Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  Cathy went to meet him because it was the only thing she could think to do. It was only 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon but as cold and dark as midnight. The rain had stopped. Heavy clouds covered the moon in a cloak of angry black swirls. They pressed down with the threat of more rain to come. It held off for the moment, air calm and still. The lull before the storm.

  She stood outside in the shadows with the orange hood of her coat pulled tight, pigtails sticking out like two devil horns. By the dustbins she waited and watched, knowing he'd soon be out to empty the bins.

  A dustbin truck rumbled and came to a stop, filling the air with stink. Two men in donkey jackets clambered out and lumbered in her direction. She shrank back further, out of sight, watching as they dragged bin bags to the truck, tossing them in without a word.

  Only after the engine's rumble disappeared into the night, did she return to her previous place and watch. A weak moon peeped suddenly through the clouds, and it became very cold. Cathy wished she'd worn long pants rather than her miniskirt, but they hid what Belinda called her runway-model legs.

  Belinda hadn't texted or called, so Cathy assumed they still weren't talking. People say if you want to make a friend you should be a friend, so she thought Belinda should reach out first and apologize for poking her nose in where it was none of her concern. Then they could get back to the good old days where she'd tell outlandish tales with Belinda egging her on.

  But she couldn't wait for Belinda to see sense. She needed to speak to someone now and knew standing outside his house made things complicated. Like his home telephone, the house was a forbidden zone. He'd said never to visit or call. When she needed him, he would know. Like a wishing well, she thought. Although sometimes she wished and he' never turned up. Other times, he would show when she had never wished at all. Or, perhaps wishes were like palmate newt pheromones, produced when she needed him most.

  And there he was.

  He shuffled through the doorway with a black bin bag in his hand.

  Cathy hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Then, panicky and breathless, she called his name.

  He dropped the bin bag and looked around.

  "Cathy, is that you?"

  His voice echoed through the still air like a frightened choirboy. Its high-pitched screech startled Cathy too.

  When she stepped out into the dim light from the doorway, she was surprised by the hostile glare in his eyes. Yes, he had told her never to visit or call, but she expected to see his soft smile. Now she wondered why he kept her away. Weren't they going to run away to the countryside where he'd buy her dream cottage and they'd live happily ever after?

  "What the hell are you doing here?" He looked like he couldn't believe his eyes, face scrunched up, lips twisted, everything sour. "What the hell!"

  Cathy felt her heart break. He said he would show up whenever she wished. Well, she wished, and here he was. So what if she'd given the wishing well a little kick by showing up on his doorstep? Why is he so angry? Has he changed his mind?

  But then she remembered his work, and breathed. Dealing with the public was stressful. Belinda had told her there were days after a shift at Logan's Bakery when she came home and cried. And he dealt with the public, day in, day out. Stressful.

  Over the Solway Firth, thunder growled. It shook the frigid air and whipped up dead leaves in spinning swirls. They tumbled in sullen clusters, making a patter sound like drops of rain. He glanced at the heavens, then at the half-open door, grabbed her arm and tugged her deep into the shadows. Cathy wanted to believe he did it to protect her but wasn't so sure. When she left school, they would run away together. She was sure about that. He had told her many times.

  "Someone might see you," he said in a hiss. "I told you never to come here."

  Cathy struggled for words, her mind going blank. If anyone found out about them and their plans, she would be in big trouble. Why did she kick the wishing well?

  "Cathy, look at me. You are never to come here again, understand?" He placed a hand on her cheek. "The police are snooping around and asking questions about Maureen Brian. If anyone asks, and I hope to God they don't, I was with you on Bonfire Night, right?"

  Cathy shook off his hand and stepped farther back into the shadows, afraid to look him in the face.

  "But you weren't with me!"

  "Listen, I'm saving your bacon here, like I always do." His voice softened to honey. "It's not like you are telling a lie or anything. We met under the pier. No one will ask, but if they do, you'll tell them I was with you all night."

  Another clap of thunder pressed clouds closer to the ground. Black with ice and wet, like bloated balloons ready to burst. Cathy felt completely paralyzed. A palmate newt in deep hibernation. They didn’t wake until things warmed up, and in his mood, it would be a long hard winter.

  A streak of lightning snaked across the sky. Suddenly, Cathy's mouth opened and her feelings tumbled out.

  "You want me to get rid of our baby and now you want me to lie for you."

  "Cathy!"

  "You weren't with me."

  Rain fell from the heavens. He tried to place his arms around her, but she broke free and ran. A palmate newt wriggling from the weeds of the Port Saint Giles town pond.

  Chapter 37

  The radio woke Audrey up.

  Perspiration seeped through her mousy hair, icy-damp like hoar frost. The early-morning news bulletin crackled from the radio. She struggled to her feet and turned up the volume with one hand. The other gripped a duster. She'd lost track of how long she'd dozed in the armchair or even where she was.

  It was Sunday morning, wasn't it?

  Yes, she'd fallen asleep after midnight while reading The Layman's Guide to Police Practice and Procedure. And now it was 3:00 a.m. The fire was out, with cold seeping into every corner of the room. The announcer rattled off the top headline: “No Progress in the Maureen Brian Investigation.” Soft swipes muted the other stories, as with care she dusted the radio.

  Martin Findlay is sound asleep, she thought, but it won't be long before the detectives show up. She thought they'd take him in over the weekend. But they didn't. It drove her crazy not knowing what they would ask.

  "Say nothing," she said to the empty room.

  "An unseasonably warm day with clear skies," whispered the radio.

  She padded across the carpet, intending to use the kitchen sink to wash her hands. But she hesitated, thinking about the filth and mess of Martin's dim little flat. So, she dusted the windows and the walls and the rail from which the curtains hung, and the rod attached to the wall with the tiny silver screws. The pictures on the wall were dusted and behind the pictures too, and she took out the vacuum cleaner to suck up grime from the floor. Next, the mop and bucket over the hard kitchen tile, then down on her knees to scrub and polish.

  Audrey cleaned every spot, double checked, then cleaned again.

  Yes, living room.

  Yes, kitchen.

  Yes, doorknob and front door.

  She'd not leave a trace. The habit, picked up long ago when Uncle Don, stuffed full of greasy haddock and chips, threw up after his ninth can of long-life lager. It splattered over the scrubbed pine kitchen table. He sat silent and staring as she, only eight and small for it, cleaned up the pungent mess. By then she knew it wouldn’t be gone in the morning.

  Audrey recoiled from the memory as if the stale patch of vomit in her mind's eye reeked afresh in stinking sour blasts up her nostrils. Uncle Don replaced Uncle Sid who replaced her father, Markus. There were others after Uncle Don, but Audrey didn’t bother to learn their names. Now, after all these years, their faces were an indistinct blur. All dirty old men in her child's eyes.

  Hot and exhausted, she gave the curtains a final dust. She stared out into the dark still street and remembered the old jogger in tight green shorts who'd seen her crouching at the fence of the Seafields Bed and Breakfast, and again beside the detective’s car. Another dirty old man, she thought, but what if he went to
the police?

  Audrey moved abruptly from the window.

  She was almost sure the old jogger hadn’t seen her that day on the beach, Almost. Tension simmered as she considered her next move. How are you supposed to stay hidden from the authorities these days when there are people watching on a windswept beach, and CCTV cameras everywhere?

  She was taught to mind her own business.

  "Keep your nose out of my affairs," her mother had yelled when, at nine years old, she had asked why she had so many uncles.

  A thought struck. If the jogger had seen her, he would have stopped to ask if she was all right, given sympathy, and offered soothing words. Or maybe he'd have asked her what she was up to. Isn't that what normal people do? And he hadn’t done that.

  Relief came in a tidal wave.

  Tat-de-da-da—de-de-dah.

  Then she remembered the skeletal woman in the yellow plastic mackintosh outside Martin Findlay's flat. A sudden thud of her heart caused her to gasp. She didn’t expect anyone would be out in all that rain, thought she'd never get caught. But she'd told the nosy parker she was from social services. Her gut pulled as tight as a drawstring bag. She knew the old biddy would check.

  And that put everything in a different light.

  Chapter 38

  Monday morning, Earp sat in his kitchen staring out the window at the Egremont Russet apple tree. He watched the shadows cast by the bare branches morph by the minute as the pre-dawn light gave way to the dull shine of another November day. His hand clutched tight around a coffee mug, mobile phone on the table. He could barely admit it to himself—he was nervous.

  He'd woken a disgraced detective constable, but anticipated with delicious delight going to bed as a local hero. Anytime now, Sallow would call to give him the all clear. Martin bloody Findlay, who'd have thought? He sipped the bitter coffee and wished Sue had bought a larger bag of the Grain Bowl Café brew. They'd run out of that treat. When word got around he'd fingered the perp, they'd be able to buy more than good coffee. He gulped a mouthful of the supermarket discount acrid grind with a smile that soon swelled into a grin.

  There were no sounds in the house this early in the morning. Just the slow tick of the kitchen clock and hum of the fridge. Before Earp could stop himself, he picked up the mobile phone, weighing it in his hand as if assessing the quality of the workmanship. Once his eyes caught sight of the still message icon, he placed it carefully back on the table and tried to throw himself into his plans to re-fence the garden. But he couldn’t get excited at that prospect and instead watched with anxious breaths as the shadows crept into day.

  It had started quite innocently as the sun lightened his garden view. That anticipatory sense of imminent success like a coil wound tight or a child's excitement on Christmas eve. He could hardly believe his good luck and couldn’t quell the triumphant feeling. A little dram to celebrate, he told himself, as he riffled through the kitchen cupboards for a bottle of supermarket discount brandy. It wasn't like he was a problem drinker. He knew it was too early for hard liquor; only drank socially, but he deserved it after the crap he'd been through.

  When he hauled in Martin Findlay and the perp confessed, the toffee-nosed buggers in Carlisle would have to admit they'd made a mistake. Admit he was a good detective. A bloody great detective. Anyway, they'd send a car to take him to the Quarterdrigg with a constable as a driver. Like the old days. He opened the bottle and splashed a generous dollop into his mug, sipped, and topped it up with a splash more.

  He picked up his mobile phone again. Nothing yet. He sighed and thought about Sue snug in bed and played for a long while with the idea of joining her for a frisky tumble, when he heard a familiar soft electric whizz. Nick wheeled into the kitchen, Thomas the cat in his lap.

  Earp wasn’t one for woo-woo thinking, but knew at once that his son's arrival so early in the morning was a sign. The last time it happened, he'd been on his way to the Quarterdrigg to speak with Martin Findlay. Now he wondered if the stars had aligned in his favour or if they were about to deal him another blow. He sipped nervously at his coffee.

  "Daddy," Nick whispered in a weepy voice. "We have a big problem."

  He knew it! The stars had rolled their dice and dealt him another unfair blow. Why couldn’t he get a break? He felt like he was riding a sea serpent intent on dragging him down. That's what comes from being a family man trying to do a good job. Now his six-year-old little boy was coming to him with big problems. What the hell is the world coming to?

  He felt like he might lose it, right here in the kitchen in front of his son. Perhaps if he hadn't become so anxious waiting for Sallow's call, he wouldn’t have felt so angry. He could feel his heart racing, hard. Felt the thuds at the base of his throat. Almost shaking with a combination of rage and anxiety, he forced comfort into his voice. A devoted father speaking softly for the sake of his beloved son.

  "What is it, Nick?"

  "Thomas is thirsty. Can he have some milk?"

  "That's the big problem?"

  Nick nodded and swallowed as if his own throat were bone dry.

  "Very thirsty, Daddy, and he needs a saucer of milk."

  The tension drained from Earp's right shoulder, but he couldn't slow the fast beat of his heart. "You know he must wait till feeding time." The vet had warned them that the cat had grown too fat. There was one meal a day for Thomas. Saucers of milk were definitely out. Earp moved towards the toaster with the mug in his hand. "How about I make us some toast?"

  Nick cocked his head to one side. "Just a teeny bit of milk."

  "No."

  "Aargh… Thomas is so thirsty." His face crumpled into a grumpy old man with his tousled hair up like a brush.

  "Then he can have some water."

  "It don't taste good."

  "Water or nothing."

  "But—"

  "But, nothing, young man."

  "He isn't that thirsty."

  Earp couldn’t help but smile. His boy had spunk. A chip off the old block. He took a gulp of his boozy coffee and gestured towards the cat. "Your mum will feed Thomas later. Strawberry or raspberry jam?"

  "Strawberry, with lots of butter."

  Earp looked in the fridge and found what he needed. Butter, jar of strawberry jam. From the breadbin he took a crusty loaf which he sliced into thick wedges. The aroma of toast filled the kitchen. It popped up, golden brown. He slathered on butter, then jam, and returned with two plates to the table.

  "Now, young man, once you have eaten, straight back to bed."

  Nick took a greedy bite, swallowed and said, "Can't sleep, Daddy."

  Mrs bloody Ledwidge again! Earp felt his face flush. That damn teacher made his blood boil. Why wouldn’t she let his son play with his friends in the classroom? I'm going to tear a strip off the lazy cow. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder, looking down at him while counting slowly to ten. At nine he remembered what Dr Joy Hall had said about teachable moments and felt there was a lesson in this for Nick.

  "I've made some mistakes, son. Sometimes I wish it were possible to turn back the clock." He sighed. "But time only moves forward. One thing I've learned is, a friend is a gift you give yourself."

  Nick looked at his dad with sad eyes. "Do daddies have friends?"

  "Yes, son. Your dad has plenty of friends."

  "I've never seen them." Nick spoke in a halting voice as if he didn’t quite believe him. "Where are they?"

  Earp's only acquaintances were fellow police officers. The buggers are always trying to stab me in the back, he thought with a sigh. Still, this was supposed to be a teachable moment for his son, not retrospection into his own miserable life.

  Earp said, "When I was your age, I'd go into my classroom with a smile and make new friends every day. If your old school friends won't play, make new ones."

  "But School's all right now, Daddy. Me and Sandra and Tim and Walter are friends again. Mrs Ledwidge lets us play together. She's an ace teacher."

  "Oh." Earp stared at h
is boy. Did he break and make friends so readily as a child? He'd long ago lost touch with his school friends and couldn’t recall. "Bad dream, then, Son?"

  "I'm practising." Nick rocked his wheelchair backwards and forwards, his version of jumping up and down. "For next Saturday."

  Earp stared at his son with confusion.

  "Next Saturday?"

  "When I get to go back to the Quarterdrigg." Nick squealed with delight. "I've to get up early, cos me and my new friends have a day trip to Derwentwater. If I'm late, they'll leave without me, so I need to practise getting up early. And Mum is taking me out of school to go shopping for clothes this afternoon."

  Earp had heard nothing but excited chatter from his son since Sue took him on a whim to visit the centre on Saturday morning. They'd stayed all day, returning home after dark. "He's found a new social circle," she had said. "It'll do him good to make more friends like him. It'll do us all good. A bunch of them have travelled to Europe. Nick could go when he is older too, imagine that. They'll give him support."

  Earp felt uncertain about that. After the operation in America, his boy would walk. There'd be no need for the Quarterdrigg. Tension crept into his shoulder. Tightness clutched at his chest. He got up and walked to the kitchen counter, topped up his coffee, and added a dram of brandy. It sloshed into his mug. More than a dram. Why didn’t brandy bottles come with a measuring device so you didn’t pour out too much into your cup? They'd managed it with those little malt vinegar bottles he doused over his fish and chips. Yet the boffins couldn't do the same with a bottle of booze? The greedy buggers want you to drink too much. Well, he'd down it anyway. No point throwing away good money. He took a gulp of the bitter coffee, gagging at the strength of the brandy.

  "Practice is over when you've finished that toast. Then straight off to bed and get up when your mum calls you, else we'll both be in for it."

  "Can I come with you to work and play at being a detective?"

  "No, son."

  "Awww!"

  "Tell you what, how about we play wheelchair cricket in the garden when I get home?"