by Tom Bale
Table of Contents
Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PART TWO Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
PART THREE Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Acknowledgements
SKIN AND BONES
SKIN AND
BONES
TOM BALE
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781409050018
Version 1.0
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Published by Preface 2008
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Copyright © Tom Bale 2008
Tom Bale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Lyrics on p1 reproduced by kind permission James and Blue Mountain Music Ltd
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
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ISBN: 9781409050018
Version 1.0
For Niki
PART ONE
Come, dip on in
Leave your bones
Leave your skin
Leave your past
Leave your craft
Leave your suffering heart
James, 'Sound'
One
A glance to her left was all it took. A simple glance as she pushed open the door to the village shop. If she had kept her eyes straight ahead, or looked to the right instead, she might never have become involved. She might have been spared.
Her conscious mind, bruised by the experience of the past month, refused to believe what it had seen. But her subconscious knew and understood.
There was a dead man in the street.
It was the third Saturday of January, not quite eight in the morning. She parked outside her parents' cottage on the outskirts of the village and decided to delay the day's grim task by a few minutes. The store was no more than fifty or sixty yards away, tucked around a bend at the foot of the High Street: a ludicrous name for a place with only one shop and one pub.
Julia was thirty-one, a tall slender woman with dark shoulder-length hair. She taught at a junior school in Newhaven, and like the best teachers she had perfected a good-natured toughness that equipped her to cope with the worst that any ten-year-old could throw at her. In the past few weeks she had needed that resilience more than ever.
Her breath rose in clouds as she walked along the edge of the narrow road. A clean shimmer of frost lay over the grass verge. Roof tiles sparkled in the late Downland sunrise. The air tasted clean and sharp, and made her wish she was out jogging. Made her wish she had the day free to do as she chose.
It took her less than a minute to reach the shop. In that time she didn't see or hear another soul. No traffic, no tradesmen, no walkers or cyclists. But it was a Saturday, she reasoned. It was January. It was cold.
At the point where she glanced to her left, she had a clear view along the High Street, all the way to the Green Man pub at the north end of the village. There was a Royal Mail van parked at the kerb up by the church, facing towards her. She vaguely noticed the rear doors were open. If there was a body, it was lying in the road just beyond the van, only the feet visible.
Telling herself she must be mistaken, Julia entered the shop.
A bell rang as she stepped inside. The air was deliciously warm, with an aroma that always prompted a smile: a cosy blend of bread rolls, sliced ham, newsprint and mailbags. The kind of smell you'd like to bottle for nostalgia. Essence of village store.
The shopkeeper, Moira Beaumont, was a small twitchy woman in her fifties. She pulled her baggy cardigan together in response to the draught.
'Hello, love. You're an early bird. Don't tell me you stayed overnight?'
Julia's curt shake of her head disguised a shudder. 'I've just driven here,' she said, adding, 'I can't keep putting it off.'
Moira nodded sadly. 'It's Lewes where you live, isn't it?' She spoke as though the county town was some distant exotic locale, when in fact it was less than ten miles awa
y. But then Chilton was the sort of place where people still returned from Brighton, outraged by beggars in the street and the brazen display of homosexual love.
Julia browsed the newspapers for a minute, aware of Moira's sly scrutiny. Trying to spot a crack in the facade. A couple of weeks ago it would have bothered her, but she was used to it by now. All things considered, she felt she was coping pretty well.
So why the body in the street? her subconscious piped up. Hallucinations were hardly a sign of robust mental health.
Pushing the thought aside, she picked up the Guardian, a carton of semi-skimmed milk and on impulse a packet of chocolate biscuits. She had a long and difficult day ahead: she deserved a treat.
When she reached the counter Moira leaned over and grasped her hand. Even before she spoke, Julia knew she was going to use the gentle hushed tone that people reserve for the recently bereaved.
'I just want to say, I'm dreadfully sorry for what happened. They were such a lovely couple.'
Julia swallowed and nodded tersely. She had learned just how easily such expressions of sympathy could unlock the grief.
'Is your brother not coming to help clear the house?' Moira asked, taking Julia's five-pound note and prodding at the till.
'He offered, but it seems ridiculous when he's up in Cheshire.'
'I suppose so. What a shame you and Peter aren't still together,' said Moira, blithely unaware of her tactlessness. 'I know your mother always thought you were made for each other.'
'So did I,' said Julia. Another subject she was keen to avoid.
'But you've a new feller now, haven't you? I can't remember his name . . .'
'Steve.'
'That's it. Steve.' Moira gave a rather disdainful sniff. Probably remembering Mum's verdict on him, Julia thought.
'I'm not sure it's got much future, to be honest,' she said.
Moira clicked her tongue. 'You've really been in the wars, haven't you?' There was a moment when Julia felt sure she was going to say something about bad news coming in threes, but perhaps thought better of it. Instead she puffed out a breath. 'I'd give you a hand myself, but Len's away to Leicester to watch the football. Time off for good behaviour,' she added wryly.
Julia grinned. 'I'll be fine. And if I don't get it finished today . . . well, there's no great hurry.'
'You'll feel better when it's done, believe me.' Moira pressed her hands together as if in prayer. 'In my experience, it's the most unexpected things that can catch you out. If they do, you know where to find me.'
'Thanks.' Julia propped the biscuits under her arm and picked up the milk. For the sake of conversation, she said, 'Quiet round here this morning.'
Moira took a moment to consider. 'I suppose it is. I had a couple of folk in when I opened at seven, Mrs Collins and Tom Bradbury with those ruddy dogs of his. But it's freezing out there. I bet everyone's decided to stay in bed, lucky beggars.'
'I expect that's it,' Julia agreed.
When she reached the door, Moira called, 'Keep in touch, won't you? Don't be a stranger!'
Julia trapped the door with her foot and turned back, smiling. At that moment, with her own heart weighing so heavily, she would never have believed Moira had less than twenty minutes to live.
Leaving the shop, her attention was caught by a poster in the window of the house opposite. Another of Philip Walker's campaigns, she guessed from the headline in bold four-inch letters. Because of what was to happen next, the words would be forever imprinted on her memory.
This is OUR village!
Don't let them DESTROY IT!!
She snorted. Walker was the outspoken leader of a group of local activists, waging a war against developers seeking to expand the village. Probably a futile endeavour, if history was any judge, but Julia had a sneaking sympathy for them. If nothing else, her parents had been enthusiastic supporters of the cause.
And then, unable to resist the nagging voice of her subconscious, she turned to look north once again. She had to know if she had imagined it.
There was still no sign of activity in the village. The Royal Mail van remained in place. The rear doors were definitely open. And the body still lay behind the van, feet angled up on the pavement.
Oh Christ.
Shielding her eyes against the low morning sun, she squinted and took a few paces forward. She could feel her mouth going dry, her heart speeding up. She pictured herself slowly climbing the stairs in her parents' cottage. She couldn't go through that again, couldn't expose herself to—
And you can't let him die, a stronger voice spoke up. He might have had a heart attack or a stroke. He might be epileptic. Her knowledge of first aid was only rudimentary, but she could at least raise the alarm and keep him warm.
Her confidence wavered as she drew near the van. It looked as though he'd collapsed and rolled partly beneath the rear doors. A bundle of letters lay in the gutter, the breeze not quite strong enough to tease them free of the rubber band that restrained them.
Maybe a hit-and-run, she wondered, steeling herself for an unpleasant sight.
But it was far worse than a hit-and-run. The postman had gunshot wounds to his head and chest. One eye was missing, and the other stared lifelessly at her, wide with surprise that this could happen in such a privileged enclave of Sussex. The van was splattered with blood and brain and skull fragments.
Julia gasped and dropped her milk. The carton split open and leaked across the pavement, mixing with the blood in the gutter.
Two
Must have been a robbery, she thought. She peered into the back of the van, but it told her nothing. There were several grey sacks of mail, but plenty of space where other sacks might have lain.
The blood on the road was fresh, glistening like resin in the sunshine. That meant it had happened recently. She hadn't seen or heard any vehicles, so the killer must have escaped on foot.
The implication of this wasn't lost on Julia. She turned slowly, searching for signs of anything else out of place.
The village was roughly rectangular, with the cottages she'd just passed forming the eastern flank from the shop up to the sturdy Norman church of St Mary. Next to the church was the Rectory, and then the Green Man, a handsome Tudor inn. Then Hurst Lane, a private road which ran north for half a mile to Chilton Manor and Hurst Farm.
On the other side of the lane was the Old Schoolhouse, home to NIMBY activist Philip Walker. After that came Arundel Crescent, a line of grand Georgian houses which ran down the western flank and gave way to another terrace of smaller homes, ending opposite the shop back at the southern tip.
Chilton's centrepiece was the village green, complete with pond and a magnificent yew tree said to be over six hundred years old. The pond was partially frozen, and a couple of seagulls paced the perimeter, jostling smaller birds like hooligans on a day trip. They were the only living things in sight.
It's too quiet, Julia thought. Eight o'clock on a Saturday, someone should be out here, walking their dog, going shopping, ferrying the kids to football. Her brother and his wife were like a full-time taxi service for their children at the weekend. And surely someone would have heard gunshots and come out to investigate?
Something's very wrong.
Because she'd only intended to pop to the shop, she had left her handbag and mobile phone in the car, along with the cardboard boxes and plastic sacks for packing up her parents' belongings. Not that her mobile would have helped, she remembered. The village action group had fought off plans for a phone mast. She would have to find a landline.
Or you could walk away, a tiny, shameful voice spoke up. The postman's dead. You can't help him. Just turn round and go back to your car. It doesn't have to be your problem.
For a moment she might have succumbed. How wonderful to get in her Mini, start the engine and drive away. She'd been through enough trauma lately. Let someone else deal with this.
Then she imagined how her parents would have regarded such cowardice. She didn't really believe in a
n afterlife, but since their deaths she'd often envisaged them watching over her, judging her or passing comment on her choices and decisions. Now they would expect her to do whatever she could to help.
She ran on shaky legs to the nearest house, in the terrace next to the churchyard. The garden gate creaked as she opened it, underscoring the oppressive silence of the morning. The front door was painted a cheery red, with a small handwritten sign at eye level: Doorbell not working. Please knock.
So she did. Leaning close to the door, she could hear music playing inside: something melodic, with a Sixties twang.
There was no response. She knocked again, thumping the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. 'Please!' she called. 'It's an emergency!'
Her cry provoked mournful cawing from the rooks in the trees around the church. Julia felt her skin crawl and cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, suddenly convinced she was being watched. Had she sensed movement in Hurst Lane?
She waited a few more seconds, debating whether to run back to the shop. She knew Moira was a nervy creature, and certainly not the coolest of heads in a crisis. Besides, the postman might be a friend of hers. Better to spare her that if she could.
St Mary's was a safer bet. Someone was bound to be up and about by now. And if not, there might at least be a phone.
The churchyard was enclosed by a waist-high wall of Sussex flint. She passed through the lych gate and followed the gravel path to the entrance porch. Her route was lined by weathered gravestones, listing at drunken angles.
To her relief, one of the heavy oak doors was open. She stepped into the vestibule and saw another of Philip Walker's posters on the noticeboard, alongside lists of services, cleaning rotas, an advert for a jumble sale.
Pushing through a second set of doors, she entered the nave and immediately felt calmed by the soft light and atmosphere of peaceful reflection. The air smelled of dust and damp stone. And possibly something else, but she refused to acknowledge it.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. She grabbed the back of a pew and eased herself down. Leaning forward, she rested her head against the pew in front, her hair falling across her face like a fan. Slowly the other smell permeated her senses: something sharp and foul and metallic.