  ‘Bacon, on a school day?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s because of your math test yesterday.’

  ‘Sweet,’ he says and then shovels his breakfast into his mouth as fast as he can.

  Leo strides to the dining table, kisses my cheek like a TV husband, then ruffles Robin’s hair. How can a perfect family scene be happening now? I sit back to take it all in. This might be the last unspoiled family morning I get.

  While Robin grabs his school bag, I check The Flesh on the Bones’ subscribers. It’s nearly two thousand now. Even more worrying, overnight it has given birth to a comments section. Scrolling down, I scan for mentions of both Leigh-Ann and Cherrie – neither is there. Most of the comments are talking about bringing back the death penalty for my father, and saying my mother did the right thing by killing herself. They also link Thomas Doncaster to Mr Bones. The more I read, the angrier I get. My blood is boiling again. How many times can my blood boil until it evaporates into nothingness, leaving me a limp sack of skin and bones?

  ‘Ready, Mum,’ Robin yells at me.

  In the car, Robin flicks off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the front seat. I should tell him not to take his shoes off; remind him how dangerous it is to sit like that in a car, but at any moment, his happy little world could fall apart. His bloody lineage exposed for the entire world to see. I say nothing. Who am I to bring up the safety of little boys?

  Switching on the radio, I find the DJ doing yet another Eighties throwback hour, so I quickly turn it off. I’d sooner not come across any more memory-soaked songs that remind me of Dad. Why can’t people just leave the past alone?

  At the school, I miss parking in front by just one car, so have to park further down the street.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ Robin says and opens the car door to jump out.

  I don’t like the thought of my son walking anywhere on his own right now, so I say, ‘Wait, sweetie, I’ll walk with you
.’

  Scowling, he puts on his shoes and slips out of the car.

  The large school gates are made of twisted wrought iron. They squeak when you push them, like the entrance to a haunted house in an old movie.

  Once we’re in the playground, I kiss Robin goodbye. As he bounces off, he doesn’t look back at me. I’m proud of that. Two other kids cling to their mums. I hear one complaining that they’re ill so don’t want to go to school today. I take a minute to marvel at how great Robin is; sure, some toys end up lying around for days, and there’s the inconvenient dislike of wearing shoes, also of course, there’s Nostrom; but he will grow out of all that. I’m a lucky mum.

  Several metres away from me I hear a woman say, ‘Have you heard about it?’ Looking over, I know her face, just not her name. I do recognise the lady she’s with: Sharon, a busybody who, each year, organises the Harvest canned food collection.

  I rarely engage with the mums at the school gates, and I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I want to hear what they’re talking about. What if it’s the podcast? Unlikely.

  ‘Yeah, who knew we have the infamous daughter of a serial killer in our midst?’

  Oh no.

  I sway a little closer to them so I can better hear their gossip.

  ‘It’s so awful, what’s happening to the Doncaster family. Worse still that it happened in the county before. Do you think it’s a … oh, what do they call them on those American police shows?’

  ‘Copycat,’ I say, knowing the term well from my criminology books.

  They hear me.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, a copycat. Hey,’ Sharon says, moving to include me in their circle. ‘You’re Robin’s mum, right? Robin Duffill?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply a little too swiftly. Thank God, I gave Robin Leo’s surname rather than Forrester. I offer no further info. There are so few Cherries around; I should have called myself Donna or Mandy. Maybe next time.