BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending

by Diane M Dickson

  The driver barely glanced at her as she clambered aboard. “Town centre please?”

  He nodded. “One pound fifty.” He gave a puff of impatience as she rooted for her purse, but she found change.

  Lily’s mind was reeling. When thoughts of the last hour tried to push forward she thrust them away. First of all, she must just breathe. She couldn’t think about it. Not yet, not until she was somewhere safe, and alone. She must breathe and fill her mind with stuff, with anything. She lowered her head, opened her bag again, fiddled with the things inside with trembling, dirty fingers. She noticed that her nail beds were tinged with blue. She was not well at all. She looked at her trousers, the knees were wet and muddy. She brushed at them, but the action simply spread the damp dirtiness. She laid the bag across them, but there was no need, there was no-one to hide them from.

  She had to occupy her thoughts, mustn’t allow the panic in. She took out her tiny diary and flipped through the empty pages, reading notes about holidays and Holy days, concentrating on the print and the colours. She noted the appointment with her doctor, pulled the little pencil from its storage pouch and crossed it out. Red letters, Christmas, the future. She thrust it back into her bag. Thoughts of the future had caused her stomach to flip. She had no future. She had now, and the next few minutes, and maybe the hour after that. Her breathing quickened, she battled against the nerves. She mustn’t lose her head now, mustn’t let go, not yet.

  She thought of Terry, the lunch they had shared. Was it really today? Only hours ago, it didn’t seem possible. She thought of his kindness, his pale eyes that held a secret only she was a party to. She and Clive. And now Clive was gone.

  With that thought came doubts. Had he truly been dead? How sure could she be? He hadn’t moved, she hadn’t detected any breathing. But what about after she left, what if the life force hadn’t been fully extinguished? Perhaps, even as she had been in the narrow staircase, his heart had convulsed, his lungs expanded and cleared. Could she be sure that there had been no pulse? Had she waited long enough? And if he had stirred, if his body had refused to give up the fight, would he know what had happened? Would he remember through the mists of drugged sleep, the weight of her body, the pillow?

  With the thought that maybe he wasn’t dead came a jumble of emotions. Relief. Yes, she was not a murderer, she had not taken a life. She was wicked, but she would not have the most dreadful of stains on her soul. But what if he remembered? What if he had been more aware than he had seemed? Well, no matter, she was prepared to be accused, to make the sacrifice so Terry wouldn’t lose everything. That had been the reason for it all. If the finger of accusation pointed at her, it would be good. She would have her day in court. She would expose everything, the incest, the evil. She would tell them about Peter, it would be cleansing. Yes, that would be a good thing.

  But, surely, he was dead. She had listened close to his face, there had been no breathing. No, no, he was dead.

  She felt panic rising up from her stomach, bitter acid, and gulped it down. She turned to the window and concentrated on the flash of lights in the darkness outside as they neared the city. She must hold her nerve. Not much longer.

  As the bus pulled into the brightness of the bus station, she gripped the back of the seat, and tried to stand. Her knees were water, her legs shook and her arms began to tremble. She breathed deeply, took a moment to gather her strength and then, using the back of the seats on either side of the aisle, she propelled herself forward. Lily stepped down to the pavement and turned towards the hotel just a short walk away.

  The receptionist glanced up and smiled. In the lift, leaning against the mirrored walls the shivering began, and by the time she slipped the key card in and out of the lock, her body was riven with rigors. Tears flooded from her eyes and whimpering sobs escaped her lips.

  She fell into the room, pushed the door closed behind her and sank to the floor where she lost herself at last, in horror and fear and shock.

  Chapter 41

  When she came back to her senses, still on the carpet, just inside the room door, Lily’s back and shoulders were stiff and sore. It was cold, and though no longer suffering spasms of shivering, she felt battered and exhausted. She rolled onto all fours, then, gripping at the shelves of the clothes-hanging alcove, pushed as near to upright as her complaining body would allow. She staggered to the bed, kicked off the wet, muddy shoes, and dragged off her filthy trousers.

  She swivelled around, lifted her legs to the mattress, and dragged the covers up to her chin. She curled on her side and closed her eyes.

  Sleep would not come. Over and over the events rolled through her memory. She tried to focus on the lunch with Terry, but those images would not form. Any feelings of pleasure were obliterated by other emotions: the fear, the horror, and the disgust at what she had done. It occurred to her that, no matter what else happened in the days before she died, she would carry these thoughts with her.

  These memories were a part of her being. They were as real as the birthmark on her arm, the wild curls of hair which would have their way in the damp, and the constant sadness at all the precious things that had slipped through her fingers.

  She had always thought that the experience with poor, dead Peter would be the worst thing that could ever happen. When Charlotte Mary had died, there had been sorrow, but nothing compared to the emotions experienced at the loss of the baby. Now, these current sensations overwhelmed even that old, never-forgotten pain.

  In the still of the dark room it seemed she could hear Clive’s final gasping wheeze. She could smell the old man, the stink of his hair, the hospital scent of his bedding. She felt him near her, the thrust of his head against her chest through the pillow. The ghost of his body tensing and bucking against hers.

  She cried out, sat up. She heard a siren in the distance, coming nearer. Someone else in trouble, but there could be no greater trouble, surely, than what she had brought upon herself.

  She leaned forward, bent her knees, and wrapped her arms awkwardly around them. She swayed back and forth in the bed, whimpering quietly. And then, she thought of Terry, of Peter, of Carol Robertson, and the panic subsided a little. She remembered the restaurant, his kindness and consideration, and reminded herself why she had done it.

  For Terry, to protect him from himself. It wasn’t right that he should risk losing everything to that evil old man. For them all, so that he wouldn’t have any chance of being pardoned for the unforgivable. He was old, the wheels of justice could likely roll so slowly that his life would have come to a peaceful and natural end, before there was any sort of reckoning. Or if he lived and stood trial, what would they do? The old judges, the clever lawyers. Maybe they would incarcerate him in a low security place and, for him, already confined by his failing body, it would have been no punishment.

  She had done it for Peter, conceived in brutal misery, sold as an inconvenience, and condemned to a life so short that he never even learned to smile.

  And her, how much of the sadness in her own life could be laid at the door of Clive Robertson. If he had never touched them, if Charlotte Mary had never brought home Carol’s innocent child, then surely their own lives would not have been ruined the way they had been. So much of it could be traced back to what had happened in that broken family. Charlotte Mary carried some of the guilt, of course she did, but if the child hadn’t been available, then the story would have had no beginning.

  She was calmer now. It had begun to make sense to her, the way it had when she had planned it. She had committed a great sin, but she must own it now and acknowledge the truth. Clive Robertson had not deserved to live, and she had rid the world of his malign influence.

  She threw back the covers and walked across the room to the little dresser. She began to make a cup of tea and, while she waited for the kettle to boil, she stripped off the rest of her stained clothes and wrapped herself in the dressing gown she had brought with her. It smelled of home and comforted her with the familiar.
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  After the drink was finished she didn’t lie down but sat, quietly, propped against the pillows. When she closed her eyes, the images were kinder. Her mother and father, school concerts and the early days with Charlotte Mary, the loving and the laughter and of course she thought of Terry. She dozed and relaxed and allowed herself to let go of the anguish.

  * * *

  The thump of feet along the corridor outside her door woke her. At first, she was disoriented, she didn’t remember falling asleep. Then the events of the previous day flooded her mind. She regarded them calmly.

  She would do her best not to spend her final days tormented with guilt because of a wicked, twisted man. He had already stolen too much from her and the other people he touched. She would do as much as she could to live in the moment and if, when she died, there was any sort of reckoning, she would accept it, because she had done what she did for reasons that made sense, that were just, and necessary.

  She wished that she could see Terry, but it probably wasn’t possible. Not today. His day was to be unlike any other and there wouldn’t be space in it for her.

  She heard another siren, it slowed at the junction near the hotel, and for a moment she was startled. Of course, she may not have the chance to get back to Southsea. If they found her before then, she would never see her home again. It made her sad, but the new-found calmness prevailed. If that was to be the way of it, well, it didn’t matter so much – although it would be nice to sit with Peter one last time and tell him that soon his brother would come for him. She thought of the letter waiting for Terry, and the things that would happen once she was gone. She hoped that he would understand and that, understanding, he would carry out her wishes. But there was a limit to the little power she had, and his actions in the future were beyond her control.

  She packed her few things together and went down to the dining room. Two big cups of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast were only slightly spoiled by the need to constantly glance at the reception area, waiting for the police. But nobody came, no uniforms appeared and it seemed that she would get home after all.

  * * *

  In the two hours it took for the journey, Lily found herself plunging back into fear and despair. She had accomplished the thing that she had set out to do, and what a dreadful thing it was. From this distance of time and space it was unreal, and yet, she knew she had killed.

  She knew what must be next. They would come soon and before then she must make sure that everything was in order. Perhaps she had one more day, and maybe one more after that. If it took them a while to find her, then she must put the reprieve to good use. Undoubtedly, things would take their course, a post-mortem, and then investigation. It wouldn’t be instant. Impossible to know how long. There were things still in her house needing to be organised, to make life easy for whoever took care of all that.

  Of course, when they arrested her, they would search her things. If they searched the cellar they would find evidence of the past weeks, spilled candle wax, scraps of flower petals. What would they think? Anyway, they would see the recent disturbance, from when she had collected the hair. They would dig up the grave and then…

  The panic began to build again. Would they take out the tiny body? What would they assume? Some sort of black magic, child abuse, trafficking? Terry would very possibly work out the truth even if he hadn’t yet read her letter, but it mustn’t fall to him to implicate himself in any way. She must act. Before they came and began any searches she must take care of Peter, make him safe. They mustn’t take him away and lay his bones on a table, she had seen it, on the television. They would poke at him with instruments, remove samples, he would become a thing, a laboratory experiment. No, that couldn’t be.

  Again, she was befuddled by the way that one event led to another urgent task, and another. But then, this was where it had all begun. With Peter and his safety, with his peace.

  She turned into her driveway. Sandra’s door opened. Had she been lying in wait? Watching from behind the net curtains? “Lily. Have you had a nice break? We noticed you were away. Good idea, the best thing.”

  Lily painted on a smile, managed a nod. “It was very nice, thank you.”

  “Well I hope it’s done you good. You just have to keep on, don’t you? You’ll get there.”

  Lily bit back the obvious question about her supposed destination, pulled her key from the pocket on the front of her bag.

  Sandra had come nearer to the hedge, she was speaking again, “Anyway, I won’t keep you. I just thought you should know, you’ve had visitors, while you were away. This morning.”

  So, they had found her already. Her heart trembled. Had they asked Terry? They must have done, how else could they have detected who she was? And so, she supposed, he was lost to her now. He would draw away. The chance to take care of Peter may be gone. However, she had succeeded in her intention of ensuring there was no suspicion falling on anyone other than herself. She had protected him at least. Sandra was still watching, still smiling.

  Lily knew she must speak, “Oh right, thank you, Sandra. I suppose they’ll come back if it was important.”

  “He seemed surprised that you weren’t here.”

  “Did he? Oh well. I’m here now.”

  “He’s very nice, polite. Is he from around here?”

  This didn’t make sense, the conversation was fractured. “Do you know who it was then, Sandra?”

  “Yes, sorry. Oh honestly, I should have said. It was that young man, the one who came the other day. The one I thought was Charlotte’s cousin. Do you remember?”

  “Ah, oh right, I thought you meant it was…” She stopped. “Terry. You mean Terry.”

  “Right, well you didn’t tell me his name I don’t think. Anyway, it was him and he knocked on our door, asked us if we’d seen you. I’ve been watching for you to be honest. He seemed a bit upset.”

  Lily took her mobile from her pocket, she glanced at the screen, punched the button on the side and then held it up to show it to Sandra. “Flat, my battery is flat. Oh dear, I expect he’s been trying to ring me. Thank you so much, Sandra. I should get inside, plug this in.” She waved the phone in the air. “I’ll give him a call.”

  “Right, yes. Well, pop round some time. We’ll have a cup of tea. A chat.”

  “I will, thank you. Yes, I will.”

  She dropped her bags beside the front door and rushed to the kitchen where the phone charger lay on the worktop. There were three text messages. All this morning. All from Terry:

  I need to speak to you. It’s urgent. I have tried your phone but it goes to voicemail. And then just a few minutes later: I am coming to Southsea. If you get this will you call me?

  And the final one, just over an hour ago:

  I have been to your house. I spoke to the neighbours. She said you were away. I’ll stay around for an hour or so but then I must get back. Please, please call me if you get this message.

  Chapter 42

  Had she missed him? She snatched up the phone and dialled. “Terry, is that you?” But it wasn’t, it was his voicemail. She gabbled her message, “I’ve only just come in. My phone battery was flat. I’m so sorry. Can you call me when you have a chance? I’m here now.”

  She paced back and forth in the hallway. The phone was on the small table, charging. She picked it up whenever she was within reach, even though it hadn’t chimed, the screen hadn’t lit. She was afraid to leave it, couldn’t take it with her because the charge was still so low. All her attention was focused on the tiny screen. When it rang, she started with shock, though it was just what she had been waiting for. His name was on the display.

  “Terry?”

  “Yes. Lily, are you at home now? I need to talk to you and I don’t want to do it on the phone. I was on my way back to Bath when I got your call. Look, I’ll turn round. I haven’t got a lot of time, but I would like to see you. I want to talk to you.”

  “Yes. I’m in the house now. I’ll stay here and wait for you.
” She knew she should leave it at that, but she couldn’t. “What’s wrong, Terry? Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes, there is. But look, I don’t want to talk about it now. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.”

  She replaced the phone and flopped onto the chair. Her eyes fell on the bags, still on the mat near the door. She carted them to the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe to hang up her dressing gown. The dirty trousers and top from yesterday must be thrown away, they went into a refuse bag. Not because she thought of them as evidence, just because she couldn’t ever imagine wearing them again.

  She looked down at her shoes, they were still muddy. There was dirt on the carpet. She pulled off the offending footwear and carried it downstairs along with the bulging black plastic sack. The clothes went into the bin outside the back door; she placed her shoes on a sheet of newspaper in the kitchen porch, for cleaning later.

  She stowed the pills back in the bathroom cabinet, she hadn’t needed them after all. It was impossible to imagine that scenario now. Everything had been different from the way she had thought it might be. She had visualised some sort of confrontation with the police. A police cell, a toilet where she would gulp them down. She had imagined it to be like something on the television, but all that had happened was that she had caught a bus, and then this morning enjoyed her breakfast. She laughed, not sure what was amusing her, she giggled again. She tried to stop, to be quiet, but still the laughter bubbled in her stomach. Her throat was tight with tears. She recognised this as the beginnings of hysteria and knew she must stop it. She must not let go. She went into the bathroom and ran cold water over her hands, splashed at her face.

  He must be nearly here. She knew of course what he wanted to tell her. It was obvious. How much did he already know? What had they told him, the authorities, whoever he had spoken to? What were they thinking? She would assume that, for the moment at least, he didn’t know her part in Clive’s death. Surely, if he had, it would be police calling at the door and not him. Or was he coming to warn her?