Little Bones

by N V Peacock

  Oscar Greer could have my son. Hanging around a fair would not be out of character for the likes of him. Also, if he has restrictions on his bail about being around minors, dressing up in a costume to avoid being recognised would make sense. I want to find my son, but finding him in Greer’s house, seeing what he has done to him, it would break my heart. In turn, I’d have to break something of Greer’s of equal measure.

  I run. I’m not much of an athlete, but pain and terror propel me forward. Before I’m mentally prepared for it, I’m on his street. I don’t know the house number, so I knock on doors and ask if anyone can direct me. I can remember a time when we all knew our neighbours’ names, yet this street appears seriously ill informed, or just not bothered. Only when I catch an elderly woman taking her dog for a walk, do I get my answer. He lives at number forty-seven. It’s a small bungalow with a front door made up of peeling navy paint and smeared glass panels. Flanking the door are two hanging baskets overflowing with dead plants. It looks like a haunted house, something that belongs in a fair. Somewhere a skeleton would live.

  I charge up the driveway and bang on the front door. My plan is simple; when Greer opens the door, I’ll punch him. To get him on the ground, I might have to hit him a few times, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Once he’s down, I’ll search his house until I find Robin. If he’s done something terrible to my baby, I’ll hunt for the sharpest knife in his kitchen, then I’ll slit his throat. As I watch him bleed to death, I’ll cut off any part of him that touched my son. Greer is a dead man walking.

  Waiting on the paedophile’s doorstep, with this easy-to-action plan churning around my mind, I try to imagine any immediate drawbacks to it; nope, there’s none. If killing Greer equals saving my son, and probably other innocent children, then it’s a simple equation. One I can live with.

  I knock again, this time louder. There’s still no answer. To take in more of the house, I step a few paces backwards. Four windows are facing out towards the street. I scrutinise each one, waiting for a curtain to twitch, or a face to appear. Nothing.

  ‘Oscar Greer!’ I yell.

  No answer.

  ‘You pervert! Open your door right now!’

  No answer.

  My shouting draws out his neighbours, a middle-aged man and a young girl of about thirteen.

  ‘I’ll call the police if you don’t leave,’ the man says.

  ‘Do you have any idea who the fuck your neighbour is?’

  The girl giggles at the word fuck.

  ‘Oscar is at work,’ the neighbour replies.

  ‘He’s a registered sex offender. He has my son.’

  ‘I saw you on the news – you’re sassy,’ the girl says.

  I turn to face them properly. ‘Have you seen a little boy here?’

  ‘No, I work from home, I’d have noticed. Oscar is quiet. He doesn’t have kids.’

  ‘Did he go to the fair on Friday night? Does he have a skeleton costume?’ I sound like a madwoman.

  ‘I’m not his personal assistant.’ The man shrugs. ‘You shouldn’t be here. You should leave now.’

  ‘He did go out on Friday night. I saw him leave the house,’ the girl offers. She pulls out her mobile phone. ‘When I leave school, I’m going to join the police. I could do with stakeout experience. Give me your number; I’ll text you if I see anything.’

  ‘Gemma! Don’t give your number to this crazy woman. I remember Mr Bones. For all we know, she killed her son.’

  ‘I love my son.’ Before her dad can stop me, I grab Gemma’s outstretched mobile and put in my number. Handing it back to her I say, ‘Thank you.’

  Walking home, I realise that I should tell the police about Greer. But what have the police ever done for me? And, deep down, a huge part of me wants to be the hero. The one who rescues Robin. It’s a frivolous thought; what if keeping it from the police makes matters worse? Robin is missing, Leo has left me, everyone now knows who I am, and there is only one way things will get worse: Robin’s body discarded by the side of the road, and, if I’m not careful, I could be the cause of it. That’s exactly why I need to keep Greer’s identity secret. Police have legal and ethical limits. I don’t.

  Tracy meets me at the top of the street. ‘Guess where Kylie is now living?’

  I don’t answer. I hear the question, but all I can think about is Oscar Greer and getting a text from my new spy to tell me he’s home, so I can push him in front of a speeding car.

  ‘With Gran and me. I adopted your stray.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I mutter.

  ‘Kylie’s fun to have around. Gran is looking forward to having a baby in the house. It’s as if she’s ten years younger. Like she’s sucking the youth right out of Kylie’s belly button. Not that it’ll be forever. Her boyfriend wants her back. There’s a legal thing he needs to sort out first, though.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say.

  When we get home, we find Tracy’s gran in my kitchen. She’s made a lunch of baked beans, sausage patties and fried mushrooms. It smells great, like my house is a home again, almost.

  When everyone comes back without flyers, Gran dishes the food up. The girls chat as they eat. I want to talk to them about Greer, but they’d probably make me tell the police, and I’m not ready to let that information go just yet.

  As if thinking about the police makes them appear, DC Steadman and Patricia knock on the door. They’re checking up on me. Miraculously, Tracy’s gran has made enough lunch for everyone, so both sit down to eat with us.

  ‘What have you found out about Thomas Doncaster?’ Kylie asks them.

  ‘Yeah, is that case connected with Robin?’ Shania adds.

  DC Steadman chokes a little on his beans.

  ‘I … I’m not sure we should talk about it,’ Patricia stammers.

  ‘It’s a good question. You said you’d keep me informed of the case. So far, you’ve told me squat. Tell me this at least.’ Surprising myself with my hard tone, I shove a whole sausage patty in my mouth to stop me from saying anything else.

  DC Steadman clears his throat. ‘We can see a few similarities between the cases, but also major differences.’

  ‘That’s good, right?’ Tracy asks. ‘In all the police shows on TV, they talk about criminals’ MOs, which they don’t change. It probably means the cases aren’t related.’

  ‘Two young boys go missing twenty miles and one week apart; they’re connected.’ Shania looks at me when she finishes her sentence, almost as if to apologise.

  ‘TV isn’t the best comparison here. We can’t rule anything in or out at this stage,’ DC Steadman says taking a bite of toast.

  ‘Have you looked into the travelling fair?’ Tracy’s gran asks.

  ‘We searched it and interviewed all the workers,’ DC Steadman replies.

  ‘Were they in town when Thomas went missing?’ Tracy asks.

  ‘No, they came here a few days later.’ Patricia looks over at me.

  They’re discussing Robin’s disappearance as if it’s a reality show on TV. Like I’m not his mother, and not sitting next to them in gut-wrenching agony.

  I want to yell at them to get out, so I can wallow in my dark thoughts alone while watching for a teenage girl’s text about a known paedophile, but I can’t do that. My friends came here to support me. They had the afternoon off work, yet came to help Little Bones. I served them a significant slice of my sticky past and they stuck around. Which is more than can be said for Leo.

  After a few hours, the girls all leave together. Each of them hugging me as they go. Kylie’s belly kicks out as she grips me to her. She mouths sorry, but I’m unsure if she’s apologising for her foetus’s violent outburst or Robin’s abduction.

  DC Steadman leaves too. I turn to say goodbye to Patricia but see her sit back down on my couch.

  ‘Umm, you can go too,’ I say.

  ‘I’m supposed to stay with you. You’d be surprised at the silly things parents do in these situations.’ She picks up yesterday�
��s newspaper and begins flicking through it.

  At least I’m not surprised at the silly things Patricia says anymore. Raising my lips into the best smile I can muster, I say, ‘Don’t you have another family to hassle now?’

  I want this woman out of my house. I know she is supposed to help me, but right now, I’m itching to lash out, and she’s gonna cop it if she doesn’t get off my couch and do something constructive to find Robin.

  ‘No. I told you I’m here for you.’

  ‘I’m good. You can go. I’m sure you have a family of your own that you want to get home to.’

  Patricia puts down the newspaper and looks over at me. ‘You’re going through something bad; it’ll be okay, though. I’ve helped many other families through similar situations.’

  ‘Were you with the Doncasters?’ I move around to the couch, but I don’t sit down. Instead, I deliberately loom over her.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies.

  ‘Did you tell them everything would be okay?’

  Standing up, she knocks over the side table to the right of the couch and swears under her breath.

  ‘Please, just leave. I won’t do anything silly. I just want to be alone and get some sleep.’

  ‘Okay. Sleep is a good idea.’ Patricia inches towards the coat rack. As she takes her coat, I look down to see she’s still wearing her shoes; Leo, Robin and I always take them off by the door. Everyone who has been in my house since last night has kept their shoes on. All of them have dragged dirt through my home.

  After I close the door on Patricia, I wring my hands together, then busy myself with housework to make the time go quicker.

  Exhausted and covered in dust and muck, I sit down at the dining room table and stare at my phone. Two hours tick by. I get up to pee, but take the phone with me. I feel like a desperate single woman waiting for a date to call.

  I should contact Leo. I’m not heartless, even though my heart isn’t in my chest anymore. However, I have to remind myself that he’s being comforted by Mrs Duffill; all the while, my monster-in-law will be drip-feeding him poison. If Cherrie Forrester wasn’t good enough for her son, you could be damn sure Little Bones isn’t. Shaking off my emotional instincts to call my boyfriend, I make a cup of tea, and resign myself to stare at my phone.

  As night draws in, I fetch Robin’s duvet, so I can curl up with it on the couch. It smells like him, like his hair and his skin; how long will that last? It’s late and I need to rest. Exhaustion doesn’t help when you’re hunting a paedophile who has abducted your son.

  It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re fully clothed. Every time I turn around, my shirt catches under my body, tugging at my torso, but I refuse to undress. At any moment, Gemma could text me; I need to be ready. I toy with the idea of just going over to Oscar Greer’s house to try some stalking myself, yet my eyelids are heavy and the duvet is warm. Soon, I find myself drifting into an uneasy sleep. Quickly, I jerk awake again. Sleeping is a bad move. Waking to remember Robin is missing is like losing him all over again.

  I hate feeling weak; like life is a game and my body is letting me down by succumbing to sleep. I remember when I was little and Dad used to play snakes and ladders with me. We played for hours until I’d win a game. He was so patient. I guess you have to be patient to be a serial killer.

  I make a coffee and then sit back down on the sofa.

  A vibration from my mobile startles me. I scramble to answer it without checking the caller ID.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Is anyone there? Is that you, Gemma?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Robin?’

  Laughter, low and grumbling, like a villain from an old film.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You don’t deserve a son. You should be in prison like your sick dad.’

  I want my voice to rise up, to be hard enough to protect me from this crazy caller, but it doesn’t; instead, it sinks to a whisper. This could be the person who has Robin. If I’m not careful, my temper could kill my son.

  ‘Do you have my son?’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘Do you have Robin?’

  Silence.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Pay attention, I said you don’t know me.’

  Something snaps deep in my brain. I say, ‘I may not know you, but the police will. They’re tracing this call.’

  The line goes dead.

  I scroll through my latest calls. They withheld their number. Fuck.

  Quickly, I grab the house phone and call Patricia.

  ‘Someone just called my mobile,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh, I was just about to ring you,’ she says.

  ‘Did you hear me, someone just rang. They could have Robin.’

  ‘Did their number come up? Did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll look into it, but it’s probably just a prank call. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone targeted you after that appeal. There’s been several hoaxers here too.’

  ‘Wait, you said you were gonna call me? What’s happened? What have you found?’

  Chapter 22

  ‘We need you to come down to the incident room.’

  ‘What? Have you found Robin?’

  ‘No, but we have found the boy from the fair. The one in the red jacket. We need you to come down to the station to identify him.’

  Looking at the clock, I see it’s now six in the morning.

  ‘I’ll give you time to get dressed. DC Kimmings is outside; he’ll drive you.’

  When I hang up on her, I realise I forgot about my appointment with Mariah last night. I hope that she will have seen the news and realises why I stood her up. Admittedly, I’m surprised she hasn’t called. Maybe she’s moved on to another vulnerable child. Perhaps she believes Robin is already lost. No, I have to hope that a woman so intent on helping me that she came uninvited to my home, would pick up the phone if she had any news, be it good or bad. She was right about Thomas Doncaster. Whether I truly believe in her abilities or not, I have to listen to her. What have I got to lose?

  I don’t bother changing my clothes from yesterday. I put on my boots, then throw on a coat.

  It surprises DC Kimmings to see me emerge from the house so quickly. He opens the car door for me to climb into the back seat. Once again, I feel like a criminal he’s caught. As if I’ve done something wrong. I did. I was selfish to want a new beginning with a new name, but would my life have been the same if I hadn’t? Would Leigh-Ann have met Leo, had Robin, worked at Dawson’s Food, and still made the friends who would support her through a crisis? Changing my name made me paranoid, secretive and ultimately distracted at the wrong time. Perhaps Leigh-Ann would not have lost Robin. Maybe the abductor would have stolen another boy, which would have been sad, but I could have lived with that. These are the thoughts that attack my mind as we drive to the police station. The same station where they questioned my dad. The same station they drove me to when Mum committed suicide.

  Once parked, the DC frees me from the back seat, and leads me to a small room. Inside there is a little boy with a woman. With pity dancing behind her eyes, the woman looks up at me.

  DC Kimmings speaks quietly with Patricia, then he beckons me forward.

  ‘This is Mrs Gordon and her son Luke. Is he the boy you saw at the fair?’

  Mrs Gordon heaves her son to his feet. He’s about Robin’s height and age, and he has the same hair colour; however, his face is not freckly like my son’s. There are no dimples in his cheeks. His eyes are brown rather than blue. From a distance, he’d look like Robin, but up close, the differences are huge. It is the boy from the fair.

  ‘Yes, I saw you in the red jacket.’ I reach out to ruffle his hair, but DC Kimmings moves me back.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your son,’ Mrs Gordon says.

  Patricia suddenly steps between us. ‘Let’s get a statement from little Luke.’ She throws a weird look at DC
Kimmings, who cups my elbow to manoeuvre me out of the room.

  ‘Wait, I want to speak with them,’ I plead.

  ‘No, I need you to identify the jacket now,’ he says.

  We move to a smaller room. Sitting on the centre of a table is a red lump covered in clear plastic. DC Kimmings gives it to me. Peering into the bag, I move the material around in my hands. Why are they showing me this? I identified the kid. Why should I have to identify his jacket? As I move the plastic around, I notice a twinkle. I raise it up to the light to examine it. There are red sparkles dotted about the jacket.

  I must get an odd look in my eye as DC Kimmings dives forward to take the bag from me. He doesn’t make it in time. I rip into it; the jacket instantly puffs up as it hits the air. A waft of Robin’s scent smacks me in the face, along with the sticky sweetness from the cotton candy he dropped on it on Friday night.

  ‘Ms Forrester,’ DC Kimmings pleads, reaching for the jacket.

  I step away from him while I search the pockets. My hand stops dead when I feel a small circle of cardboard. His robot off switch.

  ‘Where did you get this from? It’s Robin’s jacket. Where did it come from?’ I screech, clutching the red coat to my chest.

  ‘From the Gordon boy. He was wearing it at the fair. You saw him in it on that night.’

  With Robin’s jacket clutched to my chest, I bowl past the DC and burst back into the room with Patricia and the Gordons.

  ‘How did you get my son’s jacket? You little thief!’ I yell at Luke.

  The boy shrinks into his mum’s side.

  ‘Don’t you dare yell at my son! We’ve been co-operating so far. We don’t have to, you know.’

  ‘This isn’t appropriate.’ Patricia gets up to try to turn me around; her fingers gripping Robin’s jacket.

  ‘Get away from me. And get the fuck off my son’s jacket.’ I pull it away, almost knocking her over. She maintains her grip on the red material. I pull back again, and we enter into a childish game of tug of war that I’ll be damned if I lose. I lost Robin; I won’t lose this small part of him, I can’t.