Little Bones

by N V Peacock

  ‘Cherrie, calm down,’ Patricia says.

  Yanking harder, my breath judders in my ribcage. ‘Fuck off!’ I push out.

  ‘It was on the ground. I found it,’ Luke yells out.

  I stop moving but still keep my grip on Robin’s jacket.

  ‘Where?’ As I ask this question, I attempt to disguise my voice in a more motherly, less insane timbre.

  ‘It was by the Ghost Train’s exit.’

  ‘My son has done nothing wrong,’ Mrs Gordon says.

  ‘Tell me exactly where you found my son’s jacket. Was it by the train? Was it on the ride?’ My voice has surpassed a warm tone; it’s now borderline crazy. Even I can hear it.

  ‘By the train,’ Luke whispers.

  Mrs Gordon stands up to get in my face. ‘I remember you from the papers, Little Bones. For a while, we went to the same school. You were crazy then and you’re crazy now.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t mess with a crazy person,’ I tell her, squaring my shoulders.

  ‘Okay, please, Cherrie, just go back to the other room with DC Kimmings and let us get the full statement from little Luke here.’ Patricia stares at me as if I’m a mental patient who’s off her meds. I fucking hate her. From her patronising tone to the smile that doesn’t make it past her mascara-clumped eyes. She is telling me what to do as if she understands what it feels like to have your son ripped from your arms.

  ‘Please, Cherrie,’ Patricia says again.

  I unfurl my fists; I hadn’t realised I’d clenched them so hard until my palms feel the relief of where my fingernails were digging in. Taking a breath, I give them all a sour look, and then walk out of the room. There’s a sigh of relief from behind me.

  Fortunately, I have all the information I need. If Luke found Robin’s jacket at the Ghost Train, then it was definitely the skeleton who took my son; there’s no imagining that, or chalking it up to a chance encounter. Someone deliberately dressed in bones and stole Robin. He knows me, who I am. This has to be a copycat of my dad. This is all that bloody podcast’s fault. It unearthed the bones of my past and got dirt all over my son. If the abductor found out about Robin’s granddad, taking him could be for some killer kudos. It was probably him who called me; laughing down the phone like Batman’s Joker.

  I wander outside towards the police car. Robin’s red jacket is in my hands, my palm cupping the small sparkling disc I’d given him before we left that night; his off switch. He doesn’t have it anymore. Robin won’t be able to turn anything off now.

  DC Kimmings runs to open the back door of the car. I head towards the front passenger seat and wait for him to open that door; in one small action asserting I’m not a criminal.

  ‘I will need the jacket back; it’s evidence. You want us to find your son, right?’ DC Kimmings reaches for the jacket. I let him take it back, while I slip the glittery cardboard disc into my pocket.

  He opens the car door. I slide into the front seat, and watch him bundle the last thing Robin wore into another evidence bag. I begin to formulate a plan.

  Dad never touched the boys he took; he only wanted their bones, but that’s not to say the copycat isn’t a sex offender, that it’s not Oscar Greer.

  They can have the jacket back; it won’t make any difference. The police won’t find the skeleton man. There’s only one person who might know who the copycat is, or at least could give me a look inside the mind of someone who abducts and kills little boys; Mr Bones himself. But am I ready to, once again, breathe the same air as my father?

  Chapter 23

  By the time I get home, I’ve convinced myself that talking to Dad would be a mistake. I’m not in the right mental state to deal with him now. Instead, I explore my copycat theory and search online for Mr Bones sites. More results than I’d have liked to see pop up, including the top result, The Flesh on the Bones website, which links to that fucking podcast. Jai Patel has broken his word and breathed fresh digital life back into it. There’s even a new episode entitled, Cherrie and Leigh-Ann. I resist the temptation to listen. I doubt it’ll be anything other than nasty rumours and spiteful theories. It won’t help me find Robin, or discover if there are any Mr Bones wannabes. Sticks and stones may break bones, but my past might kill my son if I don’t dedicate every ounce of my energy into finding him.

  I search through website after website and find many disturbing articles – nothing of use. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Would a copycat create a website? Would he be so obvious as to record his wicked thoughts in public?

  Shit. Dad could shed light into the dark world of child abductors and murderers. I may not want to, but it could be the only way to find Robin. Even if he isn’t aware of any adoring fans who have pieced together my connection to him, he might still have insight; a clue only a twisted mind can pull apart, then tie back up again. No, I can’t. I’m not there yet. Dad’s my last straw to clutch.

  Slumping back in my chair, I close my eyes. I’ve made great strides in suppressing the memories of my parents, of growing up not needing love and guidance. Right now though, as weird as it sounds, I’d give anything to hug my dad, to let him tell me everything will be okay. After the conviction, my young mind separated out the two beings of Dad and Mr Bones. Dad bought me sweets. Mr Bones bought me knives. Dad played games with me. Mr Bones watched me play games with his victims. Dad baked scones with me. Mr Bones taught me how to remove internal organs without creating a mess. I didn’t kill the boys, but without me, would they have gotten in Mr Bones’ car? It took years for me to accept the part I played. Years of criminology textbooks and searching missing people websites. There were the boys I knew he’d killed, but what if there had been more? Victims he’d hunted alone? I searched, but there were no others. Eleven boys’ faces used to haunt my thoughts; now it’s only my son’s face I see when I close my eyes.

  Opening a new window on the laptop, I start searching for missing child statistics in the UK. Google tells me over 140,000 under-eighteen-year-olds go missing every year. Scrolling down, I see they find ninety-one per cent within the first forty-eight hours. Quick maths tells me that’s over twelve thousand lost children. I look over at the mantel clock. Robin’s been missing since Friday night; there are only a few hours to go before my son has been missing over forty-eight hours and becomes a darker statistic.

  I check my phone; there are no new messages. When does Oscar Greer finish work? I should have asked where he worked. I could have then figured out what time he’d be back and laid in wait for him, rather than relying on the observations of a teenage police-wannabe. It’s a rookie stalker mistake.

  I wring my hands together and stare at my laptop. Slowly, I type in Greer’s name. My screen fills with a myriad of irrelevant results; it’s an oddly popular name. There’s Facebook Pages, LinkedIn profiles and company staff lists, but without knowing what he looks like, the search is difficult. I add the word, pervert to the search parameters, which conjures up a few sites I’d rather not have in my search history. Wait, the Google Alert. I load up the email and click the link it coughed up. Something I should have done in the first place.

  The link takes me to a blog by someone called Concerned in Rosemount. It’s a new site, only live since last Sunday. It lists a few petty crimes, a missing garden gnome, a stolen bike, several cans of pop littering the path, and a speeding car, but mentions nothing about Thomas Doncaster’s murder. With its digital birth just a day after they reported the disappearance in the news, you’d think a boy going missing would be of more concern than litter. Especially as he was murdered.

  The longest post on the blog is about Oscar Greer. It links to his conviction notice online and even has a small photo, which I click on to enlarge. He’s younger than I imagined; he looks just in his early twenties. In the picture, he wears a horrified look of sadness as he stares into the camera. If I didn’t know what I knew, I’d feel sorry for him. He’s standing by the side of his bungalow; I recognise the dead-plant-encrusted hanging baskets
. Could Greer be the skeleton from the fair? Could he be a copycat? He has the build for it. The blogger has written a short sentence under his photo: Shine a light! Do these monsters need to live in our estates?

  The blog doesn’t reveal Greer’s work or home address. I check out the hits; it’s had quite a few. The irony of this whole thing grips my conscience; this happened to me. The Flesh on the Bones sensationalised the Thomas Doncaster case and linked it to my family. That is how my stalker found me, and I’m about to do the same thing to Greer. Fuck it. What has a high moral standing ever done for me, anyhow? The principle of not continuing this vicious cycle of online muck spreading isn’t enough to stop me going back to Greer’s house and confronting him; I’m not sure anything on this earth could.

  Staring at Greer’s photo, I scorch his image into my mind. All too soon, glaring at the bright screen makes my eyes sting. Blinking a few times, I look away. Artificial dots gather in my vision. They disappear as quickly as they appear. I’m tired and need to get some sleep, yet I can’t do it right now. I have to be ready to take a call. Be it from a nosy teen neighbour or the police.

  Closing my laptop lid, I imagine curling my fingers around Greer’s neck. How much pressure would it take? He’ll be strong; how could I subdue him long enough to choke the perverted life out of him? Drugs? No, not my style. Maybe stabbing. Blood loss and panic could weaken him …

  As I make my way upstairs, I trip over one of Robin’s books. I bend, scoop it up and place it back in his room. As I do, I sit down on his bed. I take in a long breath, which judders in my chest. No, I can’t afford to be some clichéd grieving mother, not yet. Forcing myself up, I leave Robin’s room. I don’t want to get mum smell all over it.

  I go to the bathroom and fill the sink with cold water, then dunk my head into it. The chill smacks my skin. I open my eyes under the water. A stray image of my mum floods my mind; her bloated mouth open in a silent scream. Tears distort the scene before me.

  I flick my head up; my long hair sprays out in cold, sticky clumps down my back. If Mum had not taken her life, would she be here right now trying to help me? Comforting me? Doubtful.

  Staring in the mirror, I examine my rough appearance. No make-up, little sleep, I’m all sharp features aching for a fight. My hand is on a hairbrush when I hear my mobile’s ringtone coming from the dining room. I rush down the stairs and pick up my phone. There’s no caller ID. What if it’s that laughing asshole from before? Fuck it. I answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cherrie? This is Gemma.’

  ‘Oh, hi Gemma, what have you seen?’

  ‘Approximately ten minutes ago, Mr Greer came back from work. Dropped off by the number three bus. He has bags of groceries from somewhere called Dawson’s Food and another bag from a toy shop.’

  He shops where I work. Could he have targeted me specifically? And toys make sense: Robin would be bored. Wait, if he has spent money on toys then my baby is still alive.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ I say and hang up.

  Looking down at my feet, I realise I didn’t take my boots off when I got home. I’m just as guilty as my errant visitors for dragging dirt through my home. I grab a coat and stride out of the house. I don’t want to take my car. If any of those reporters swarm back, I want them to believe I’m still inside the house.

  At the top of my street, I break into a sprint towards Greer’s bungalow. I’m not in the best shape, so have to stop to gasp and hold my knees. I don’t remember it being this far away before, but then again, I had put up flyers all the way along the street before I even saw the email.

  Looking up, I see my son’s face floating ghost-like on every lamppost, reflected in the windows of strangers’ houses, staring back out at me. A smile playing on his lips. His eyes alight with mischief. A puckish lost boy daring me to find him. This gives me the energy I need to reach Greer’s street, to get to his house, to walk up the paedophile’s drive, to knock on his door. He has to be the abductor, and Little Bones wants to meet him.

  Chapter 24

  I’d planned to have at least thirty seconds to think through this confrontation before he opened the door, but it’s as if he knew I was coming. The door swings wide open and I see Oscar Greer wearing a beige short-sleeve shirt and tie with moccasin slippers. An outfit you’d expect your granddad to wear, not a twenty-something.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  His voice is soft and familiar; could he be the man who called me, laughing?

  Opening my mouth, I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

  He looks down at my hands. What’s he looking for? A weapon?

  I expect a villain’s cackle but instead he asks, ‘Are you all right?’

  I can’t speak. My brain grasps for a well-constructed lie to get me through Greer’s door, so I can search the house for Robin, yet the words stay trapped behind my gritted teeth.

  Greer sighs. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  He is the copycat. He has Robin.

  ‘Robin!’ I yell at the top of my lungs.

  ‘Hey, hey, what are you doing?’

  Greer moves to close the door, but I ram my boot in the way, wedging it between the door and its frame, leaving me a small gap to yell, ‘Robin! Mummy’s here!’

  ‘Shhhh. I don’t have your son,’ he says, gently trying to dislodge my foot.

  ‘Robin!’

  ‘I don’t have your son!’

  ‘Let me in. If you don’t have him, you can let me in and show me.’ I snake my fingers through the gap and clutch his shirt. I get a handful of his dangling tie and use it to pull his head towards me.

  ‘Stop! What are you doing?’ he screams.

  I wind my knuckles around the tie, pulling him closer. So close, I can smell something sweet on his breath.

  A feeling stirs inside me. Soft, familiar darkness I’ve ignored for a long time. It reaches up and through me.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ I whisper.

  Greer’s eyes widen as his hands claw at mine. I feel his fingers, but he has short nails, so can only paw at me with blunt panic. Images of him doing horrible things to Robin cut through my brain, cracking my logic into splinters. Sweet madness slips over my common sense and I grip harder. I’m moments away from having Robin back in my arms. If I have to, I will kill Oscar Greer. No one will miss him. The world will be a better place without him.

  ‘I’ll call the police!’ Oscar screams.

  The door opens a little more, so I inch my boot in further. I’m almost to Robin. I’m coming, sweetie. Mummy’s coming to save you.

  ‘Please, you must believe me,’ he whines.

  ‘Call the police,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll see what happens. Will they help the sick kiddie fiddler or the mother rescuing her child?’

  ‘What? No, please, just listen.’ Looking down, he kicks out at my foot.

  Sharp pain pulses up through my leg, but I don’t move. I can take it. I pull harder on his tie, and his head plunges further forward, hitting the glass of the door. His ruddy skin squeezes up against it. I’m so close that I can see his gaping pores and stubble through the thick glass.

  ‘You will let me in,’ I seethe.

  My voice is coming out different. I hear it and even register the change, yet can’t seem to dial back the tone.

  With one hand, he scrambles around behind the door while trying to hold on to his tie with the other.

  ‘Please,’ he says.

  A flash of metal and I’m suddenly reeling backwards. The door slams shut. I stand on the doorstep bewildered, half of his tie still in my grasp. He cut it off. Who keeps scissors by their front door?

  I bang loudly. ‘Don’t you want your tie back?’ I say, throwing the limp material at the house.

  His shadow lingers behind the glass of the door. ‘Please leave me alone.’

  ‘Give me back my son!’

  ‘I don’t have your bloody son. Go! Now!’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll camp out on y
our front lawn if I have to. I’ll find a way into your house, and if you’ve hurt Robin, I’ll do the same back to you, only worse.’ Laying my head on the glass, I laugh. ‘I can imagine so much worse; I won’t even make a mess.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your son, but you’re looking in the wrong place. I don’t like boys. You need to leave now.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Please. I’ve already spoken to the police. They came here first. They’ve searched my house.’

  I take this new information in and roll it around in my head, yet it doesn’t stick. Leaning forward, I place both my palms onto the glass.

  ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff,’ I whisper.

  There’s something oddly familiar about this. I close my eyes. The bereaved father on my doorstep. I was in this exact situation with him; only I was on the other side of the door, scared and without the answers to give him. This is how it feels, hollow and desperate. I bang my fist once against the door, then amble down his drive. Turning back, I look at the house again to check each window for a familiar little face. I see nothing.

  I reach my estate with no memory of the journey. As I walk down my street, DC Steadman pulls up. He gets out of the silent Panda car and patiently waits for me by my front door. As I reach him, he says, ‘I had a call about you hassling Oscar Greer. Is that true?’

  ‘You should know, you guys apparently hassled him first,’ I say staggering into him like a drunk.

  ‘Yes, we searched Mr Greer’s house. There was nothing there.’ DC Steadman puts an arm around my shoulders to direct me through my front door.

  ‘I didn’t get to search his house. I want to go in there myself.’

  ‘You’re exhausted and not thinking straight. You need to sleep. Consider this a warning; stop meddling in the investigation. You can’t go vigilante on us.’ He pushes me further into the house. ‘Seriously, Mrs Duffill, get some sleep. Don’t you dare go back to Mr Greer’s house. I’m warning you,’ he says and leaves, closing the door behind him.