BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending

by Diane M Dickson

  She pushed at the door of the room next to Clive’s, just a crack. A woman sat at a table in the window bay, a shawl around her shoulders, the table in front of her set for dinner. There was only one door on the opposite side of the corridor. She opened it to find linens and cleaning equipment. There were shelves along three sides with a narrow space between. The light switched on automatically. There was a step stool, folded, leaning against the shelving unit. Quietly she opened it out and perched on the narrow top rung. She lowered her head into her hands and let out the breath that she had been holding ever since the first glance into Clive’s room. She was beset again by dizziness. This was new, a progression of her symptoms. She must hold herself together for just a little longer. She closed her eyes and listened to the muted sounds out in the hallway.

  Now all she could do was wait.

  Chapter 37

  After a couple of minutes the light went out. Lily imagined that if she moved it would flash back on. It was very tempting. Though the space was small and smelled of fresh laundry and cleaning fluids, it was unnerving to sit in the darkness. But she heard movement outside. Leakage of brightness under the door may give her away. She froze, breathing in small, shallow puffs.

  There came the quiet hum of wheels on parquet floor and then a gentle knock. She listened to the exchange of greetings, a clatter of plates and then the same thing repeated a few moments later. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the scene and she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the corridor, the meal service.

  Timing, this was all about timing.

  In the dark of the linen cupboard she thought of Terry, she thought of Peter, and what could have been, what was lost. She drove back all thought of what she was planning to do. If she allowed her mind to travel that road, the potholes and stumbles would become all too clear, and she could not allow herself to be dissuaded. She was here, the solution to it all was in her hands.

  How long? He had to eat the meal. The dining staff would clear it. Would there then be a visit to settle him down? She must allow for that. She remembered the routines in the hospice with Charlotte Mary. This would probably be similar, a little more refined for certain, but the medical requirements of this sort of place must surely be very much the same.

  While the corridor was quiet she risked a movement. Just her arm waved in the air, and the light flashed into brightness. Using the shelving for support she lowered herself slowly to the floor. Her back was tight with pain. She pulled a bundle of sheets down beside her, and rested her behind on the welcome softness. Leaning against the wooden frame she was much more comfortable. Again, she waited.

  More than an hour passed. She had checked her watch when she shifted her position. After the return of the trolley, the clearing of dishes, she risked the light once more. At last the quiet thud of rubber soles moved along the space outside, the mumble of night-time conversation. She heard again the door, the greeting, and she breathed a small sigh of relief that she had waited, difficult as it had been. She listened for the second door to close and then, the retreating footsteps.

  She pushed painfully to her feet. Light flashed bright in the small space and dazzled her. She closed her eyes. The flutter in her chest became a thump and then, as she had known it would, it became a lump of pain. She lowered herself to the top step of the little ladder and rested. She breathed slowly and waited for the tension to ease, the disease to retreat.

  How long? He was old, he was sick. Terry had told her that he slept often, they most probably dispensed sleeping pills, so probably not too long. She must act before any night watch made their rounds.

  She pushed open the door. The corridor was dimmed and empty. She spun around and checked again. The notice on the back of the door in Clive’s room had showed an escape route. She hadn’t had a chance to memorise it completely. Terry had fussed and worried when she had stopped. But the red line led to the exit at the end of the corridor and she assumed that there was access to the outside. It was the only thing that made sense. It would be alarmed, she had no doubt, but she would deal with that as it happened. After all, the afterwards was only to buy her some time. To win the chance to take care of the other things. If it happened that it went wrong tonight, then half of a success was better than doing nothing and living with yet more regret.

  She had so little to lose now and Terry had so much to gain. She would be brave and strong, and take what came. Her bag, slung across her body for safety, held the cache of pills so her escape was assured, either one way or the other. It mattered little which it was to be.

  Three steps took her across the corridor. She put the side of her head against the door, listening. The nursing home was still. Not even the distant sound of a television or radio disturbed the quiet. She glanced at her watch. It was after nine. Much later than she had thought.

  From inside the room she heard the low rumble of a snore. A smile stretched her mouth. She waited until Clive breathed again, the noise regular and reassuring.

  She pushed at the door.

  The mound of pillows had been removed and he lay on his side. The covers were pulled close to his face. There was a small night-light plugged into a socket by the wall. The heavy curtains were caught back with a rope tie, but blinds had been lowered part of the way over the windows. It was dim but not too dark.

  She moved forward, he didn’t stir.

  She stopped beside the bed and looked down at him. His face was crushed against the one pillow that had been left under his head. His thin hair was dishevelled and disturbed. A drool of saliva tracked from the sagging lips, across the wrinkled cheeks. The rattle of his snores was loud now that she was so close. She could see nothing of Terry in him, though they had proof that he was imprinted on both of his son’s genetic makeup.

  Lily bent to the chair drawn up beside the bed, she reached to the small pile of daytime bedding.

  It would soon be over. She gasped as her heart jinked and she felt the flutter as it fought to resume a regular rhythm.

  She grasped the bulk of the pillow and moved closer. She braced her feet slightly apart on the floor and drew in a deep breath, gathering what strength she had.

  Chapter 38

  Her instinct was to pounce, to take him by surprise and trust to shock and strength alone. But she had thought long and hard about this. He was drugged, she didn’t know how heavily, but his sleep would be deeper than otherwise. Though he was depleted by the effects of the stroke and age, he would still possibly be stronger than she was when he was fighting for his life, struggling for the next breath. Surely, he would call upon every reserve in his body.

  Physical activity left her weak and hurting, on top of that was the emotional strain. So, she must be clever.

  She swallowed hard. Now was the last moment to pull back. She could call a halt, sneak away into the night, but it was never an option. This was for Terry, and for Peter. Terry had said that shaming his grandfather and exposing his evil would have to be enough, but it wasn’t true. He had to pay and there must be no risk to Terry’s future, he had earned it and he must have it.

  She leaned closer to him, and gently, slowly, lowered the pillow towards his face. It touched his skin and she tensed, waiting for a reaction. There was nothing. She laid it more evenly across his head. He didn’t stir. Now, she placed her hands flat on the edges, she bent towards him. She applied more pressure. She didn’t know what to expect, but there must be something, surely.

  His legs moved under the covers, she felt him tense, felt the push of his shoulders and head upwards, against the pillow. She leaned yet more heavily. His feet moved now, back and forth. His arms tensed and strained under the bedclothes. She lifted herself on her toes, lay across the bed, trapped his upper body under the covers. His legs kicked out, his head shifted under the weight of down and feather, she slid fully onto the bed, completely stretched across him, pinning his head and shoulders with her own body. She reached to the other side of the bed, grasped at the edge of the mattress, locking hersel
f across him with the weight of her legs on one side and the clutch of her hands on the other. He bucked against her a couple of times.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, held her breath and willed her weight to hold him, pressing into the mattress, closing off any chance of the pillow sliding.

  She felt his head move again, and again and she heard him. It wasn’t a groan, just a small sound, an expiration of air, and then he stilled. She lay across him, waiting.

  How long? If it was too soon he would wake and cry out, and she would have failed. How would she tell if it was done? She waited, began to breathe, began to cry. Still she waited.

  Time was endless and immeasurable, she thought he breathed, then knew that he had not.

  She uncurled her hands from the edge of the mattress, began to slide back across the bed, her feet reaching for the floor. She stood, bent at the waist, constantly pressing down, still alert to any movement. There was none. She rested her feet flat on the floor, leaning heavily with her arms and then, slowly, she began to straighten. He was still.

  She took in a great gulp of air. Released the pressure. Waited. He was still.

  His hand was visible under the disturbed bedding. She touched it. Nothing. She pulled at his fingers and felt no reaction. Garnering all her will power she lifted up the pillow.

  His eyes were closed. His mouth gaped open, as if it were still possible to draw in air but his lips were blued. She poked at his face.

  It was done, she knew it was over. Lily replaced the pillow on top of the others. She lowered her head to his face, her ear to his mouth. She waited for a whisper of breath that didn’t come. She reached with her fingers and felt at his neck, as she remembered the nurses doing when Charlotte Mary had finally gasped her last. She could feel no flutter of life. She picked up his hand and let it drop. It fell lifeless and heavy onto the bed.

  She had killed.

  She was a murderer.

  But it had been so calm compared to the poor baby, the desperate attempts to drip fluid into his tiny mouth. The awful last moments when they had watched the rapid flutter of his chest as it rose and fell, rose, and fell and didn’t rise again. This was too easy. She didn’t believe he had even been aware of his body’s reaction, the kicking of his legs, the straining for breath had been nothing more than instinct. It wasn’t enough, he hadn’t been afraid, he had simply slept through a dream and not emerged into the morning.

  She pushed him, shook his shoulders, lifted his lifeless hand again and let it drop.

  Her hands covered her mouth as she backed away from the bed. Staring at his dead face, at the disturbed covers, her eyes grew round with horror and fear.

  A sound in the night brought her back to herself. It was an owl in the garden, or the woods beyond the wall. Time reset itself and she stepped back to the bed. Thoughts tumbled and rolled, there were things she must do. She glanced around the room. All was as it had been when she entered, a lifetime ago. She pulled back the covers and with a heave she rolled him over, he should face away from the door so that anyone looking in would see only the back of his head. She straightened the lie of his limbs and dragged the bedclothes over him, up to his neck.

  She listened, the night was quiet, the nursing home still.

  She had done it.

  Chapter 39

  Lily took one last look at the bed, and the body. Backing away from the awful scene, she glanced around the dim room and came to a halt in front of the notice about fire exits. She used the glare of white light on her phone to examine the plan.

  She pulled the door open a little and listened to the silence. Once she was as sure as she could be that the corridor was empty, she left without a final glance behind.

  It was a couple of dozen steps and quickly achieved. The door was heavy wood with wired glass in a small pane at head height. Probably just opening it would cause a bell or a siren to sound and mayhem would ensue. She could find no notice or warning. She turned her head and peered back down the corridor.

  She considered hiding somewhere for the rest of the night but no, she would flee. She didn’t truly expect to avoid detection, she had taken many steps to ensure that she had been noted. But that was so there would be no chance of suspicion falling on Terry. When they searched for the guilty party she had to be the obvious and only possibility. Nevertheless, now it came to it, she was driven to get away, to go home, even though it may very well be for one last time. She reached for the metal bar and pushed open the door.

  There was no scream of sound, no cacophony of bell and siren. She stepped through and onto a wide top step. The stairs were concrete and the walls decorated with cream paint. The door swung closed behind her with a quiet thud. She turned through ninety degrees and then clung to the metal banister. She descended the staircase, her ears straining, waiting for the cry behind her. Of course, the alarm may have been silent, a flashing light in some small office, manned by uniformed security men. Nothing happened and she pressed on.

  At the bottom of the narrow flight there was another door, and on this one was the notice she had been expecting. Above the grab bar, the stark warning that ‘This Door Is Alarmed.’

  She stretched a hand out and then paused. She wasn’t clear whereabouts this door was in relation to the main drive and the grand front entrance. It would be tucked around the side, but it could open into a yard with fences and gates, a slope that would take her falling and rolling into a heap. But, no, it was a fire escape so surely there would be safety beyond it. She wouldn’t be able to run, it had been a long time since she could do much more than stroll, but it could be possible to hide. She glanced back into the gloom, there was no help up there.

  Where she stood was a tiny hallway with a flagged floor. She shone the phone light around. In the corner was a small pile of cigarette ends. They told their own tale. A place to be away from the ubiquitous smoke alarms. A place for staff to hide out of the weather and feed their addiction.

  She thrust a hand into her bag. In the very bottom, she felt the smooth hardness. Back in the day they had both smoked, cigarettes and roll ups with marijuana threaded through the tobacco. Charlotte Mary had bought those gold lighters and fancy, jewelled cases. She had this for no other reason than habit. Though it was years since she had used it for the original purpose, it had been something she transferred from bag to bag, like her wallet and her keys.

  She bent and picked up one of the bigger pieces of discarded cigarette, and cleared the bits of dust away with her thumb. She pushed the squashed end back into shape and put the filter tip between her lips. She flicked the lighter; at first it refused to ignite. She held it up to her ears and shook it. She felt, rather than heard, the swill of fuel inside it. She flicked it again. There was a small spark. She held it between her hands, warming it. She flicked it again, and a tiny flame quivered in the draught. She lit the cigarette and inhaled the scented smoke. It was horrible. Had they really believed this was pleasant? She felt a cough begin to tickle, and took the thing out of her mouth.

  She cleared her throat, then leaned and thumped upwards on the metal bar. As the door swung open a flashing red light lit the hallway. Lily stepped out onto a path. There was no clatter of a bell, not yet. So, a silent alarm was illuminated somewhere. No need to upset and frighten sick people, not until the threat was assessed.

  She threw the glowing cigarette end onto the step, dragged the door closed and then scuttled along the narrow path in the direction of the lights along the drive.

  She heard the thud of running feet, didn’t dare to look back. There was a bin store here, it was locked. But at the side furthest from the building was a place to crouch in the dark. Her heart was pounding painfully and sweat popped out onto her forehead, cooling quickly in the night air. She shivered and dropped to her knees, supporting herself with two hands against the wooden sides of the storage space.

  The guard appeared, his torch lighting the narrow path, his feet thundering towards her, past her. He skidded to a halt by the
fire door and shone the beam of a huge flashlight back and forth across the expanse of grass, along the length of the walls. He touched the glowing cigarette with the toe of his boot. He took out his radio. “Jack?”

  She heard the crackle of a response.

  “I’m at the eastern fire door. Door’s closed now. You check the interior. But there’s a bloody fag end here. This is the third time this month. I’m writing it up this time. Bloody hell, they’ve got their soddin’ smokers’ shelter, but do they use it? Do they buggery.”

  Another hiss of a reply.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in the stairwell but I don’t think we have a problem here. I’ll tell you what though if I find who this is, bloody heads are going to roll.”

  He pushed again at the fire door and then turned and retraced his steps along the path and vanished around the corner.

  Lily dug into her bag to find the medicine spray and then flopped onto her bottom on the damp grass as she waited for her body to calm.

  Chapter 40

  Lily kept to the grass and shadows along the edge of the drive – in and out between shrubs and trees. She stopped twice, leaning against the rough bark, and gasping for air. The great iron gates were closed, but not locked. There were houses in the distance, but it was too far for her to walk. Already her limbs were heavy and she was weighed down with exhaustion. She would call the taxi. Her phone was in the bottom of her bag and as she pushed her hand inside, she glanced back towards the nursing home.

  There were lights approaching in the distance, a familiar shape, and she remembered the bus stop outside the gates of the home. She walked as quickly as she was able, back the few hundred yards. She couldn’t yet see the destination board. But it would take her away, and it didn’t really matter to where.