Bone Deep

by Sandra Ireland

  I can feel my shoulders prickle. I glance at Lucie, but she is dead to the world.

  This is when he is strongest, when you’re at your most vulnerable, when you’re fearful and angry and heartbroken. There’s always a point of no return. A rash decision, a slippery slope, one push too far. There may be a moment of suspension, a hitch in time when the needle wavers between good sense and momentary gratification. In that moment . . . in that moment, the miller diverts the dark waters and floods your mind.

  He was at my shoulder when I turned on the water that killed my husband.

  The miller told me to do it.

  I’m surprised when Arthur bursts in the door. It’s unusual for him to move so fast – and he looks so agitated. His hair is all over the place, his face flushed. I’m not sure what he’s doing here. Did I call him?

  ‘What the hell is going on? Lucie!’ He spots the girl there on the floor, barges past me to kneel beside her. Stroking her hair, clutching at her hand. Such tenderness. And then he looks at me. I don’t like the way he’s glaring at me. You shouldn’t look at your mother like that, with those haunted, distrustful eyes. I try and make the situation a little clearer.

  ‘She’s just given birth!’ I tell him. ‘Isn’t that a surprise! I’m just here, trying to help.’

  No sooner have I spoken than he’s on his mobile, giving out our postcode. He’s crouching over Lucie, her hand tightly clasped in his. Their grasp is shaky; I can see Arthur’s whole body trembling with shock. Arthur is usually so steady, so calm. He’d taken a look under the towels and come to some conclusions. He’s blaming me, and Lucie has gone strangely quiet. Arthur thrusts his phone into his jeans pocket and stands up. He’s glowering at me, suddenly bullish, demanding to know where the baby is, and when I nod towards the stairs he almost bowls me over in his haste to get there. I hear him taking the stairs two at a time.

  ‘It didn’t cry. The baby didn’t cry,’ I say to the mill in general. The darkness in the corners grows deeper. Something scuttles across a beam, dislodging a little shower of rubble. Lucie doesn’t answer, but I know the miller is listening. The miller has been with me for a long time now. He’s always there in your weakest moments; those moments when you take a decision that alters your life forever.

  Since his father’s accident, Arthur’s never set foot down there, in the basement, never offered to fix anything for me, never helped with the fly problem or put down rat poison, but now – for this girl and her brat – he can overcome anything. He can face his demons, go down into the dark. I hover at the top of the stairs, monitoring his actions by the movements of his feet. Squares of lights from the window illuminate his trainers. I can’t see the rest of him from here but I imagine him massaging the tiny body with the towel, perhaps freeing the nose, the mouth of all that gunge.

  I see his feet back away from the window. He has picked up the child, perhaps, clutching it to his shoulder, or draping the little body over his forearm. His steps are economical, efficient. Determined. For all his love of staying in the background, I’ve always known my son to have a certain steeliness. It will stand him in good stead, because I fear things will end badly here, one way or another. That child is damaged goods. A dire consequence. That’s why I put him down there. The miller knows what to do with a consequence.

  Arthur comes to find me on the bridge behind the mill. I’m staring down at the spot where the lade and the river meet; two stories colliding. Glancing up, I see the tail lights of the ambulance disappearing up the track, blue light spiralling through the trees.

  ‘Why didn’t you phone for help?’ He looks dishevelled. His hair is all over the place and there’s a smear of blood on his face where he’s rubbed at his eyes. ‘She could have bled to death. And the baby . . . you cut the cord and tied it with string. What were you thinking?’

  I shrug. I don’t have any answers. ‘The baby – he didn’t cry, you know.’

  ‘That didn’t mean he wasn’t breathing. Why did you take him away? Why?’ Arthur is scraping his hair back, rocking on his heels as if his anguish has no place to go. ‘You left him on his own, in the cold. Why?’ It was a plea. Why?

  I shake my head. Sirens are approaching. There is so much my son doesn’t know. ‘I suppose the baby got in the way. You deserve to be happy, but not with someone so unreliable.’

  ‘So you were willing to let the baby die?’

  ‘That baby is the product of a betrayal. It’s tainted, corrupt.’

  ‘People are allowed to make mistakes.’

  A police car appears, pulls up at the bottom of the track. I squint into the blue flashing light.

  ‘What are they doing here? They’ve flattened the winter pansies.’

  Two police officers, one male, one female, are walking towards us. They seem to be in no hurry.

  ‘Lucie managed to tell me about . . . about what you’d done, when they were putting her in the ambulance. The paramedics called the police. I’m praying she’s wrong, but we need to know the truth.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was never as forgiving as you, Arthur. I loved your father but I couldn’t love unconditionally. I’ve done some things . . .’ I produce Lucie’s mobile. ‘Please, give this back to Lucie. I do hope she makes a good recovery. I might not be able to visit for a while . . .’

  The breath is leaving me. All I can feel now is the steady drumming of my heart. I’m aware of Arthur asking me question after question, while the young female officer approaches me to confirm my name, my address, my date of birth. I feel strangely calm as they read me my rights. It’s like one of those cop shows – the handcuffs being snapped on, and the hand on the head bending me into the back of a police car. But they have obviously decided to take a softly-softly approach.

  ‘Mrs Muir, we’re going to have a chat down at the station. Perhaps you could help us by beginning at the beginning.’

  ‘That makes perfect sense.’ I nod agreeably. ‘Let’s start with the mill, shall we? It all starts and ends there.’

  Lucie

  The baby is wearing the sort of hospital gown they reserve for infants who have been abandoned in alleyways or whisked into care – or whose mothers have been unwilling to face the consequences of their actions. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He is a very strange and interesting little person and I’m just beginning to realise he’s all mine. The notion is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I hug him a little closer, trying to ignore the cannula taped to my hand.

  The Irish staff nurse was eager to tell me the nitty-gritty of his delivery, the bits where I was floating somewhere up in the rafters. I had a postpartum haemorrhage. Mac cut the cord with a Swiss army knife and tied it with old-fashioned jute string. Sure, that’s how it would have been done, long ago, but aren’t we lucky now that we have antibiotics? The poor little chap. He’s been dead lucky altogether.

  Lucky is a word that’s cropped up a lot since we were admitted.

  The boy yawns. His lips are crumpled and milky, like flower petals about to bloom. There’s something about Reuben in the bow of his top lip – and I think, what a weird thing to notice. I suppose kids are the sum of their parents’ parts. Anita, my very first visitor, brought us a little white brush and comb set, and I set about brushing his silky black hair for the umpteenth time. Anita tells me the first hair always falls out, but I hope that isn’t true. She also brought a little white cap and some scratch mittens, but I can’t bear to cover up any bit of him – not his lush hair or his miniature fingernails, so shiny and sharp. Everything about him is new and untried, and I like it. He is a fresh start.

  Anita told me darkly that Mac has been remanded in custody and Arthur is sorting things out at home. Everything is fine, and I’m not to worry. He’ll be in when he can. I ask her to buy me the things the midwife tells me I’m going to need: nursing bras and big pants and sanitary products. I’m glad that they’ve stuck me in a side room and I don’t have to be in the main ward and see the shiny balloons and the couples and th
e babies in their carefully chosen going-home outfits.

  My favourite Irish nurse hurries in with a glass of water and some paracetamol. ‘So did you call your folks yet?’ She nods towards the locker where Anita placed my mobile. Arthur had given it to her to bring in, along with some hastily purchased toiletries.

  ‘Not yet. I just need some time to work it all out in my head.’

  The nurse chuckles and watches me down the painkillers with an eagle eye. ‘Sure, babies bring love with them, don’t worry about that!’

  Not this baby, I think sadly. I kiss the top of his head, which still smells faintly of me. His soft mauve eyelids flicker and I wonder if he’s having bad dreams about his start in life, being all alone in that cold, deserted basement. If Arthur hadn’t arrived and cleared the mucous from his little face . . .

  I can’t wait to see Arthur again. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I don’t know where to start. I suppose they’ll all come out in time.

  I doze off, and when I open my eyes some time later, Arthur is standing there holding two carrier bags of baby clothes and a bumper pack of nappies.

  ‘I’m not sure if this is the right kind of stuff. I’ve never done this before.’

  He looks a bit haggard and his shirt is crumpled like he’s been wearing it for a long time. Behind his gold specs, his eyelids are puffy and vulnerable and it somehow reminds me of the baby. Strange that. I pat the bed, but he doesn’t sit down. He paces to the cot and eases the blue blanket from under the little one’s chin.

  ‘Don’t wake him up!’ I hiss, and when he turns to look at me there are tears in his eyes. I pat the bed again. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

  He sighs and returns to me, the bed sagging beneath his weight. I hold his hand, move my thumb over the skin. I’ve become so wrapped up in the baby, his hands seem gigantic and tough in comparison.

  ‘My mother’s been taken into custody.’ He raises his shoulders and drops them, as if he still cannot quite believe it. ‘She confessed to everything. Told the whole story as if it was a –’ He throws a hand up in the air. ‘As if it were one of her fairy stories. She killed my father as well as Anna Madigan.’

  I catch my breath. I hadn’t known that bit, but it kind of makes sense. ‘Did she turn on the water when he was working on the machinery?’

  Arthur nods. His gaze is fixed on the wall, and I can see the tears glittering, unshed. ‘She admitted it. She did it deliberately. He was in love with . . .’

  ‘Anna Madigan. I guessed that bit.’

  He nods. ‘She got back in touch five years ago and my mother invited her in. She drugged her, then suffocated her with a pillow and left her body to rot in the tunnel beneath the wheel.’

  His voice cracks and I open my arms to him. We hold each other for a long time, until my sore breasts remind me I’ve just had a baby. Gently, I break the contact. ‘I was right about Floss. Floss spent her days looking for Anna.’

  ‘Ma took her in and drove Anna’s car to Tentsmuir, abandoned it so that they’d think she’d gone missing. It seemed to work. Maybe she would have got away with it.’

  ‘No. Your past always catches up with you.’ I look past him to the cradle and the sleeping child. ‘Always.’

  I did make that call. I spoke to my mother. There were tears and disbelief and vague plans to visit. Jane took over.

  ‘I thought you’d put on weight,’ she said. ‘And you’ve been smoking and drinking . . .’ She tutted. ‘How could you not know?’

  ‘It happens,’ I said. ‘And there wasn’t that much smoking and drinking. The baby’s had much more important things to worry about.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. He was . . . unexpected.’

  There was a muffled sound at the other end, a sort of hmm, which I didn’t think was appropriate for a new auntie, but I suppose the circumstances are far from ideal.

  Jane visits the day before I’m due home. Home. Arthur wants me to stay on at the Miller’s Cottage. There are a million reasons why I don’t want to see that mill every morning, but it will have to do for now.

  I hear my sister before I see her, the clopping of her heels along the vinyl corridor, and then she appears. She looks young and pretty and groomed, wearing a grey plaid dress and black tights. Every inch the popular aunt come to meet her new nephew. She’s carrying a pack of Pampers and a gift bag with blue bunnies on it.

  The baby is lying in my arms, sated with milk. His tummy is filling out like a little puppy’s. I expect Jane to coo, or try to take him, or at least to kiss me on the cheek, but she doesn’t. She sets the nappies on the floor and lays the gift on the end of the bed like an offering.

  ‘A couple of Babygros,’ she says awkwardly. ‘I don’t suppose you had time to get a layette together.’

  I have no idea what a layette is, but I agree with her. ‘It’s all been quite dramatic.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  What the hell is wrong with her? A sinking feeling takes hold of my stomach. Sensing the change in me, the baby squirms and fusses in his sleep. ‘Do you want to hold him?’ I jiggle him a little on my arm, an invitation.

  Jane steps forward, gazes down into the baby’s face. And then she raises her eyes to meet mine.

  ‘I know,’ she whispers.

  ‘What? Know what?’

  The baby gurns and draws his knees up.

  ‘Don’t bother with the lies. I know what you’ve been up to behind my back. With Reuben.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The baby begins to mew, and I realise how fiercely I’m holding him. The world shrinks to this – to me, my sister and the baby who will forever come between us.

  ‘I’ve known for months.’

  My breathing is coming in shallow gasps. Everything goes monochrome, as if I’m about to faint. It’s happening at last. The waiting is over. My voice is reduced to a whisper, and the baby, starting to cry in earnest now, almost drowns me out. ‘How?’

  Jane’s face is set like a mask. Her eyes are dry. ‘That poem, Lucie. It was your handwriting. How could I not know? You’re my sister. We wrote stories together, remember? I proofread your essays, for goodness’ sake. You lied to me. Your family. And apparently you’ve been lying to yourself. I wanted you to come clean. We might have been able to salvage things, if only you’d shown some remorse. I gave you the chance when you came home, but you chose to keep up the deceit. And now this . . .’ She waves a hand at my son. ‘I can see Reuben in the curve of his lip, his eyes, his hair.’ She gives a laugh which is far from pleasant. ‘It’s always the person you least expect. The person who’s closest. How could you betray me? My own sister.’

  My own sister, my own sister. How could you?

  The baby’s cry takes up her words, turns them into an eerie keening that soars up to the white ceiling, becomes, for a moment in time, the unstoppable music of the bone harp.

  My own sister. How could you?

  Epilogue

  Lucie and Anita watch from the cottage as a white-suited figure ducks below the police tape and enters the mill.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Lucie whispers. She whispers most of the time now, because the baby barely sleeps. He wakes up in the night, screaming, and won’t be silenced.

  ‘That’s my tutor, Professor Stewart,’ says Anita. ‘The police call him the Bone Man.’

  Next time Anita is on campus, she bumps into the Bone Man. He has a full white beard and a merry expression. When he’s not in a forensic jumpsuit, he dresses from head to toe in black. He tells her that he’s very excited by his findings at the mill. He puts a finger to his white moustache. ‘It’s an ongoing case, so not a word to anyone! The police have left no stone unturned, quite literally.’ He chuckles at the witticism. ‘The millstones have been dismantled and scoured for evidence. Our preliminary tests have been quite extraordinary.’

  ‘Really?’ Despite the horrible turn of events, Anita’s interest
is piqued.

  ‘We found powdered bone commensurate with the age and sex of the alleged victim, but we also discovered something else, something much older. Mac was a colleague of mine, although we moved in different circles – science versus the imagination, eh!’ He raises his snowy eyebrows at the quip, but when Anita fails to smile he clears his throat and moves on. ‘So I am aware of her work in the field of local folklore and tradition. Indeed, the whole damn business is extremely –’

  ‘Professor,’ Anita cuts in. ‘What did you find?’

  The man rubs his beard. ‘In the deep grooves on the grinding surface of one of the millstones, we found historic fragments of bone, together with filaments of human hair. Too early to say how old, but we’re certainly talking in terms of centuries. Now, I do know the story of the two sisters associated with the mill – I was chatting to Mac about it not six months ago. And of course it would be wrong to jump to conclusions . . .’

  ‘No, we mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ Anita agrees. In the deep grooves of her mind she can hear harp music, like the soft fluttering of birds. Thrip thrip thrip. ‘After all, it’s only a story. Isn’t it?’