BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending

by Diane M Dickson

  “But he’s old. He’s sick. They surely won’t do that. They might decide that he’s too sick. It might kill him, the trauma. What if he’s not Peter’s father, what if that’s someone else.”

  “Even if it isn’t him, he sold the baby, didn’t he? He hid his birth and worse than that, he actually made money from it – that’s just sick. But I think I’m right, I’m convinced that I’m right, and he can’t get away with it. Look, let me take this away.” He pointed to the ashes. “I’ll keep in touch, I’ll let you know what happens and afterwards I’ll take you to his grave.”

  “I can’t.”

  It was an impasse. Lily was afraid, Terry determined. He was the first to speak. “Look, I’m really disappointed about this, I can’t pretend I’m not, but maybe there’s a way around it.”

  She looked up at him. “How?”

  “Okay, if you really don’t want to let him go to Bath, to be buried with his mum – and I don’t understand it, this change of mind – but, okay, if that’s really how you feel, let me…” He stopped and gulped. “Let me see if I can find out how much stuff they need, how much would be enough to do the job. Then we can open the urn, take some out and send that away.”

  She was shaking her head. He thought he knew why, he leaned and patted her hand. “Oh, I know, I know it’s a horrible thought, I know. I’ll do it though. I can do it, or ask someone else. I don’t know, an undertaker, that sort of person, and you’d never know. I’ll seal it up afterwards and you don’t have to watch. Will you agree to that?”

  She wanted to help him, she really did, but this wasn’t the way. These ashes would throw such confusion into the mix that she couldn’t let him have them, it was as much to protect Terry as herself. She would have to sort this out, that was without doubt, but she had no idea how she was going to do it.

  Chapter 23

  “Let me make you a drink, a cup of tea. You need to calm down.” As he spoke Terry rose from the settee, and took a step towards the living room door. “Is that okay? I’ll make us both a drink and we’ll sit and talk quietly. We’ll work it all out. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”

  Lily nodded, she managed a smile. “I’ll do it, you don’t know where things are.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “No, it’s fine, I’ll manage.” And he disappeared into the hall. Moments later she heard water gush from the kitchen tap, and the click and clatter of cups and cupboards.

  When she had met him, she had thought Terry a disappointment. She had wanted to see Peter, her idea of how he would have been, grown and wonderful, not this ordinary person. But he wasn’t ordinary at all. He carried such dreadful secrets with him, such pain and anger. And still, despite it all, here he was now in her kitchen, making a drink because she was upset, and all she had done was stand in the way of his plans.

  She placed the blue urn on the table. If she had Peter’s ashes to give him, then she would. If she had the means to help him in his belated quest for justice, then she would. It spoke of such strength of character that he had saved his mother, and presumably his grandmother, from pain; he had locked away his own hurt. He had even allowed his grandfather to grow old without shaming him. Yes, he admitted that the reasons were not loyalty or kindness, but he’d done it, when he believed it was his secret alone. Yet, now he saw that the injustice had spread wider than even he had believed, he was willing to face the embarrassment and anguish that disclosure would surely mean. He was a fine young man. And she couldn’t help him because she was a liar, and a coward. He shamed her.

  He had put the mugs onto a tray, and there was a packet of biscuits and the sugar container from the worktop. “Probably not what you’re used to but here we are. Do you want sugar?”

  “Thank you.”

  They sat quietly for a while, sipping the hot drink, until the silence became awkward. Terry glanced around. He pointed to a picture on the mantelpiece. “Is that Charlotte?”

  Lily had forgotten it was there, just a framed snap of them in London that was so familiar that she didn’t notice it any more. Charlotte Mary wore a bright summer dress; a shawl was draped loosely around her shoulders, and big sunglasses held back her hair. Lily stood beside her, a little less flamboyantly dressed, but smiling. They had their arms around each other. “Yes, London, a book fair. We were in publishing. It was fun. That was a good day.”

  He put down his mug and walked over. “She was lovely looking. Well, you both were of course, but she is striking.”

  “Yes, she used to turn heads.”

  “Was this after? After Peter?”

  “No, it was just before. Not long before, now I think of it.”

  “Why did you do it? I mean, you could have had a baby, one of you. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, it was different back then – everything. It was her, just her. I was never a part of it. Not until he came.”

  “Oh, that’s odd though, isn’t it?”

  “It was typical of her. She was…” Lily thought for a moment. “She was spontaneous and selfish, she was very spoilt, used to having anything and everything she wanted. She’d had an affair, and I think she saw this as some sort of glue to stick us back together. She didn’t talk to me about it, just went ahead and did it. Brought him home. It would have been wonderful. I think we could have sorted out all the paperwork and what have you, given time. She would have fixed that, and then we would have had him, a son. Yes, it would have been wonderful.”

  “It’s tragic. How long did he live? After she brought him home, how long did you have him?”

  “Just a few days. It’s hard to say exactly, we were in such a panic, the hours ran into each other, and then he died.”

  “Do you think, if he’d stayed with his mum, he would still be alive now? I mean, was he already ill when she brought him?”

  “He could have picked up the infection as soon as he was born. But of course, I am only guessing at a lot of it. We didn’t even take him to a doctor. At the time, we thought we couldn’t, but that was wrong, so very wrong, it was shameful. It’s what we should have done. What his mum would have done. So, the answer has got to be yes. If he hadn’t been sold, then he would very possibly still be alive. We are all responsible. We stole his life, all of us.”

  “Yes. You should have got him help, but it’s all too late. There’s no point tormenting yourself with it.”

  “He might still have died anyway. It’s very serious, what I believe was wrong with him. Anyway, that was how it was. We were devastated. I’d come to love him so much. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. I don’t think I have.”

  “So, will you let me find out his history? You said that was what you wanted. Let me find out who his father was, well, maybe – perhaps it will just prove who his father wasn’t, and we have to be prepared for that as well. Let me fill in some of the blanks. You owe him that, don’t you?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.” And then, she saw that she could, that she must. There were going to be consequences, everything could be laid bare and her life, the life she knew, would be over. But this life, as she was now, wasn’t worth preserving was it. If she did this thing, helped Peter’s brother, at least that would put some of it right again.

  She swallowed, once she set this in motion there was no going back. Terry sat before her, admirable, hopeful. She would help him. “If you had something else? If you had something instead of just ashes, wouldn’t that be better?”

  “How do you mean, something else?”

  “What if you had hair? Hair or… something else?”

  “Have you got a lock of his hair? That would be wonderful. That would be perfect.”

  “You’ll have to give me time. I can’t give it to you now, not right now.” The excitement left his eyes.

  She continued the lie. “We have a safety deposit box. Charlotte was always afraid of fire, floods. A few years ago, there were floods. A lot of the houses in Southsea were inundated. We just put all the pre
cious things in it. Papers, things like that.” She stopped short of saying the words, of telling him that there was a lock of hair from the baby in this non-existent box. She eased her guilty soul by not verbalising the untruth.

  “So, you’d let me have it?”

  “I could let you have some. You don’t need much, do you?” As she spoke part of her mind was in the basement with the dreadful grave.

  “So, what shall we do? How will we do this?”

  “I’ll go to the bank. I’ll call you.”

  “We could go now. I could take you.”

  “No, no. I can’t, not now, not today.” She flopped back against the chair and closed her eyes.

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you. It’s just that it’s better than I could have hoped.”

  “I think you should go now. I need to lie down. I’ll call you, when I have it.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Yes, or the day after.”

  When he had gone, Lily went down to the basement. The old spade was still there, leaning against the wall. She dragged it to the dark corner and jabbed at the floor. There was so little impression she had to bend close with her torch to see the tiny marks. Maybe if she scraped at it, maybe if she just scraped away with a small trowel, she could get in.

  Chapter 24

  She went upstairs and sat before the dressing table mirror. With only the dim light from the landing behind her, she looked like a wraith. A vague, rather bedraggled woman with hollow eyes and a downturned, lipless mouth stared out at her. She lifted a hand and touched her hair. If he had only wanted a keepsake, that would have worked. She would clip a curl, from the back where the colour was still true. Tie a piece of old ribbon around it and send him on his way. But that wasn’t the answer. It wouldn’t be very long before he was back, calling out the deception.

  She lay on top of the bed and closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. The day played and replayed behind her lids. After an hour, she gave up and plodded back down and into the kitchen.

  Under the sink, in the cupboard that held dusters, candles, and a couple of old brushes, there was a small trowel. She took it along with the big flashlight and went down into the cellar.

  The feeble light from the bulb above the stairs seemed brighter to her night-time eyes, but as she turned the corner she switched on the torch. She placed it on the floor, the beam shining towards the wall and pooling over the uneven surface of the grave.

  She jabbed at the crust of soil with the point of the trowel. Without the weight of the spade adding to the strain she was able to manage better. She had to stop often to catch her breath, and her arms quivered with the unaccustomed activity. Eventually she had chipped away enough so that there was a small place where the soil was softer. She scraped and scratched at it until there was a pile of the dark earth beside her.

  The hole was small but she had never intended to open more than was necessary. She had already determined it would be beyond her, and anyway she didn’t want to see. Several times her stomach lurched when she thought of what she was doing, and tears flowed across her cheeks over and over. She wiped them away with the back of her dirty hands and the hem of her sweater.

  The change in sound, and the feel of it, as the tool bit into the ground, was minimal, but she saw that splinters of wood were mixed with the soil. Lily picked up some of the detritus and rubbed it between her fingers. She moved towards the light and held some of the dirt in the yellow cone. It was unmistakable, there was wood now. It was crumbly and dark.

  Her knees began to quiver and she fell onto her backside. She had known it was there, of course she had, it had tormented her from the first day. Now, looking at the tiny slivers of the box, the reality of it all was overwhelming. She was shivering. She was overcome with grief yet again, just as raw as on the day that he had died.

  She could go no further. She laid down the trowel and, bracing against the wall, struggled to her feet. She climbed the stairs on her hands and knees and staggered into the kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table she sipped at a glass of brandy, and waited until her pounding heart slowed, and the pain in her chest eased.

  If she allowed herself too long to think about it then, she knew, she would lose her nerve. She must make her mind a blank. Like plunging live crabs into pots of boiling water, she must do this quickly and not consider the detail.

  She fished about in the sewing box until she found a tiny plastic bag. It contained a spare button from Charlotte Mary’s last winter coat. She emptied it, and then looked back in the box and pulled out a length of blue ribbon. It wasn’t old enough, so she rubbed her dirty fingers back and forth across it to dull the brightness and take away the sheen. There were thin rubber gloves in a box in one of the kitchen drawers and she pulled them out. She began to push her fingers into them and then she stopped. No, if she was to do this then the least she could do was to be honest about it. She would lay her hands on him.

  She took the tiny embroidery scissors from the sewing kit, and then sat for a moment with all the things before her on the table. She bowed her head. She felt that if she could pray, if there was something, some higher power to believe in, then now would be the time to call on that faith for strength and courage. But of course, any higher power, even a vengeful God, could never look kindly on what she was about to do.

  She went back to the top of the stairs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she spoke to the empty darkness and then made her way back to the corner of the basement, where the tiny mound of earth witnessed the desecration of the poor, sad grave.

  Chapter 25

  Lily’s fingers probed the dark space. She could feel it, a different texture from the surrounding earth. It surprised her that the box had survived as well as it had, for all these lonely years. The gap she had made was slightly too near the wall and it took more of her failing strength to correct the error, but she dug on. When her breathing became too laboured and the pains overwhelmed her, she rocked back onto her heels and rested. Her legs and knees stiffened and cramped but the top corner of the box was under her fingers, so she drove herself on.

  There was more work necessary on the hole before it was large enough to allow access to the flat top of the box. Lily shone the torch downwards. Now, with the point of the trowel she dug and scraped and jabbed and the wood splintered, and then finally, she felt the resistance yield. She climbed painfully back to the kitchen and grabbed a sharp knife from the drawer. This was a better tool to pick at the edges, until there was room to insert her index and middle fingers and her thumb.

  In her mind’s eye, she pictured the little nest they had made for him. Soft towels and a folded cloth to lay his head upon. When she felt it, she cried out in anguish and jerked her hand back into her lap, where she rubbed and rubbed at her fingers. She gulped and shuddered in the darkness but then she thought of Terry, and she drew in a great breath and reached again into the miniature coffin. She had closed her eyes. It wasn’t possible to see what she was doing anyway, and in some ways, this was easier. She could feel the roundness of the tiny skull, not crumbled to dust then, not yet. He’d had hair, a surprising amount of it really. Dark it had been, and they had stroked at it with a soft brush, playing with him as if he were a little doll. She thought she could feel it between her fingers but there was no way that she would be able to cut it one handed, so she tugged gently. It came away with no resistance at all and when she held her fingers under the light of the torch she saw a clump of fine strands.

  Peter.

  Would it be enough? Probably, but how would she convince Terry that it was what she had kept of a living child, or even from one recently dead? Surely you would cut a proper lock, small as that would have been. These sad strands were not enough to be tied with the ribbon. But then, they didn’t need to be did they? She had said she would give him some, it would be unreasonable for him to expect to take away all of such a precious keepsake.

  Holding her breath, she picked up the
small plastic bag and rubbed it open. She pushed the few hairs inside and quickly pressed the two edges together, sealing it.

  She crawled to the wall and sat with her back against the cold bricks, her eyes closed, and her insides quivering and roiling. She had done it.

  Back in the kitchen she examined the bag and the contents; she hoped it would be enough. There was more than it had seemed in the dreadful moments after she had retrieved them – there would be no need to try to fetch any more. Would it be suitable? She saw that, pulling as she had, the hair was attached to matter that she didn’t want to think about. Not much, but enough to thicken the ends and make a few of them clump together. She could clean it. The idea appalled her. It seemed that every way she turned another wall rose before her, another complication. She drank a glass of water and, now, before she let it become a torment, she went back again into the cellar.

  She looked into the hole and realised that if she were to simply scrape the soil back in, it would fall into the coffin, onto the child. She went to the bedroom. There was a tiny bowl there, an antique china thing, and it was small enough.

  She lowered it into the grave and wedged it tightly above the hole in the wood, and then scraped the soil back in. She placed the candleholder onto the newly disturbed surface and, watching the gentle flame, she murmured, “I would never have done it, never have disturbed you sweetheart but he is so brave, your brother. So very brave and I know that you want me to help him. I wish you could have met him. Sleep soundly, precious.”

  It was over and, despite the anguish, there was a feeling of success and oddly, optimism. Though it could end up a disaster for her, at least, in some way, Peter would be remembered and surely that was the whole reason for starting down this road in the first place.

  She turned on her computer and began research into the sites offering advice about DNA testing. It wasn’t long before she was convinced that the hair, attached to the minute amounts of skin – or whatever it was – would work better than hair alone, which would be almost worthless. So, she would give him this. If he asked about the strange appearance of it, she would tell him that she didn’t know. That it had always been that way, that it had been wrapped in silk, tied with a ribbon. That she had never examined it closely, that it was too awful to do that. She would say that Charlotte Mary had taken it from the baby just before they had buried him, and hope that his desire to avoid upsetting her would preclude too many probing questions.