Little Bones

by N V Peacock

  There might be a quicker way to identify him. My dad. If he wanted answers about his son badly enough, he’d have gone to the source first. Requested to see Mr Bones in person. This settles it; I have to go to the prison. I need to speak with Dad.

  The morning creeps in around me like insects edging towards a fresh corpse. I will myself to sleep, but I can’t. I will see my dad today. I’ll be in the same room as him. Be breathing the same air. I wished I’d told him Robin was missing in the email. I’m not sure how I can say it to him face to face. I’ll cry and he’ll try to comfort me. He was always that sort of dad. I’d fall over, he’d pick me up, then clean my wound and put a cartoon-character sticky plaster on me, whether or not I needed one.

  The last time I saw Dad was in the courthouse during the trial. Social workers wouldn’t let me go into the hearing. Instead, they sat me with a bored-looking guard in a room next door. The walls were thin, and I could hear other people on trial talking to their solicitors, crying and pleading. My dad’s barrister gave me a book too young for me. I remember flipping through the pages staring at the illustrations and trying to picture my dad and me in them. Imagining us anywhere but at court.

  At that time, I was desperate for him to be found innocent, even though I knew he was guilty. It was selfish, but I needed him. I’d just lost my mother; he was all I had left. After just a few hours, his barrister told me they had found him guilty. Years later, I read the details of the case in an old newspaper; the judge had wished the UK still had the death penalty so they could exterminate my last remaining parent.

  The accompanying grainy black and white photo showed my dad forcibly dragged towards a police van. His oddly calm face captured forever amid a jeering crowd. That was the day I bought my first criminology textbook, a scary-looking volume entitled Diseases of the Sick Mind by Dr Hawk. Thinking back, it was just as much to explore the reaction of the crowd as it was to delve into my father’s mind.

  To kill some of the morning, I go online and book my train to the town nearest the prison. Without meaning to, I gravitate to The Flesh on the Bones, and download the latest episode with my name on to listen to on the train.

  Before I go, I text Leo what I’m doing, then switch off my phone. I don’t want to see a shocked emoji face, or worse another alien face I can’t read. He knows my plan; that’s good enough for now. I have to keep my mind on track, no matter what scary place it leads me.

  Picking up my keys, I am about to leave the house when I remember the VO form. I go back in and grab it. I’m in my car before I think of my passport.

  Swearing, I run back into the house and up the stairs. I reach across to the drawer by my bed and fumble around in it. I pull out the passports. Odd, there are only two in there. I check them, just Leo’s and mine. Where is Robin’s passport? I pull the drawer out and shake the contents onto the bed. Sifting through the stray documents, I quickly see there are no more passports. Robin’s one is missing. When did I see it last? I perch on the end of the bed and close my eyes. He was showing it to Mrs Duffill at dinner; perhaps he didn’t put it back?

  If I don’t go soon, I’ll miss my train. Normally, I would leave an alert on my phone to remind me of something like this, to search for the missing passport when I get home, but I can’t bring myself to put my phone back on, just in case Leo has sent a text to talk me out of going to the prison, or to ask if he can come with me.

  The train station is about a fifteen-minute drive from my house. All too soon, I’m parking the car, collecting my ticket, then standing on a platform in the cold. I’m wearing a pair of dark jeans, a pink jumper and my raincoat. I must look a complete mess as I get several looks of disdain from other commuters. Perhaps they recognise me from my not-so-appealing TV appeal. Worse, there could be more about me online, maybe even photos now. I need to listen to the podcast.

  A strangled-sounding announcement informs me the train is running ten minutes late. As I groan about the delay, my stomach echoes it. There’s a McDonald’s by the station, so I run over. I order nearly everything from the breakfast menu and a cup of coffee. I get back to the platform in time to see the train pulling up. I climb on and check my ticket to see where I’m sitting. G4 is my reserved seat. I walk through the carriages to find it, but discover someone is already sitting there, a lady about my age. There are other seats free, albeit ones facing the wrong way.

  My food is getting cold. I should just sit down, yet I can’t let the seat-stealing woman get away with it. Too much has been stolen from me already. Carefully, I place my food and drink on a nearby table, then bend down and whisper to her, ‘Excuse me, you’re in my seat.’

  She narrows her eyes at me, and her face wrinkles like a Shar Pei dog. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘I bought this seat because it’s facing in the right direction.’

  The woman stares out of the window, ignoring me.

  Cherrie Forrester would have let the seat-stealer get away with it. She would have backed down out of embarrassment, but not Little Bones. It looks like I’ll never escape my heritage, so if it’s Little Bones they want, it’ll be Little Bones they get. I position my face in front of the woman so she has to see me. ‘Get up now.’

  ‘Or what?’ The seat-stealer grips her handbag to her chest as if it’ll protect her from my wrath. It won’t. I reach out to grab her elbow. She grunts and tries to pull away from me, but I have a steady grip, and don’t care if I hurt her.

  ‘Get the fuck up and sit somewhere else!’ I yell.

  Everyone turns around to stare at me. Every face wears a matching shocked expression. I pull up the seat-stealer – she lets me. She stares into the distance as I push her up the aisle of the carriage. I’m waiting for her retaliation, an accusation, or a swear word. Nothing. Red-faced, she bustles down the train and leaves the carriage. Feeling deflated, I sit down in my seat. I wanted a fight. I needed to punch and kick her until I saw blood and bone.

  The smell of my fast-food breakfast hits my nostrils. All I want to do now is stuff my face with fatty goodies. I open the paper bag. Groans from the other passengers quickly reach me. It must be some unwritten rule that you don’t bring stinky food onto a train. I don’t care. I’m hungry. If someone complains, I’ll handle him or her. I’d welcome a complaint. Anger floats like a bloated corpse just below my smile.

  I eat until my stomach hurts. Eventually, my jaw aches too much to chew, so I stop and stare out of the window at the flashing scenery. The train slows as it reaches towns and their stations. Greenery morphs to urban houses; graffiti-covered walls, along with blocks of flats too close to the train tracks to afford their occupants any kind of decent vista. With my luck, as the train ambles by, I’ll see a murder. A limp body, empty of fight, shoved out of a window to explode in a dollop of blood and sinew by the tracks.

  No, I have to stop thinking like this. Not everything in my life belongs in a horror film. My friends are supporting me: Cherrie, not Little Bones. I still have Leo. And, as long as I can get to him in time, I’ll still have Robin.

  Closing my eyes, I listen to the clickety-clack of the train and let my food go down.

  No one checks my ticket. With the absence of a conductor, I feel cheated having spent money on something I apparently could have gotten free.

  Becoming bored, I switch my phone back on to find I have ten unread texts from just about everyone: Tracy, Shania, and Gurpreet, several from Leo. I scan them to see they are all messages of support. Not a single emoji on any of his texts. It’s a record for my boyfriend.

  There’s still at least an hour of travelling before we get to the station, so I put on my headphones to listen to the latest The Flesh on the Bones episode. As ironic as it sounds, at least I’ll be able to block out the rest of the train journey now. Have something to concentrate on other than my fellow passengers who seem intent on giving me the stink-eye like customers waiting in a queue.

  This new episode is more professional than the last two. Jai now has sponsors,
an insurance company along with an estate agent. He dutifully introduces them at the start. Glad to know it’s not just Jai profiting from my family’s misery.

  ‘This is the third episode of The Flesh on the Bones,’ Jai says. ‘If you haven’t heard the others, where have you been?’ Pause for laughter. ‘Today we will be talking about Little Bones. Only daughter of the serial killer Mr Bones, she changed her name at seventeen from Leigh-Ann Hendy to Cherrie Forrester, which I exposed in a previous podcast.’ Pause for admiration. ‘However, to add a twist to the events surrounding my story …’ His story? ‘Last Friday night Robin Duffill, the son of Leigh-Ann Hendy, disappeared at Crazy Clive’s Fair in Black Friars Park.

  ‘This raises several questions.’ Pause as he rustles papers. ‘First, could Robin’s disappearance be linked to the Mr Bones case of over twenty-five years ago? Could it also be connected to the abduction, and subsequent murder, of Thomas Doncaster?’

  That’s only two questions, hardly what I’d call several, and both of which I’ve considered myself. I’m hoping the police have too.

  ‘Was poor Robin abducted at all? I’ve found many cases where mothers black out and kill their children.’ What the fuck? ‘One particular case in 1945 in Florida, USA, tells of a mother of three, Mrs Irene Baker, who drove a car, filled with her young children, into a lake. In a daze, she freed herself, swam to the shore, and then walked three miles in the midday sun to a general store. Seemingly coming to, she yelled, “Someone has taken my children!” It took weeks for the police to dig up the truth, so this brings us to the question: did Leigh-Ann Hendy kill her son?’

  I stop the podcast and shove half a leftover chocolate muffin into my mouth to stop from swearing.

  ‘Unbelievable fucker!’ I say, the muffin doing nothing to defuse my F-bomb.

  I would never hurt Robin, yet Jai’s now officially put this idea in all those eager listeners’ minds. What motive would I have? Plus, I was in public the whole time during the abduction. I was the one who called the police. Could I sue him for defamation of character? Probably, still, it’d cost money; money I don’t have, and if Dawson’s Food is in trouble, I can’t go putting expensive legal costs on a credit card. All Jai is doing is sensationalising gossip to gain a following. He has no evidence to back up his claims. No evidence, because I didn’t hurt Robin.

  I finish my internal rant, yet feel obligated to listen to the end of the podcast. Knowing what they’re saying is better than being in the dark, for Robin’s sake.

  ‘Does murder run in the family? There’s scientific evidence that serial killers’ brains work differently than the rest of us ordinary folk. Children can inherit this brain damage.’ How could he say something like that? When Dad introduced me to his art, I was an innocent child. It’s your parents who teach you right from wrong. I had no innate inclinations to kill other children. I was a good girl and did what I was told.

  ‘Let’s look at the evidence. Leigh-Ann took her son to the fair alone. I’ve canvassed the fair, and the people I spoke to all said she looked jittery and worried. One even claimed she was in a daze when he saw her. Most of them don’t remember seeing her with her son at all. Could Leigh-Ann have killed Robin and then claimed she lost him at the fair?’

  People at the fair would have only noticed me after Robin was taken; so of course, I looked frazzled.

  ‘Let’s go back to the case of the Florida mother. Mrs Baker just switched off, killed her children like a murderous sleepwalker. Leigh-Ann Hendy could have killed her poor little boy, stuffed his body somewhere, anywhere in that vast park, which was local to her, so she knew it well, and called the police after she awoke from her trance. I’ve met Leigh-Ann. She accosted me at my home after the second episode aired. I’d already agreed to take everything down, yet she attacked me at Robin’s appeal, even though I went there to support her.’

  He didn’t go to the appeal for anything other than a story. Jai is a liar, and the worst kind, saying I could have blacked out. Wait; is there a gap in my timeline? I don’t remember. I was texting Leo the whole time. I swipe the podcast off to look at the texts between Leo and me on Friday night. My texts to him are close together, all under a minute, until the last one; there is a two-minute gap. Nowhere near enough time for me to … Jai has no evidence, but it’s never seemed to matter. He’s turning everyone against me. My stomach rolls at the thought; it feels as if it has dropped through the floor of the train onto the tracks; my entrails dragging between the grinding metal below.

  The rest of the podcast is dripping in even more loose conjecture, along with a few wild theories about a cult sacrificing young boys to an ancient god. In the end, he wraps up by thanking his new sponsors for their support. Although my name is the title of the episode, he jumps from topic to topic without even a hint of consistency. His bullshit is neither written nor produced well, making me madder.

  The train slows. I look up at the digital board to see I’m almost at my station. Quickly, I text Leo about this episode of the podcast. He comes straight back to tell me he’ll listen to it and not to let it bother me.

  As we pull into the station, I rise and make my way down the aisle. There’s a loud squeal, then a blast of cold air as the door opens. I step off, minding the gap, and walk towards the station’s exit. I’m sure I can hear whispering around me as I do. Let them talk. I’ve heard worse.

  The prison is nowhere near the station, so I have to find a taxi. I see one lingering near the bus stop with its light on. I open the back door and slide inside. When I give the driver the prison address, he looks back at me with a mixture of pity and worry, like I’m about to rob him, or burst into tears, or maybe both. As we drive, he makes eye contact with me a few times. Each time he must think better of speaking as we just sit in silence. I’m glad of the break. I wasted the whole train ride on Jai Patel when I should have been working on what I will say to Dad. I need quiet time, but my mind continues to marinate on that bloody podcast; the origin of my misery.

  We pull up at the prison gates, and I pay the driver.

  ‘You all right?’ he finally asks me in a thick Eastern European accent.

  ‘Not really,’ I reply.

  ‘You want a lift back?’

  I look at my watch. ‘If you could swing by in an hour and a half, that’d be great. I need to get back to the station for the three o’clock train.’

  The driver smiles at me. ‘I’ll be here.’

  The prison is massive. Made up of several buildings all with the same matching grey paint job. It’s not what I expected; the other buildings around it are commercial offices. Ordinary people a stone’s throw away from sick criminals. I was picturing more of an Alcatraz vibe. Rolling spotlights and barbed wire fences surrounded by man-eating-shark-infested waters. I guess a Bond villain isn’t running this prison.

  I walk to the visitors’ entrance and knock on the door. A guard ushers me inside. There’s a line of people handing across forms and passports to the front desk. Looks like I’ll have time to think through everything after all.

  After ten minutes of standing in the queue, my legs start to ache, but I have a plan. I’ll ask Dad if he’s talking to anyone about abducting little boys. If he has murderous fans who live near the Oak Cross Estate, or in Northants at all. Shit, it sounds so ludicrous; then again, it’s all I have. That, a pervert and my stalker. What would Sherlock Holmes ask? Probably very little – his powers of perception would have already found Robin by now. Hell, even Batman would have saved his sidekick within the first few hours. I’m neither a superhero, nor a detective. I’m just a shit mum who took her eye off the ball.

  There’s a soft nudge on my thigh. I look down to see a liver-spotted spaniel. Its sparkling black, soulful eyes stare up at me. I bend down to stroke it. Its tail bobs up and down while its tongue finds the leftover McDonald’s grease on my palms.

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  A tall guard with a scratchy-looking ginger beard steps towards me.

  �
��Yes?’

  ‘The dog is working; please refrain from touching him.’

  I look down at my new furry friend.

  ‘Sorry, he came up to me,’ I say, scratching the spaniel behind the ear one last time.

  ‘You wouldn’t pet me if I searched you for drugs now, would you?’ Ginger Guard winks.

  I nod; despite nothing he said making sense. He then waves me through to another part of the line. A female guard comes over to pat me down.

  ‘Pay no attention to him,’ she says smiling. ‘Too much testosterone in here, love.’ She checks my passport and VO form. Upon seeing my dad’s name, her smile vanishes.

  ‘You’re the first visitor he’s had in a long time.’ She checks my passport and confirms my date of birth and ID. With a wave of her hand, I’m steered towards another door and told to put my personal items into a tall, thin metal locker. I place the pound coin in the slot, then heave my bag and coat into the awkward space. Wait, I need my phone to show Dad a photo of Robin, so he can see the face of his grandson. The boy he’ll save if he helps me. I sneak a sideways glance at the other visitors; they seem to have all done this before. They move in smooth, robotic motions. Bags heaved into a locker. Locker locked. Key in pocket. Out the next door. It’s as if we’re on some weird conveyor-belt production line.

  My phone is old and big, it will be hard to smuggle in, and what if my furry friend is on the other side of the door and sniffs it on me. I’m stupid; dogs can’t smell phones, can they?

  It’s not worth the trouble. I put the phone in my locker and join the other people as they move to the next room.

  I open the door and, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it looks like an airport lounge. Vivid-coloured plastic seats with Formica tables all bolted to a bright, patchy carpet. It’s a vast room. I hesitate. Where am I supposed to sit? The whole hour could tick by without me finding Dad at all in this space.