BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending

by Diane M Dickson

  He shook his head and pulled his mouth downwards in a negative gesture. She felt her heart sink.

  “No, not here. I know the names of all the tenants. There’s no Robertson.” He stepped forward now and grabbed the door handle, Lily moved backwards. What more was there to say, after all.

  “Oh, hang on. Robertson?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Ah right, it’s the owners, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the name. I rent, through an agency of course, but I’m sure that’s the name on the lease.”

  “Oh, how wonderful.”

  “Yeah. You should call Burk and Brownlees. They’re based in Bristol. Have you got your phone, a piece of paper?”

  She took out her mobile and inserted the name and the number into her contacts list. “That’s so kind of you. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind.”

  “No problem. Sorry, I really will have to go now. Good luck.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  So, not a failure at all. As she turned from the door Lily felt elated, there was the real chance that this was going to work out smoothly.

  She walked into the town centre and found a little café. It was the first time she had been in this sort of place since Charlotte Mary had become too ill to eat out. Nobody looked her way, everyone was busy living. So, this was what was in store. For whatever time was remaining she would be invisible, of no interest to anyone. It should have made her sad, even more depressed, but today at least, she didn’t mind at all. She didn’t want to talk to people she didn’t know, she didn’t really want to talk to people she did know, not any more. All she wanted was to finish what she had to do, and then to be left alone in the quiet of her fading days.

  She wasn’t going to waste time so she took out her phone. She knew it was unlikely the rental agency would simply give out contact details, but it was worth a try, and it had to start somewhere. She couldn’t face traveling through to Bristol, finding the offices only to be told they couldn’t help her, and then all the way back to Bath Spa to wait for another train. She was tired, but there was a half an hour to kill, so she sat in the window of the coffee shop, ordered more tea, and dialled the number.

  “Burk and Brownlees, Emma speaking. How may I help you?”

  “I am calling to ask about one of your landlords.” There was nothing to be gained by obfuscation so she stated her case baldly. Either this would work or it wouldn’t. It was a first step, that was all.

  “Are you a tenant?”

  “No, I am trying to trace an old friend and I believe you act for her.” She’d never been comfortable with lying but this whole situation was built on deception so, though this lie upon lie distressed her, the truth wouldn’t serve.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I can’t give out contact details of our clients.”

  “Ah, I thought that might be the case. Well, thank you.” She was about to hang up and a second thought stilled her finger, where it hovered over the button. What was there to lose after all?

  “I wonder if you could do me a favour then?”

  “A favour?”

  “Yes, my friend is the landlord, or rather the owner, of some flats in Bath. Do you think you could pass my number on?”

  “I think that would be okay. But we have quite a number of properties in Bath, do you know the address?”

  “Yes, yes of course.” She heard the clatter of a keyboard as she recited the address.

  “Okay, I know who that is. Do you want to give me your name and details?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s…” she paused. “It’s Charlotte Mary Stone.” She had to swallow hard before she could continue and recite the telephone number. After the call, she slid the phone into her bag and picked up her cup of tea. Her hands shook and she needed to replace her drink on the saucer for a minute. She closed her eyes and drew in a couple of steadying breaths.

  If there were no calls in the next couple of days, then what? Plans began to form, crazy plans, illogical. She could rent a flat in Bath, and that way would secure the owner’s address. No, that was ridiculous, she couldn’t find out the name of a landlord as a precursor to renting a place. She would just have to hope for the best and if this didn’t work then she would find another way.

  Lily’s mind calmed a bit as she strolled back through the town centre to the station. She sat on the draughty platform, looking across the tracks in the direction of Lansdowne Hill.

  What had it been like? Had Peter’s mother lived there, hiding her pregnancy until it was impossible to do so? Had she brought him home from the hospital to that house years before, or had she simply left him somewhere, and made the journey with empty arms and a broken heart? Maybe it would be possible to ask these questions, gently and kindly. She could fill in some of the old blanks and it might help. For the moment, all there was to do was to wait and hope that the phone would ring.

  * * *

  She walked through her front door into the warm house with a sigh of relief. She was exhausted.

  The living room was in darkness except for a faint ambient glow. She didn’t close the curtains but sat in the gloom, and let the weariness have its way. She shut her eyes and drifted back to the golden past. Their joyous graduation, the dancing, the drinking, the friends who had all disappeared. Why was that? Had they in some way given off an air of tragedy in spite of efforts, mainly by Charlotte Mary, to present a happy face to the world? Had the deteriorating relationship made them poor company, though they had been better in a crowd?

  Ah well, it didn’t matter much anymore.

  She spiralled into the comfort of sleep and dreamed of small boys and little hands folded in her own. Of holidays by the sea, of first days at school and of a young man leaning down to kiss her brow. Cold tears leaked from under her sleeping lids and dried on her wrinkled cheek.

  Chapter 12

  She carried the phone with her everywhere. Even when she took a shower she placed it on the top of the toilet cistern, propped so that she would see if the screen lit up. She left the curtain open, and then had to mop soapy water from the floor.

  She was distracted and edgy all day with little to do and tried to fill the time with odd jobs, and distract her mind with the plans that it was possible to make.

  She called into a charity shop in Palmerston Road, and asked them to arrange to send someone with a car. The boxes of Charlotte Mary’s leftovers were bulky, and she knew she couldn’t carry them through the streets.

  Lily wondered if she would like to work in one of these places, to fill her remaining time with ‘good works’. Maybe mixing with other people would unpeel the layers of despair that were growing heavier with each day. She knew she wouldn’t do it though, there was only room for the Peter situation, and she shrugged the musings aside.

  A young woman called in the afternoon and helped to carry the stuff from where Lily had piled it by the front door. They stuffed it into the boot and rear seat of her car.

  She stood on the path and watched until the car turned at the end of the road, the little indicator flashing brightly against the grey day. Then she went back into the house which was now, for the first time, devoid of Charlotte Mary. Empty except for her great sin buried in the basement, and part of the fabric of the building.

  When the phone rang, she dragged it from her pocket, her heart pounding with excitement, until she read the number of the Funeral Directors.

  “Hello, this is Muriel. How are you, Lily? How are you getting along?” She was sickly sweet, this woman, and Lily wanted her to go away.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Yes, just fine.” She knew she sounded cold, but felt wrung out, empty inside, and had no reserves to draw on except automatic response.

  “Good. Well that’s good, that’s the spirit. You just have to move along, don’t you? I am calling because I have had confirmation that you can collect the ashes, whenever it’s convenient. The time
s are given in the information booklet. We did give you the booklet, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, I have it. Thank you.”

  “Well, that’s about it I think. Did you purchase an urn?”

  “No, I don’t think so, I didn’t know that was my responsibility.”

  “Oh dear, that was in the booklet.”

  “I didn’t see that, I didn’t read the thing.”

  “You could call them, but if not they will provide a temporary container. You shouldn’t worry, it will be taken care of. Don’t get upset about it.”

  Lily felt a stirring of anger, she hated to be spoken to as if she was simple-minded, and as she aged it seemed that it happened more and more often. She couldn’t bear to be treated as though she had no experience of life, that there was nothing to her except the decrepit old thing that she had become. “I wasn’t worried to be honest, I didn’t think that I would be expected to walk through the streets with the ashes loose in my hand. Although these days who knows?”

  There was a short silence and then Muriel gathered herself and spoke again, quieter this time and a little less simpering, “Lily, I do hope you were happy with our services. If you have time there is a place on the website for client feedback and we would be very grateful. Of course, if there was anything that didn’t quite reach the standard you expected, we would prefer you to discuss that with us, rather than make negative comments. Were you happy?”

  This was outrageous. Lily tried to adjust to changing attitudes but this was too much. She floundered for a response, and in the end simply said, “thank you,” and disconnected the call. She threw the phone onto the table and then as her outburst replayed in her mind she began to laugh. It was a little hysterical to be sure but it was laughter nonetheless. Oh, Charlotte Mary would have been proud of that.

  She lay in the front bedroom, amongst the familiar shadows and the strange emptiness until it became unbearable, and then slid from the big bed, pulling the duvet with her. She went down to the living room. There she curled against the arm of the settee, drooping and drifting in half sleep until the birds began to chatter in the garden hedge. The pair of great crows that came every morning to a roof opposite drove her from the room with their screeching.

  She was stirring sugar into her second mug of coffee when the ringing called her back, dashing in her bare feet across the hall carpet to snatch up the vibrating mobile from the coffee table.

  It was an unknown number and she steadied herself against the wall as she answered. “Hello, Lily Bowers.”

  The voice was deeper than she was expecting, rough and obviously male. “I want to speak to… Charlotte Mary Stone. I was given this number.”

  In her excitement, she had forgotten the name that she had left with the agents. She panicked, what was she to do?

  “Oh, yes, yes, this is Charlotte’s phone, can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. I just had a message to call this number. I don’t have a clue what it’s about. Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s not here just now. Who am I speaking to please? Could I take a message?”

  “Well, as I say I haven’t a clue what this is about, something about an old friend. I don’t have any friends, old or new for that matter, called Charlotte. I haven’t got a lot of time to waste on stuff like this. If it’s some sort of sales scam then, well, sod off really.”

  “No, no, wait. It isn’t a scam, I’m sure it’s not. She wouldn’t – well we wouldn’t do that. Who am I speaking to please?”

  “Terry Robertson. Look, if it’s about a flat then you have to go through the agent, I don’t deal direct with tenants, that’s why I pay all that money in fees.”

  “No, it’s not that. I don’t need a flat. Look, if you are Mr Robertson, well I don’t mean if, I’m sure you are. Oh sorry, you’ve caught me unprepared. Look, I do know what this is about. Charlotte Mary was trying to trace an old friend. She had an address in Bath and it turns out that you are the owner. I’m sorry there must have been some mistake.” As she said it disappointment flooded through her and she sank to the chair, deflated. “It was a woman that we were trying to find, C. Robertson.”

  “Well, there are no women, not any more. There was my granny and my mum but they’ve gone now, both of them.”

  “Oh.”

  He didn’t question that she didn’t know the name, only the initial, but in a more thoughtful tone he continued, “Well, maybe it was my mum. Look, not wishing to be rude, but how old is this Charlotte? My mum would have been fifty-eight, but she died a couple of years ago. Is that who your friend was looking for? Carol, her name was.”

  Yes, Lily’s heart jumped with the thrill. “I am so sorry to hear that she died. I wonder though, would you mind if Charlotte gave you a call?”

  “Well, I don’t see the point to be honest. Mum’s gone and I don’t know your friend.”

  “No, I realise that, but there is something Charlotte specifically wanted to talk about, something from the past and well, I think it might be of interest to you.”

  “Oh, if it’s to do with reunions, family history all that sort of stuff I’m not interested thanks. No, I don’t think there’s any need.”

  She had to stop him, he was about to ring off. “No, it’s not that. It’s to do with erm… it’s to do with a legacy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Something that Charlotte was given by your mum, to keep. Well I am almost sure it was your mum. That was the address we had, the one in Bath. Did she live in the house in Southcote Place?” She could tell by the change in his tone that she had his interest.

  “Yes, that was where they all lived, until we had it converted. So, when can I call her? Or maybe she could give me a bell.”

  “Could she meet you?”

  “Yes, I suppose that would work. Are you in Bath?”

  “No, we’re not, but she’d be more than happy to travel to Bath, if that’s convenient.”

  “Alright then, I have to say I’m quite tickled by the idea of having something of my mum’s. What about tomorrow? I have to go through anyway.”

  “Yes, excellent. That would be fine. Where would you like to meet? About lunchtime perhaps, would that be convenient? Maybe somewhere you could have coffee?”

  “Tell you what, how about twelve o’clock in the Crystal Palace. Do you know it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well it’s easy to find. Down behind the cathedral in the square with that big old tree. Anyone will be able to tell you.”

  “Right, fine. We’ll see you tomorrow, oh well no, not me I won’t be able to come but Charlotte, I mean Charlotte.”

  “Great.”

  And he was gone. Lily slid to the floor and lowered her head to her knees. For a while thoughts jumbled against each other, but as they settled and straightened, she began to smile. She’d done it, she’d found her, maybe, just maybe. And then she reconsidered, she hadn’t really. For after all this, she was dead.

  Nevertheless, Charlotte Mary, with the little box and the old paper bag had seemingly led her to the baby’s mother and his brother. The thought was strange and unsettling, perhaps a half-brother, but nevertheless a blood relative of their little dead boy. Someone with his DNA. It made him real again in a way that she hadn’t expected. She went down to the basement to tell him, to whisper in the darkness about his mummy – his other mummy – and how sad it was that she would never know what had happened to him. “Maybe,” she said, “maybe you are together, perhaps it works that way and you found her after all.” She lit the new candle she had brought and then climbed back upstairs to find things to occupy her, and to organise the trip in the morning.

  Chapter 13

  Lily was very early. It was a bright day, a little cold but sunny. She walked by the river and watched ducks sliding down the weir; strolled up to the cathedral and past it, across the paved square, and she headed towards the great old tree.

  The pub was busy, but there was a small table beside the firep
lace. She could see the door, and watch the passing crowd through the window. Always, when she had thought of Peter, grown and maturing, not dead in the box in the cellar, she had given him strong limbs, a bright smile, and dark, curly hair. She had imagined that, naturally, he would be taller than her, taller even than Charlotte Mary’s five feet eight inches, and of course, he was handsome. She had drawn this picture from desire in the absence of fact. The tiny child that she had held for such a short time had carried the blueprint, but that was all. The Peter of her daydreams was no more than imagination and wish.

  The door opened and a thin young man came through, his mousy hair blown by the wind. She turned her eyes back towards the window. He was due anytime now. The door opened again, but this time a young couple scuttled in, giggling and pushing at each other. She snorted a little with impatience, turned back to stare at the manufactured flames in the hearth.

  “Charlotte Mary. Is that you?” His voice was recognisable, the one that she had spoken to on the phone. When she turned though, and looked into the pale blue eyes, she was swept, not by thrill and excitement, but by a wave of intense disappointment.

  This was not Peter’s brother. This was not a tall good-looking young man filling her eyes with the reality of her imagination. She had overlooked him. She had seen him enter and dismissed him, and now here he was, raising his eyebrows in query, and laying a thin, boyish hand on the back of the chair. “I reckoned it must be, you being on your own and…” He had been about to refer to her age, hadn’t he? She saw a slight flush of embarrassment as he caught himself and bit back the words.

  She half stood, changed her mind and flopped back onto the seat. He hadn’t held out a hand to her, so she placed hers on the table, flat at each side of the cup and saucer. “Yes, Charlotte,” she nodded, “and you must be Mr Robertson, Terry was it?” She knew that she sounded unfriendly but had taken an unreasonable and instant dislike to him, because of his failure to be what she wanted him to be. His poor manners had compounded the problem and she felt despair and disappointment immerse the hope and excitement.