by N V Peacock
The news is talking about global warming and some member of parliament who grabbed his secretary’s bum. Nothing to do with Robin, or me. Even Thomas Doncaster has fallen off their radar. I grab my laptop. The local news sites still feature stories about missing boys. They mention Mr Bones and the significance of it happening in this county again.
There are links to The Flesh on the Bones, and I find there’s a short bonus episode. Hating myself for clicking on it, I listen.
‘Come back for some more juicy Flesh on the Bones eh, listener? Well, your secret is safe with me. So, in the previous episodes, we’ve tackled a few of the theories about the missing boys of Northamptonshire, but today’s bonus episode is all about you, the listeners. You’ve sent hundreds of questions to me about the Doncaster and Duffill case, along with queries on Mr Bones. So let’s get to them.’
I dread to think what kind of people have sent questions and what is on their minds.
‘Okay, we have a question from Terry from Rushden. He asks, who is more dangerous now, Mr Bones or Little Bones? Well, good question.’
It’s a shit question. It reduces me and Dad down to some childish ‘Who’d win in a fight?’ debate.
‘I’ve only been face to face with Little Bones, and let me tell you, that woman is nuts. You can see it in her eyes. Years in prison might have mellowed Mr Bones, so I’d say Little Bones is the most dangerous right now. I wouldn’t want to get stuck in a lift with her!’
Jai should meet my dad; he’d soon change his mind.
‘Lorraine from Corby asks, what gives you the right to …’ He trails off, obviously not having read the question in full before he started recording his bonus episode. A click signifies that after a quick edit, he amended the end of Lorraine’s question to: ‘comment on these cases? Well, Lorraine, I’ve been a true crime connoisseur for a number of years now. I’ve looked into the Mr Bones case, some might say, I’m a bones expert.’
Referring to himself as a ‘bones expert’ is enough for me to turn off Jai’s bonus episode and carry on my internet search, but I find nothing else related to my son’s case. I was hoping to see Robin’s smiling face. To be reminded he’s still out there somewhere, but there’s nothing. The media has left Robin in the dust, just like someone did to poor Thomas Doncaster.
Fuck it. I’m going to go door-to-door. Knock on every household in the Rosemount Estate. I didn’t cover that area with the flyers; Gurpreet did, and she wouldn’t have been using it as a sneaky clue-finding session as I did in Hallow’s Gate. I yank on my coat and am just about to get my shoes on when I realise that I don’t have the excuse of the flyers. Grabbing my phone, I text Tracy to ask if she could have more printed. She comes back with, I’ll bring some round.
With nothing else to do, sleep attacks my senses; still, it’s fretful rather than restful. I’m always just on edge, like a mother with a new-born baby.
I open my eyes. The rays of the mid-morning sun are lighting my room. I lie still for another hour, thinking through my plan for tonight. With Lawrence eliminated from my suspect list, Greer has to have Robin. Dad said paedophiles are the lowest form of life. As a judge of character he should know. My instincts shouted Greer the minute I learned of him; that counts for something too. Now, what do I need to bring tonight, and how will Lawrence and I split up the search? Perhaps he should handle Greer, so I could be free to explore the house. Paedophiles swap kids with one another to keep off the police’s radar. What if Greer has done this with Robin? If he has, I’ll kill him, just not before I torture him for the address of where he sent my son.
The doorbell rings, so I slide off the couch. My whole body aches and I bang into the side table as I make my way to the front door.
It’s Tracy. Her eyes are red and she is clutching her mobile to her chest.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
Thrusting her free hand out, she slaps me on the shoulder. ‘You never answered my texts. I thought they must have found Robin. Or you were dead, or something.’
Stepping aside, I let her in. I don’t remember seeing any more texts from her; they must have arrived when I slept.
‘What were the texts about?’ I ask as we sit down on the couch.
Tracy’s worry dissolves into a sheepish smile, one I’ve never seen on her before; somehow, it frightens me more than her worry face.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘No, it’s okay. Have the police said anything more about Robin?’
Her face is too pale and I realise this is the first time in ten years I’ve seen her without make-up.
‘Seriously, what’s up? I could just read the text, you know.’
Crossing her legs, she inches over the couch, away from me. ‘Have you seen Facebook?’
‘I’m not on it, remember?’
‘Yeah, it’s probably for the best.’
‘What the fuck is going on?’ My patience feels frayed so deep that its edges are dragging across my last nerve.
‘People have been hassling Dawson’s Food employees. Gurpreet, Shania, Mr Dawson, his wife and me. Even the Saturday girls, whose names I can’t be bothered to remember, are being cyber bullied. It’s that fucking podcast. Its judgemental listeners getting everyone riled up with their shit questions and crazy theories.’
The questions after Lorraine must have gotten worse. ‘Theories about my past?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, they’re saying you’re a killer like your dad. That you helped him murder those boys. That we’re accessories to murder if we keep being your friends. Even Gran’s bingo buddies have disowned her until she admits you killed the Doncaster kid and Robin.’
She won’t look at me. Instead, Tracy picks at the edges of her cardigan, pulling out loose pieces of wool.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s not your fault. Hell, we’ve all gone on there to defend you, even Shania. Kylie’s been comment-bombing threads too; telling everyone not to make assumptions on crap they know nothing about.’
‘That’s sweet of her.’
‘Apparently it’s not her first Facebook war. She went through the same thing with her boyfriend after she found out she was pregnant. I’m assuming it was to do with an ex-girlfriend kicking off; didn’t like to press for details.’
‘You, not press for details? What have you done with the real Tracy?’ I laugh.
‘Oh, she’s still here. I’m saving all my energy for you, Cherry Pie.’
My friends are all still defending me. Shit has hit the fan, and they could lose parts of their own lives staying in my corner, but they don’t care. Tears threaten to fall. I inhale deeply and suck them back up. I haven’t cried yet; I don’t intend to start now.
‘Thank you.’ I reach across and hug my best friend, patting her back.
‘Are you feeling which of my bones you want to take?’ She giggles.
‘Why would I want your shitty, old bones?’ I laugh.
Tracy pulls away. ‘You smell bad.’
‘Showers are optional now.’
Smiling, she holds me at arm’s length. ‘They’re not. They’re not optional at all. Go upstairs and sort yourself out. I’ll hold down the fort.’
I look down at her bag and see flyers poking out; bless her, she brought them straight over.
Nodding, I trudge upstairs. I don’t understand why I’m so smelly. Maybe it was the dry ice in the Ghost Train. Shit, I’ve been lazing around with the evidence of an assault all over me.
I take a brief shower and wash my hair. Not bothering with a hairdryer, I just put a brush through the tangles and towel it off. I dress in a pair of jogging pants and a sweat top. A throwback outfit from the days when I thought doing yoga would be cool.
As I trot downstairs, I see Tracy holding a plate of toast. ‘So, I’m not the best cook in the world, but I can do toast.’
I look down to see two brown slices devoid of butter. If I were feeling jovial, I’d point out that without the butter she can’t do toast either. Taking the p
late, I sit on the couch.
Tracy goes back into the kitchen. Seconds later, she sits beside me with two mugs of tea.
‘Robin wasn’t even covered on the news last night,’ she says.
‘They’ve forgotten him already.’ I take a sip of tea and it scalds my lips.
‘Leo says you went to see your dad in prison.’ Although a statement, she’s really asking a question as she looks away, ashamed of her curiosity.
‘When did he tell you?’
‘Gran and I went round his mum’s house. Did you know she’s planning to go to her Spanish holiday home this week? Abandoning you?’
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Gran called her a heartless bitch and told her to go fuck herself.’
‘Your gran is the best.’ The look on Mrs Duffill’s face would have been priceless after hearing the F-bomb from a pensioner. I wish I’d been there.
‘Leo is coming home soon, right?’
I take another burning sip of tea. ‘Yeah, we haven’t split up or anything. He’s just giving me some space.’
‘Cherry Pie, are there any leads at all? Any hope?’
‘I spoke with Mariah. She told me to look at the fair again.’
‘You believed her this time?’
‘I don’t exactly have much else to go on. And she’s gotten some stuff right.’
‘You mean shoeless Thomas Doncaster?’
‘I went to her house again,’ I admit.
‘How much did that set you back?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing so far. Okay, so the fair is all we have?’
Putting my steaming tea down, I stare at my feet, then wring my hot hands together. I can’t get my best friend involved in my plan with Greer and Lawrence. She deserves legitimate deniability.
‘Mariah said he’s still at the fair.’
‘Well, you better look quick, the fair is packing up today.’
‘I went yesterday; I didn’t find anything.’
‘You look weird, Cherry Pie. Are you sleeping?’ She strokes my wet hair.
‘I’m sleeping as much as I can.’
‘Did your dad help at all?’
‘Kind of, but not really.’
‘Well, don’t give up hope. I’m rounding the girls up for a search party at Black Friars Park this afternoon. The police will be there too. Will you come?’
It’ll look weird if I don’t. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you so much for your help.’
‘That’s okay, it’s the least we can do. Get some sleep.’
‘Okay.’
She pulls me into an uncomfortable embrace. I’m lucky to have her; but this isn’t what I need right now. Tracy is Cherrie’s friend, not Little Bones’ friend. I need to be Little Bones if I have any chance of finding Robin alive.
Tracy leaves after making me promise to text her later. Apparently, the searchers are meeting at the park entrance at five o’clock. The fair may be packing up, but the police told them they couldn’t leave until after one final search. Odd that Patricia didn’t mention this to me. Probably doesn’t want me to make another scene, like at the appeal.
I pick up my mobile and see an alien face emoji from Leo. I don’t reply. I call Mariah. She doesn’t pick up. My call goes to an answerphone, so I leave a message.
In the kitchen, I open every drawer looking for a weapon for tonight’s visit to Greer’s house, yet I only find butter knives, a vegetable peeler, and one dull bread knife I’d have to use like a saw. We’ve kept little in the way of sharp cutlery in the house in case Robin got into the drawers. This is ridiculous; I need something heavy and sharp that can cut down to bone.
I grab the flyers, put on a coat and trainers, then drive to Dawson’s Food. I go in the back door and see Shania serving a customer. She waves at me as if she wants to talk. Waving back, I slip backstage to find my favourite long, professional butcher knife. One that I’ve used a thousand times to gut fish. I manage to slip it into my pocket just as Shania steps through the plastic curtain.
‘You okay?’ she asks.
‘I’m all right, thanks. Just thought I’d …’ Oh, I haven’t constructed a lie about why I’m here. My brain is fuzzy, so all I can think to say is, ‘I came to give you some extra flyers and thank you for coming out later, to search.’ I pass a handful of fresh Robin flyers towards her.
Taking them, she says, ‘Sure, what are friends for, Cherry Pie.’
Weird to hear my pet name coming from a woman who two weeks ago was only an awkward acquaintance.
I grin back at her, the stolen butcher knife feeling heavy in my coat.
‘Hey, Mr Dawson is in today; you should go see him.’
For days, I’ve had shifts here that I’ve not clocked in for. Work hasn’t even once crossed my mind. A sinking feeling floods my body. I step around the counter and walk to the office like a child being sent to the headmaster. I’m probably going to get a warning in my work file; the first since I became Cherrie.
I knock on his door.
‘Come in.’
The moment he sees me, he plasters a fake smile across his face.
‘Cherrie, or is it Leigh-Ann?’
‘I legally changed my name – it’s Cherrie.’
He motions for me to sit down; I don’t. If I do, the knife could drop out of my pocket.
‘I just want to say Dawson’s Food is behind you.’
‘That’s lovely, thank you.’ I turn to leave. ‘I should go.’
‘Cherrie, you must know that things are not going well for us here.’
Facing Mr Dawson, I say, ‘It’s quiet.’
‘That’s an understatement. Your friends feel your troubles too, but I need you to take a step back from work. I mean, you want to, right?’
Where is this going? ‘I’m sorry I’ve missed my shifts.’
‘Completely understood. But, I can’t pay you for being off work. You understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you might not want to come back,’ he says getting up from his desk. ‘When your boy is found, you’ll want to spend time with him. It’s completely natural and understood.’
He keeps saying understood, yet I don’t quite understand anything he’s saying.
‘It’s best you perhaps take a permanent step back from Dawson’s Food. I’ll miss you, but it’s …’
‘Understood.’
He shrinks under my gaze like a time-lapsed recording of a waterless plant. The man, who has been in charge of me for a decade, now looks so small to me that all I can do is turn my back on him and leave.
I stomp back through the shop that I’ve worked at for years, yet today it doesn’t feel familiar.
‘Did you catch Mr Dawson?’ Shania asks as I waft ghost-like past her counter.
‘He fired me.’
She stares at me for a moment, the knife in her hand hovering above a slab of cooked flesh like a hesitant bird of prey. ‘Oh, um, why would he let you go?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Look, customers were complaining. Said they’d heard you killed Robin. It’s crap, I know, but you know how people love to talk. The shop can’t afford to lose custom.’
‘Yeah, I’m painfully aware of what people are like.’ It doesn’t surprise me that the undying support I felt at first has been eroded by rumours. ‘So, Shania, I’ll see you later today, for the search party?’
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t miss a party.’ Pausing she adds, ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. You know what I mean.’
As I go to leave, I hear the radio on her hip crackle. The voice of one of the security team comes through. ‘Has Little Bones left the building? Over.’ Sniggering, they click off.
‘Really?’ I say to Shania.
‘It wasn’t meant like that.’
‘Not many ways it could have been meant.’
The radio crackles. ‘Baby, are you there? Over.’
The voice belongs to Tim, the head of security, whose wife runs the coffee shop in town.<
br />
Shania has the decency to blush. I guess Tim is the married man she’s screwing. The one she hoped Mariah would tell her was going to divorce his wife and run away with her. What a dumb bitch.
Looking her square in the eye, I say, ‘I thought you understood. I guess once the daughter of a serial killer always the daughter of a serial killer, right? Just like once the daughter of a whore, always the daughter of a whore, eh, baby?’
Shania’s lips twitch. She looks at the radio. With a steady hand, she clicks it. ‘Tim, Little Bones is still here, over.’
‘Fuck you,’ I say.
Marching out the front door, I pat the knife inside my coat. I feel justified in taking it now. It’s my severance package.
In the street, I call Leo. I tell him about Mr Dawson firing me. He tells me not to worry. Apparently, his business hasn’t taken a hit, even though he shares a child with Little Bones. I suggest we add this to the lawsuit against Jai Patel; after all, the rumours about me killing Robin started with him.
Hunger rattles my belly, but rather than go home, I head to the Rosemount Estate. I put up flyers and knock on doors. This time, I get more doors slammed in my face. It appears Jai has spread his lies thick enough to infect both social media and the more traditional doorstep neighbour gossip.
Frustrated, I decide to check out the newsagent where the media said that Thomas Doncaster was last seen. It looks like every other newsagent: cramped and selling too much variety. I remember when these shops were for newspapers and mix bags of sweets. Now they sell anything they can buy in bulk. Rather than the giggles of schoolchildren, there is the hum of industrial fridges chock full of out-of-date food. Approaching the man behind the counter, I smile and give him a flyer. He doesn’t speak just nods as he places the flyer beside the till.
‘You that Robin’s mum?’
I look behind me to see a boy about twelve years old, dressed in a dazzling white tracksuit and a baseball cap two sizes too big for him. In his hands are a bag of crisps and a can of pop.
‘Yes, I’m Robin’s mum.’
‘Thomas was my brother.’ This revelation comes out more like one-upmanship, rather than an attempt at empathy.
I look around the shop to see where his mum is. Surely, after losing one son, she wouldn’t let this one out alone in the same place, but there’s no one else here.