The Darkness of Bones

by Sam Millar

  Submissively, Jeremiah turned to his left, staring at the whiteness of the tiles. They made him think of snow. They made him think of bones.

  Gently—almost motherly—Judith rested the brush’s quills against his neck, adding just the right amount of pressure to pockmark the skin slightly.

  Jeremiah softly shuddered with anticipation, dreading but welcoming what was coming next.

  “You …” With slow, deliberate force, Judith scraped the brush down his back, over his buttocks, never stopping until it reached his ankles. “… deserve …” Her teeth gritted as she returned the brush to its original position, on his skinny neck. “… every …” Once again, the brush commenced its bloody journey, flaying the skin, peeling thin strips in its wake. “… stroke …”

  Feeling his knees begin to wobble, Jeremiah willed them to resist. His fingernails dug into the grout between the tiles, trembling for balance. Whirls of blood stained the horrible whiteness of the shower’s enclosure.

  The scrubbing concluded five minutes later, leaving Jeremiah’s back a gouache covered in evil-looking whiplash marks.

  “Look at you,” hissed Judith. “Standing there in muted acceptance, like some wretched monk offering up his sins to a deaf god.” She held the broom in her hand like a spear. It was speckled with blood, sweat, and particles of skin. “You are always paying attention but never remembering; always hearing, but never listening. I don’t want you reading any more trash. Is that understood?”

  Shakily, Jeremiah nodded. He was on the verge of collapsing.

  “And never—ever—come into my room. Understand?” She placed the shaft of the broom between his sagging buttocks, allowing the wood to part the fissure of his arse slightly.

  “Yes … yes; I understand … fully …”

  Judith removed the broom, turned and left.

  Easing his back against the freezing water, Jeremiah allowed it to wash away the blood. It stung like wasps and scorpions, but as his hand went to his doughy penis—to his surprise and delight … it was rising, just like the homemade bread his mother always made on his return home from school. Seconds later, he ejaculated, mixing his cum with his blood, watching it melt away, down into the drain, wishing his sins were so easily disposed of.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Till the sun grows cold,

  And the stars are old,

  And the leaves of the Judgement Book unfold.”

  Bayard Taylor, “Bedouin Song”

  “I’M LOOKING FOR books on bones,” said Adrian to the young librarian behind the desk in the main library at Royal Avenue. A gaggle of people sat in chairs reading the morning newspapers, killing time, relaxing, waiting for buses to take them and their cargoes of groceries home.

  “Bones? Any particular type?” asked the librarian. “Dinosaurs, you mean? We’ve got quite a few books about—”

  “Here, love,” said an old man, squeezing between Adrian and the desk, interrupting. The man appeared anxious. He handed the librarian this morning’s Irish News. “Just to let you know, someone—not me—ripped out the coupon for the free loaf. Bloody disgrace. Left a big hole, right in the local news. Wasn’t me. Just letting you know, in case someone borrows this and thinks I did it. I don’t want to be fined for something I didn’t—wouldn’t—do. I come here every Tuesday. You know me. Would I do something like that?”

  The librarian smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make a note of it. We’ll try and get another one.”

  Returning the smile, the old man left the remnants of the newspaper on the desk before scuttling away with his bag of meagre groceries.

  Adrian glanced at the butchered newspaper. Just above where the coupon had mysteriously disappeared was the partial photo of a young girl. Her left arm had been cut off—along with parts of her dress—by the coupon thief.

  “Sorry about that,” said the librarian, her attention back on Adrian. “Old people work themselves into such a lather over nothing. He takes that coupon every Tuesday, but we never say a thing about it. Now, what was it you were looking for? Bones, right? Dinosaurs, wasn’t it?”

  “Human.”

  “Human? Hmm. Let me see …” She hit a few buttons on the computer. The screen blinked. “We’ve Forensic Anthropology for Beginners. That sounds like a great title, doesn’t it? Would you like me to see if we have it in stock, or check some other titles?”

  “No, that’s perfect. Just let me know if you have a copy,” replied Adrian angling the newspaper slightly, getting a better view of the words. The girl had gone missing, over three years ago …

  “You’re in luck,” said the librarian. “We’ve a copy on the second floor. Its reference number is 237TH.”

  Adrian felt his head start to throb as his eyes traced down along the little girl’s right arm, down to the item attached to her hand. A doll, its features weirdly life-like, stared at him from the paper. The doll’s face made him feel uncomfortable, but it was the eyes that shot into his stomach. They resembled fat bluebottle flies.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “A certain fox, it is said, wanted to become a wolf. Ah! who can say why no wolf has ever craved the life of a sheep?”

  Jean de la Fontaine, Fables, Book 7

  “THE POLICE VISITED the shop yesterday morning. They asked Joe questions about that missing little girl.”

  Judith sat in the darkness in the corner of the room, barely visible. Jeremiah wondered if she had heard him or if she was in one of her semi-trances.

  He cleared his throat.

  “The police—”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  Jeremiah shifted awkwardly on the sofa. “He said that they’d be back, to ask me some questions.”

  Easing herself up from the chair, Judith walked to where Jeremiah was seated. The wind outside was gathering pace, strengthening itself for an attack against the house.

  “Why so worried? Are you not more intelligent than simple police officers? Their weakness is their belief in themselves, their system. But we know that is false; as false as the gods you once worshipped. Isn’t that correct?” She rested her hand on his head, an anointment of her testimony.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “I don’t hear you.”

  “Yes. You’re right—as always.” Jeremiah’s voice was shaky and weak, a stark contrast to Judith’s.

  “I detect doubt in your voice.” The skin between her eyebrows creased into a small, angry “v”. She pressed her hands more firmly against his skull, her fingers probing. “Doubt can destroy us. It is our enemy banging on the door. Are you going to let our enemy in?”

  “No …” Jeremiah winced with pain. Her fingers were hot needles.

  “Doubt is still there. I can smell it, taste it in my mouth.” Her voice became harsh, and her fingers probed deeper. Jeremiah felt them worm their way into his brain. The pain was unbearable and lovely.

  “No, there is no doubt,” he finally managed to say.

  Facing him, she eased his chin up, staring directly into his eyes. “I have a plan, and for that plan to succeed, you must be strong—not weak. Are you strong, Jeremiah?”

  The harshness in her voice wasn’t untypical, but this time it possessed a kernel of gentleness.

  “What kind of a plan? What is it you want me to do? You know I’m not as strong as you—no one is.”

  “Do you love me?” Gently, Judith kissed him. He felt his lips burn when she pulled away.

  “You know I love you. More than anything on this earth.” He reached and touched her hand. “But what is the plan? What can I possibly do?”

  For the next minute, Jeremiah’s voice rose in halting queries, while Judith’s voice, calm but urgent, flowed insistently over and around his sharp questions, wearing down his objections. Finally, he succumbed.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Whatever?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Yes. Whatever.”

  “Good,” she whispered.
“Now, listen carefully …”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There are no whole truths; all truths are half-truths.

  It is trying to treat them as whole truths that plays the devil.”

  Alfred North Whitehead, Dialogues

  HE UNDERSTOOD NOW that not only had it been wrong not to tell his father about the bone, it had also been dangerously wrong. He should have told of his suspicions, no matter how ridiculous they may have seemed at the time.

  It was the photo in the library the previous morning that had finally brought him to his senses: the photo of the doll.

  Still, despite the resolve to tell his father, anger in his stomach still persisted. After seeing him with that horrible woman, a couple of days ago, Adrian had wanted to do something terrible to her. Did she think she could take the place of his mother? If she did, she was as stupid as she was ugly.

  “Adrian?” Jack’s voice called from the living room. “Is that you?”

  “I’m getting a bite to eat,” replied Adrian, making a beeline for the strawberry jam and bread on the kitchen table. He already had his case prepared. Once his father heard—and saw—the facts, well, then he would have little choice other than to investigate. His father would solve this, just like he had numerous other cases. The police force would want him back again. Better: they would beg him to come back, and his father would get rid of that woman. They would be a family again.

  “I need to talk to you, son,” said Jack, appearing at the kitchen door.

  Almost dropping the jam jar, Adrian quickly regained his composure. The picture in the library had spooked him, a little, but it was the sound of his father’s voice that unnerved him the most. It was extremely solemn.

  The bone. He’s found the bone. He’s pissed off at me. I should have told him when I had the chance. Now he’ll not want to listen. He’ll never trust me again.

  “Look, Dad, I was going to tell you. It was just that—”

  “We need to talk, in the living room.” Jack turned and left.

  Shit! He is so pissed at me.

  Wearily, Adrian followed Jack into the living room, prepared for a good telling off.

  “Dad, if you just let me explain. It’s not as bad as you think. I was only—”

  “Let me talk. Please. I need to say this.”

  Obediently, Adrian sat down opposite Jack on the sofa.

  “I’m sorry, for the other night, what you saw,” said Jack, his voice slightly edgy.

  “The red light wasn’t on,” insisted Adrian. “I would have knocked.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have shouted at you … things happen, Adrian, spontaneous things that … well, just take you, there and then.” Jack’s face reddened. “Perhaps we should have been a bit more discreet, but sometimes it doesn’t work out like that.”

  Tiny bats of anxiety began fluttering in Adrian’s stomach. “That woman. You … you’re not going to let her … you’re not going to let her try and take Mum’s place? Are you?”

  Shaking his head, Jack said, “Sarah doesn’t want to take the place of Mum. You’ve got to understand that. She never once implied anything like that.”

  “You have to get rid of her, Dad. I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t know her, son. Sarah is a good person. Don’t try to judge someone, just because—”

  Adrian’s face tightened. “You mean you won’t get rid of her?”

  Jack shook his head. “No.”

  “Mum would hate you right now, bringing that woman into—”

  “Enough about Mum. Enough of the guilt trip! Understand? I’ve crucified myself enough over Mum without you hammering the nails in further.” The outburst was like a slap to Adrian’s face. He reeled back from Jack’s words.

  “What do you mean, crucifying yourself over Mum? It wasn’t your fault. It was the drunk behind the wheel. It was—”

  “There is no easy way to tell you this, son,” Jack swallowed hard, as if to dislodge something in his throat. “I’ve been torturing myself for months—deservedly so, people will say—but the time has come to face up to it.”

  A frown appeared on Adrian’s face. He had never seen his father this way before: uncertain and anxious.

  “When your … when Mum was killed … when Mum was killed and I told you that she had been killed by a drunken driver …”

  “What? What is it, Dad?”

  Jack’s face had turned page-white. “The drunken driver was me …”

  Blood was siphoning from Adrian’s brain. He could see his father’s mouth moving in slow motion and saw physical words form then spill from the same dirty mouth. The … Drunken … Driver … Was … Me … Me … Me …

  “Adrian? Adrian!” His father was shaking him awake. It had all been a bad dream. He was late for school. That’s all.

  “Dad …?”

  “I’m sorry, son. I just couldn’t tell you. I—”

  “You killed Mum …”

  “It was an accident. I swerved to—”

  “You killed her! You killed Mum so that you could be with her, that woman!”

  “What? No, nothing like that. It was all a terrible accident—”

  “You killed her.”

  “It was a tragic accident, son. Trust me. I did all that I could.”

  “You lied.”

  “I’m so sorry. If only—”

  “You and Mum said to me that you would always trust me, until you had a reason not to. Remember?”

  “I know what must—”

  “Remember?”

  Jack nodded, defeated. “Yes …”

  Summoning all the force he could muster, Adrian pushed his father back against the wall.

  “I will never trust you again. Keep away from me! I hate you!” Within seconds, Adrian was out the front door, running into the dying light of day.

  In less than an hour, the worst storm of the decade would be upon him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “But by the barber’s razor best subdued.”

  John Milton, “Samson Agonistes”

  THE BARBER’S SHOP’S lights went off—except the one in the back, where Joe and Jeremiah usually discussed business.

  “That’s an awful lot of money, Jeremiah.” Joe smiled and passed the small package towards Jeremiah.

  Jeremiah looked at Joe, then at the package. His hand didn’t move.

  “Here,” encouraged Joe. “Stop pretending to be bashful. I know it’s that pride of yours. I’m only glad to be able to help you and Judith with that little bit of financial trouble.”

  Reluctantly, Jeremiah’s hand took the package. “I wish there was another way.”

  “Cut the crap,” said Joe, pleasantly. “You should have come to me sooner. My bank manager wasn’t too happy, though. Such short notice. Just be careful on the way home, though, with all that money. Those scumbags over at the boarding house seem to be stalking the town, more and more.”

  “You don’t know what this means to Judith.”

  “Don’t go all sentimental.” Joe hit Jeremiah playfully on the back, before walking towards the tiny medicine cabinet. He opened it, producing a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like a good stiff one. It’s been a very long day. Care for one?” he asked jokingly, knowing that Jeremiah never touched the stuff.

  As expected, Jeremiah shook his head.

  A family of tablets, housed in the same cabinet, followed a sip of whiskey down Joe’s throat. “I tell you, Jeremiah, you can’t beat vitamins for beating the flu—and a good strong whiskey doesn’t disappoint, either!”

  Stepping from the backroom, Jeremiah closed all the blinds, and then readied the hot towel. He fumbled at the radio dial and found a foreign jazz station. It filtered blue notes everywhere. He knew the song, but couldn’t remember its title.

  “Ah! My throne awaits!” said Joe with a laugh, climbing into the chair as the second whiskey slid effortlessly down his gullet. “I don’t care what anyone says
, Jeremiah—this is the life: a good shave, good friends, good whiskey.”

  Jeremiah did not answer, simply removed the steaming towel and placed it delicately on his friend’s face.

  Outside, snow was falling rapidly …

  Chapter Eighteen

  “And I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and hell followed with him.”

  Revelations 6: 8

  INITIALLY, ADRIAN WAS sure that the wind had been moving along quite speedily, cutting at his skin. It was strange that now, in reality, it was utterly still and his entire body felt wrong with numbness. The falling snow was thick and damp and not a particle of it was moving one way or another, as if the whole scene had been whitewashed or placed in a snow-globe.

  Gradually, the snow meeting his eyes altered his perception, distorting, expanding, and diminishing distance, forcing him off the main road and along the trail that bordered the lake. Darkness was creeping all about him and panic quickly began to replace anger. There was little chance of making it back home, not in these conditions. His best chance would be old man Stapleton’s barn. He wondered how far away he was from it. Could he make it there in time?

  Jack had reached old man Stapleton’s barn just as the snow began to fall more forcefully. He prayed to God—but mostly to his dead wife, Linda—that when he entered the old barn, he would see Adrian curled up in the corner, covered in hay. He remembered how Adrian had hidden in the barn once before, for a couple of hours, because he was ashamed of his results in a geography test.

  Climbing quickly from the car, Jack shone a torch against the old building. Initial indications were not good. The dilapidated place had been boarded up and, to Jack’s trained eye, there was no sign of forced entry.

  Seeing no way in, he quickly ran back to the car and removed a crowbar from the boot.

  Working feverishly with the crowbar, he pulled on the rusted nails and groaning wood, tearing down their resistance as if Adrian’s very life depended on his success.