Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  "Indecent?"

  "Let's just say, we think Jez was bullied into doing it. On her birthday too. "

  Jacquie fell silent. The more she heard, the worse it got.

  "Thing is, I can describe this lad to a T," the other woman interrupted her bleak train of thought. "Because of the way he stared at me. Tall, with brown eyes, light brown, roughish-looking hair, and black-framed glasses. A typical swot, but a weird swot if you get my meaning.” She fixed on Jacquie again. “How old's your kid?"

  "He was thirteen, on April 1st."

  Rita Martin shook her head. "This one seemed older. And look at his eyes. There’s something really odd about them."

  A glance at the photocopied drawing, made Jacquie's stomach shrink. She shook her head almost too quickly.

  “My daughter did it,” added her caller. “A proper little artist.”

  "Mrs Perelman, why not fetch your son so we can move on?" Jarvis's toecap now actually on the parquet floor. "He's nothing to fear."

  Jacquie climbed up towards the landing, each stair blurring with the next. She realised that no amount of covering up could hide the fact that Louis had been unaccounted for on the morning in question. Also, his second-hand camera matched the constable's description.

  She pushed open her son's bedroom door, the rotting smell even more repellent. He lay curled up on her car rug - completely naked, sucking his thumb. His policeman's uniform neatly folded on his chair.

  "Louis?" she whispered into his red crumpled ear. "Get dressed quickly."

  "Whassup?"

  "Constable Jarvis has a question about Monday morning. I told him you'd been on the toilet at school, but where did you go?" Her lips brushed his skin. He pushed her away as he uncurled himself and sat on the mattress edge.

  "The library of course. I'm always in there. Learning new words, like I said. Runt, remember?"

  "Did anyone see you?"

  "Course they did."

  "So you went there after the toilet to recover, yes?"

  "Cool."

  "Hurry up now."

  She watched him rinse out his mouth, pull on a tee shirt and jeans and lead her to the stairs, as if rising to the challenge.

  *

  "Hi," he called out in his best voice above the demented Chopin. Then to his horror, saw Jez's Mum looking up. That same red hair, the piercing blue eyes. For a brief second he halted, unsure what to do next. She didn't appear to recognise him, for which he said a silent prayer of thanks.

  "Go on," The Fawn nudged him. "You've nothing to worry about."

  The pig stared at Louis' vivid crop without comment, made the introductions then dug in his pocket.

  "Think carefully now, young man," he began. "Have you ever seen this lad before?" He held out a card-framed school photo while Rita Martin's face crumpled in grief.

  Louis frowned at the familiar gap between Jez Martin's front teeth; saliva shining the lower lip. The detail was alarming. Every freckle, every hair screamed out at him, while his audience waited for the faintest reaction. But he was going to disappoint.

  "No. I'm terribly sorry. Where does he live?"

  "Does?" The real mother rubbed a greasy cuff across her eyes then blinked back more tears. "He's not been home since Wednesday afternoon." She looked Louis up and down again then turned to their visitor. "This isn't Pete Brown. The one I saw on Monday morning spoke like Jez, not some poshy. More shifty somehow..."

  She nudged the pig who produced another piece of paper, and just to see his portrait in close up made Louis grip the door frame to steady himself.

  "I don't wear spectacles." He managed to say in a reasonable tone of voice, also to deflect from the noticeably-enlarged pupils. “Never have.” As for those big, black pupils, he’d have to come off the snow. But how? It was the only thing keeping him sane.

  A small frown had settled on the pig's forehead.

  "But your eyes are brown, and when I met you at the Neighbourhood Watch meeting and at school, your hair was the same colour as in this drawing."

  "It’s preposterous!" The Fawn burst out. "How many boys you've seen so far have those same characteristics? Go on. Tell me."

  The pig pulled out an iPad and soon located the tally. Obviously a lot, judging by his expression. "Point taken, Mrs Perelman. And we've still three more schools plus Sunnyview to check out..." He closed the programme. That name had caught Louis unawares, but he stepped forwards to touch the other woman's grubby sleeve.

  "I do wish I could help, Mrs Martin,” he said. “I know how my mother would feel if I went missing. It must be really awful for you." He turned towards the lounge, then to The Fawn. "Can’t Dad tone things down a bit? I can hardly hear myself speak."

  "Excuse my husband, do," she explained to the visitors upon her return. "He's had a lot on his plate at work recently. Voluntary Redundancy letters are going out on Monday. Then they really turn the screws. Playing the piano’s his way of coping."

  Dave would kill her for saying that, yet something about this constable seemed to draw forth secrets.

  "He seemed rather on edge at your Neighbourhood Watch meeting, as I recall." The pig pocketed the photo and the drawing then patted Louis' hair. "New look eh? Any particular reason?"

  "Girls like blonde, so why not?"

  “Fair enough.”

  The Fawn coloured. She wanted Mrs Martin and the constable to go. Now.

  "Thanks for your co-operation. And Louis, just remember," added the pig, "if you happen to see Jez, or hear anyone bragging about him, just get on the blower. Ask for me. OK?"

  "OK." Louis smiled.

  Now fuck off and leave me alone...

  "Whoever this Pete Brown is, he changed my Jez for the worst," Rita Martin said, heading for the police car. "I'm not stupid."

  The pig turned round.

  "By the way,” he added. “A man phoned in saying he’d seen Jez heading north along the Radford Road. Unless it's a hoax, that's the most promising bit of information so far."

  Louis squinted into the sun.

  “Who was he?”

  “Anonymous.”

  "Why make a hoax call?"

  “Sickos are ten a penny out there. So you try and help us, eh?"

  "Sure. When I leave school, I’m joining the Police Force.”

  "Not with hair like that, you won't," the pig grinned amiably. "Now don't give your Mum any more worries."

  "What d'you mean, more worries?"

  "Last Saturday evening, remember?"

  Louis shot her a death stare.

  "I went down to the Mall, that's all. Like everyone else."

  "And shopping this morning with your Mum and Dad? If not, why didn’t you answer the door when I called? About eleven it was."

  "Must have been in the garden. I get paid for doing jobs."

  The Fawn stepped in.

  "What about those Patels in number seven? Their lad goes to Louis' school."

  Louis thought of his blazer. The still-missing little key...

  "For fuck's sake, shut up!" his hiss drowned by the lolloping rhythm of a Strauss waltz which had replaced the Chopin.

  "We checked that family out yesterday. Just in case.” Jarvis and his cling-on who’d stopped to listen, turned to go. “I must say they were very concerned. Mr Patel and his boy even offered to search for Jez."

  "Cunt creeps," Louis muttered once the enemy was out of earshot.

  "Louis!" Admonished the Fawn. “You know that c word’s forbidden in this house.”

 
"I don’t care. He's the one."

  "The one what?"

  "Nothing."

  "Tell me."

  "It doesn't matter.”

  “By the way, where's that camera we got you?"

  Louis gulped.

  "Swopped it."

  "Good God. When?"

  "End of Jan. It started playing up. Focus problems."

  "You'd no business to get rid without telling us."

  "Sorry."

  "Who took it?"

  Think…

  "Toby Lake. And I got some cool flies for fishing."

  "Fishing?

  "Yeah. New hobby for the holidays."

  “One more question.”

  “What now?”

  She fixed on his eyes as the police car sped away out of sight.

  “You’re not taking drugs, are you?”

  Shit. Shit…

  He could play this two ways and chose the hardest. Turned to hug her. Her hot body like a hot whale against his. “How can you even ask?” He sniffed as if about to cry. “Do you really think I’m a total idiot? That I’d let you guys down?”

  “Course not. It’s just that I worry.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  They separated and she went indoors, leaving Louis staring up at Darshan Patel's bedroom window. But not for long. He must retrieve the remaining knife, its sheath and the box from The Maggott, sooner rather than later.

  25

  6.30 p.m. with thunder closer in the sky as Greythorn Wood's black trees began to sway together. Louis was straightening his bow tie embroidered with quavers, when the doorbell rang.

  "Oh my!" Exclaimed Alice Booth-Collins, from number 1, carrying a huge cello case. Her thin eyebrows meeting the blue rinse. "Your hair."

  “I thought Dick Myers was playing that.” Louis retorted, pointing at her instrument.

  “He’s unwell,” said The Maggot, staring past her as if expecting someone else. “Thank you Alice, for coming along at such short notice.”

  "There was a police car outside your house this morning,” she announced, clearly miffed. “Suppose we'd had prospective buyers looking around at the same time? What did Constable Jarvis want, anyway?"

  "Recommending some new CCTV or other."

  "Where's Carla, the flute player?" Louis butted in, making the Maggot blush even more.

  "You mean, flautist?" corrected the prissy neighbour, before suggesting they begin practising without her. So, with the incomplete group assembled, and thunder growing louder, Finzi's music wafted out into the heavy heat and hung there amongst the dozy bees, the bloated roses.

  Suddenly, above the trio, an Armageddon roar subsided to a putter as two black leather-clad figures – male and female - dismounted from a Harley Davidson, untied their respective bundles and made for the front door.

  Louis left his post, already fixated already by the young woman’s perfect figure, her long, golden hair and eyes like he'd seen on an Egyptian tomb figure at the British Museum. In contrast, her companion looked well pissed off.

  He watched The Maggot’s every move as he held the front door open. His twiddling fingertips. The shift from one suede loafer to the other.

  "Carla, good to see you," he clasped her free hand. "And Greg, of course. You’ve brought your oboe. Great."

  This noticeable drop in enthusiasm made the biker scowl.

  "Sorry we're late,” said Carla, then beamed at Louis. "I dig your hair. What does Dad think?"

  He’s not my Dad…

  A weak smile struggled to The Maggot’s lips. "Follow me," he said, allowing his body to come between hers and Louis. "I’m sure you could use a drink."

  Honey Girl unpeeled her leather gear to reveal a sleeveless, silver top and tight, black velvet trousers. Her skin was lightly tanned, her legs the longest Louis had ever seen. However, he knew where that particular journey ended...

  "And who's this?" The Fawn enquired, while balancing four plates of tiny meringues in both hands. More like dollops of pigeon shit, thought Louis.

  The Maggot gave their names, adding, “both are music students from the Institute. They’ve big futures ahead."

  "I see." She smiled stiffly, leaving an electric tension in her wake, far worse than anything outside.

  "It’s the menopause," Louis explained out of her earshot. "Not her fault."

  The Maggot coughed before leading the bemused couple out on to the lawn. Refreshments and the makeshift bar were then carried on to what remained of the yellow grass, and by 7.15 p.m. the small audience had arrived and stood in an awkward group by the patio doors.

  *

  Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Beethoven's Archduke Trio took the proceedings to the interval, with everyone unaware of the latest item on the local television news that a second schoolboy - this time from the Sunnyview Children's Home – hadn’t returned for his dinner.

  Louis who'd acquitted himself well on his Guenari, excused himself and ran upstairs to The Maggott's bedroom to search for his sheathed knife and its plywood box. The open window overlooked the back garden affording an aerial view of him chatting up Honey Girl, closer than he ever stood with The Fawn. Also how his hand touched hers while passing her an orange juice. How he brought his mouth to her ear then sprang away when Greg Willis approached.

  Randy old goat.

  Ice cubes tinkled in glasses against the rumbling from the sky, and sudden spurts of laughter floated upwards as Louis plundered the pine chest of drawers full of neatly- folded underpants and socks bound up in tight balls. Handkerchiefs with D in the corner, the odd Valentine to The Fawn with ink faded to the colour of piss. A ticket for The Messiah at the Cathedral four Christmases ago. A packet of Durex Ultra Lite, unused.

  He searched the matching wardrobe, quicker now - his hands raking through unworn dressing gowns, racks of trousers and shirts in colour order.

  "What are you doing?" A voice rang out.

  The Maggot.

  "Where's that knife and its box?" Louis challenged him.

  "This is my room. Get out."

  He was quivering. His skin purply round his nose.

  "Tell me."

  "They went to the tip first thing this morning, where they should have gone all along. Now," he reached for Louis' arm, lowering his voice, "I suggest you get your tuning sorted out. You can't let people down, you know."

  "You can."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "You're letting Mum down by screwing that Carla tart. And I'll tell her. So there."

  26

  Thunder still mumbled over Dingle Wood as the sun slipped in and out of clouds casting the faces of all in the garden into a ruddy glow. The red wine into old blood.

  The Tipsy Fawn's white dress was already stained, as bottle in hand, she topped up, leaving no room for her lips. Occasionally, her pink, high-heeled sandals would stick into the turf and she'd topple forwards leaving them behind.

  On the last occasion, Gunther Zeller tracked her with lumbering steps, holding the discarded footwear aloft. Louis missed nothing while sipping a sour, white wine by the patio doors, including how The Maggot glanced at Carla and Greg busy popping cocktail sausages into each other's mouths. That is, until a powerful shriek issued from the lower edge of the lawn made everyone freeze.

  Sherry Linberg appeared, her hands covering her mouth as she teetered across the curve of grass, her wine glass rolling down towards Willow Brook's bank.

  "Oh my God!” She screamed. “My God!"

  Louis
ditched his glass and joined the stampede towards her. The collective fear keeping his dick happy. Carl, the pilot husband arrived first, then turned away, retching as the smell from the brook intensified. Someone led his hysterical wife away to a chair on the patio.

  "What the hell was that?" Linberg wiped his mouth.

  "A body of some sort,” said someone else whom Louis didn’t recognise. “Jesus Christ…"

  "No way. It's all black. Besides, how did it get here?"

  The Maggot elbowed his way to the bank, holding his nose and squatting down at the spot where only recently he'd flayed nettles and dock to create more of a feature.

  What could only be a human corpse had beached up against the lawn, occasionally jerking on the sluggish current. Louis gagged as a clump of reddish hair showed through the black slime, but the rest, except for the hint of a white trainer, was sealed in thick, viscous tar. Bluebottles who’d transferred their attention to the onlookers, were slapped and swiped at, to no avail.

  Greg Willis punched 999 on his mobile.

  "Fourteen Meadow Hill. Dr. Perelman’s place.” He snapped at whoever had answered. “Looks like a stiff’s showed up at the bottom of his garden..."

  The Maggot stood up, his face grey despite the sun's strength. He saw the young lovers move off, locked together, and shrugged to himself as if inwardly acknowledging some defining moment. He then strode away from the brook's stench, the sudden bubbling from what might have been a mouth, past his tipsy partner and the boy with the lump in his trousers who made no attempt to stop him.

  *

  Sirens grew louder as a police car and ambulance swerved into the crescent and stopped on the Perelman’s drive. Their spinning lights made Louis blink and attracted most of Meadow Hill on to their dry front lawns. All except Darshan Patel and his family.

  Louis watched the unfolding drama with a weird detachment as Jarvis and a young, female cop plus paramedics ran down to the brook. After a brief recce of the scene, the bin-linered corpse was arranged on a stretcher and carried through the side gate, leaving a trail of filthy blobs on the pale slabs. It resembled a huge, black slug, Louis thought, maintaining his look of concern.