Little Bones

by N V Peacock

  Lights appear, wielded by searchers making their way to where I am. I deliberately pop out to join them. I speak to a few people; random nonsense they should remember if the police were to ask if they saw me. I do this a number of times to ensure a plethora of witnesses for my alibi. Soon, walking on uneven ground in the cold starts to wear on me, so I slip away from the park. Regardless of Mariah’s prediction, the fair appears to be clear. Steadying my butcher knife in my coat, I sprint towards Greer’s house.

  Chapter 33

  As I lurk by Greer’s bungalow, a weird mix of guilt and excitement builds in my gut, like a big meal I can’t digest.

  Fuck, I’m way too early. Double fuck, I don’t have Lawrence’s mobile number. Probably for the best, avoiding evidence trails is a new thing for me.

  Painful minutes tick by while I watch Greer’s house. There are no lights on. He’s not home. With all the attention, he could have skipped town; if he legally can leave town.

  I look at my watch; it’s fifteen minutes past seven. Lawrence is late. How long do I wait for him? It’s cold and my anger isn’t keeping me warm anymore. I’m shivering so much the knife nestled in my pocket is threatening to vibrate through the fabric.

  Is he ever going to arrive?

  A noise breaks my thoughts. I crouch down and see one of Greer’s neighbours letting their dog shit on his front lawn. They don’t even look up to see if anyone has spotted their drive-by poop drop. I recognise the dog walker as the old woman from the bus stop, the lady who told me where to find Greer.

  I stare at the time passing by on my phone. Lawrence is now over a half hour late. He’s not coming. Maybe he never intended to help me, he only pretended to; some bizarre revenge for what Mr Bones did to his family. Perhaps he’s called the police in an attempt to have me arrested?

  After another ten minutes goes by, I start to feel angry again. It’s my second wave. Fuck Lawrence, I don’t need his help. In my pocket is the weapon I need. I can do this without anyone else.

  Quickly, I move to the edge of the back garden so I can look down the street. Nothing. Not even a neighbour’s car is in motion; no police cars either. Hallow’s Gate is quiet; the perfect place to keep an abducted eight-year-old boy. A flash of light streaks across my vision, making me squint. I step back to check both sides of the street. Just the headlights of a motorcycle. Greer’s neighbour thrusts their foot down and the bike lets out an almighty rumble. They pull away onto the road and the night swallows them up. The cloying scent of diesel dissipates as the motorcycle’s roar morphs into a distant purr.

  My heartbeat thunders into a drumroll, making me feel like something dramatic is about to happen … yet it doesn’t.

  I should go. My nerves can’t take this. I’ve trusted the wrong person and they’ve let me down. I go to leave, but what if I later find out Robin is in here? That he could have lived and been safe if only I’d channelled my inner criminal?

  Shit, I can’t wait any longer. I sneak behind Greer’s house, jump over a small fence, and find glass patio doors barricaded by wheelie bins. One by one, I pull the bins away. The sound of their creaking plastic wheels makes me feel even more conspicuous. I look up. Still no lights on in the house. I grab the small food-scraps bin, lift it up and swing it at the door. The first time the two surfaces collide, the bin bounces off the glass, the momentum almost knocking me over. The second time I swing it, the bin cracks the surface. The third swing breaks the door completely. The sound of shattering glass is too loud for such a quiet night. I hold my breath, waiting for someone to catch me, yet no one does. Letting the bin fall to my side, I step over the broken glass and into the paedophile’s house.

  As I move through the door, I catch my coat on the dangling glass shards. I reach across and pull the material free. As I do, I slice my finger. Blood wells up and drips onto the window frame. Great, I’ve left my DNA. I hesitate at this, but Robin’s face appears in my mind’s eye, and I find I don’t care. Yes, I’m breaking into someone’s house. Yes, I’m violating the law, a few commandments too – I just don’t give a shit. To get my son back, I’ll do anything it takes. Show me something to break and I’ll crush it; smash it to powder under my boot. Show me the person responsible and I’ll drain the lifeblood from them, one pint at a time.

  It’s dark inside the house, so I use the torch from the search party. A sick thrill that I’m using police equipment to commit a crime reinforces my nerves. The blackness retreats at the touch of the torch’s spotlight, giving me snapshots of possible crime scenes, along with lacklustre furniture and fittings.

  ‘Robin. Are you here?’ I call.

  No answer.

  I move through Greer’s living room, which only holds an old, heavy-looking TV along with a threadbare recliner chair. There’s a hallway. The bungalow has rooms sprouting off this one main corridor, like a long plant reaching for light.

  Quietly, I make my way to the farthest door; it’s his kitchen. Small and as sparse as the rest of his home. A kettle, a microwave, a small countertop fridge, a gap for an oven, and a washing machine. I open the fridge expecting to see childish treats, but there is just a loaf of bread, a few packs of cheap meat, and a tub of fake butter.

  I open the cupboards. Again, there is nothing any more damning than a packet of unopened Coco Pops, Robin’s favourite cereal. The monkey on the box stares back at me with disappointment. I slam the cupboard shut.

  ‘Robin?’

  Still no answer. I spot another door to the right. A basement? A utility room? I open it to find it’s a toilet.

  ‘Robin?’ My voice gets louder.

  It’s a strange feeling being in someone else’s house at night. Greer could be somewhere in the house. I could burst into his bedroom and find him doing something terrible. No, if he were here, he would have heard me break in. He’d be confronting me by now.

  I open the next door. It’s as if I’m in some sick horror game show; ready to open door number two to find my son, or what’s left of him. Worries like that will not help me. I need to stay positive. Empty rooms may not bring answers, but they take me a step forward to the right answer.

  The next room is Greer’s bedroom. His bed is one of those inflatable mattresses, sagging across the floor. To my right, sits a clothes rail holding up a collection of bland shirts and trousers.

  ‘Robin?’

  Still no answer. I have no bed to look under, no wardrobe to search. It’s hard and easy at the same time.

  There’s only one more door to open. I push it and find it locked.

  Chapter 34

  ‘Robin!’

  No answer.

  Shit, I’ve not got time to learn how to pick a lock; if only I’d paid attention when Gurpreet picked the extension lock. I’ve already been here too long. Greer could be back any minute, or the neighbours could have heard me break the glass door and called the police. No, I can’t get this far and not check the one locked room in the house.

  I lean on the doorframe. ‘Robin,’ I plead with it. I only want my son back. He’s mine; he doesn’t belong here. This isn’t a home. There’s no decent food. This is a prison and Greer is a horrible man who’s done terrible things. These are all facts.

  ‘Robin,’ I shout, banging my hand onto the door. I dig down deep until I touch Little Bones. I wake her from where she hides in the darkest part of my soul. Feel her stir and surge forward. Stepping back, I kick out at the door. It doesn’t budge, so I do it again and again and again, until the sound is deafening. Until I see the doorframe crack. Until the force of my boot makes the barrier between my son and me explode.

  ‘Robin?’

  I rush into the room, my torch scanning it.

  It’s a child’s bedroom with bright blue walls. It has chunky wooden shelves covered with books. In the middle of the room is a perfect little bed draped in a duvet set featuring cartoon players chasing footballs; it even has a wicker Moses basket perched on top.

  ‘Robin, it’s Mummy, are you here?’
<
br />   No answer.

  There’s a brilliantly coloured child’s wardrobe in the corner. I hear a thumping, but it’s not in the room; it’s in me. My heart is beating so fast there’s no discernible rhythm to it anymore. I’ve only ever felt like this once before. When I was a child, standing in front of a cupboard in Dad’s studio, my hand hovering over the handle … I shake off the memory and move to open the wardrobe. I fling open its doors to find it stuffed with boy’s clothes of all ages, all of which have the tags still on. On the floor of the wardrobe are three bulging plastic bags, each one big enough to fit part of a little boy. No, no. no. I don’t want to look inside. I can’t; my heart can’t take it. My hand reaches out before I can stop it. Pulling down the handle of the nearest bag, I peek inside … toys. The bag is stuffed with baby toys, probably the ones Gemma saw him carry inside.

  What the fuck has Greer been doing? Robin is not here. There isn’t even a single clue pointing to the paedophile being obsessed by my dad and his killings, or even any other killer. No tell-tale shrine stuffed with crazy crap. Not even a hand-written diary to explain his exploits. Nothing that books and TV have led me to believe would strengthen my suspicions about this awful man.

  The butcher knife feels rigid in my pocket. Greer is smarter than I thought, and that would make sense with how he took my son; trading off my dad’s identity to draw the police off him as a suspect. He doesn’t fool me. I need to wait for him to come home. Forcibly convince him to tell me what he has done with Robin.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Gemma. An alien face emoji.

  I look up to see her dining room backs onto this room. She’s there in her window frame like a Hitchcock character. I point at my phone. She looks down. My phone beeps again.

  Get out now! The text reads.

  I go to the window and open it. Gemma grimaces at me and opens her window.

  ‘My dad has called the police. You need to run.’

  ‘Are these curtains always open?’

  ‘Yes, he told us yesterday it’s his son’s room.’

  ‘Does Greer have a son? Have you seen a boy here?’

  ‘No, if I had …’ She snaps her head around and then back to me. ‘Please, you need to get out now.’

  After closing the window, I sprint for the front door. As I get there, I realise it’s not how I got in, so retrace my steps back to the broken patio door and leap out onto the lawn. Sirens whoop in the distance.

  I run to the next street. Taking off my coat, I slow down to a pleasant stroll. The police car zooms past me, and I take a deep breath.

  Once I’m home, I remember the cut on my hand. I’ve bled on my coat. I take it off and throw it in the hamper. I wash the wound under the tap; the pinkish water gurgles down the sink. I slap on a SpongeBob plaster, and then take off my boots; carefully placing them by the door. They are the only ones there now. I go upstairs, fetch a pair of Leo’s trainers, and put them next to my boots. It makes me feel better, but only a little.

  I text Leo that I left the search because I couldn’t take it. He texts straight back, It was a bust anyway, then asks if he can come home. I didn’t realise I’d taken that option from him. I text back, Yes.

  Crime is exhausting, so I go to bed early. About an hour later, the bed depresses and a familiar arm finds my waist.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, had to call Mum to tell her about the search,’ Leo says.

  ‘She wasn’t there?’

  ‘No, she’s having issues with the deeds of her Spanish villa.’

  I can’t imagine much that Mrs Duffill couldn’t buy her way out of, or into. ‘Is there a Spanish clause about witches not owning property?’ I say. Fortunately it comes out more of a joke than I meant it to.

  ‘Very funny,’ Leo says. ‘She’s trying hard to make the villa a second home for all of us.’

  ‘Not much of an us anymore.’

  ‘We will find him, I promise,’ Leo whispers.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re not still blaming me. Everyone else is.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was angry. Those other people don’t know shit. You could never hurt Robin. I know it above any doubt.’

  As he pulls me close, I can smell cheap coffee and mud all over him. It’s strangely comforting. His words roll around my mind, above any doubt. Easy to say, yet does he mean it?

  I fall asleep and dream I’m in the old TV show Lost in Space. There’s a robot protecting a little boy. He’s waving his mechanical arms while saying, ‘Danger, danger, Robin Duffill!’

  As I wake with a start, I find Leo has given up on hugging me. He’s now turned onto his back. Looking at my clock, I see I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I pull on my robe and go downstairs to make a drink. I need a new plan. Greer has to tell me everything he knows. I can’t trust the police to do this. I’m sure they’ve gone through intensive interrogation training, but Robin isn’t their flesh and blood. They didn’t push him out after twelve hours of painful labour, and then watch him grow and smile and play. I’m much more qualified for this job, along with the dark deeds needed to achieve it.

  I fetch my laptop and email Dad. He whispered to me about how easy it is to take a life. If anyone can help me with it, it’ll be him. I ask for a VO form and am about to go back to bed when there’s a knock on the door.

  I answer it to find Patricia and DC Steadman. A police car behind them, silent but with its blue light flashing around and around.

  My stomach rolls. ‘You’ve found him?’ I almost vomit the words.

  ‘No, Ms Forrester,’ DC Steadman replies. ‘We believe you broke into Oscar Greer’s house earlier tonight. You’re under arrest.’ He shakes his head at me as if I’m a naughty child and he’s a parent opposed to discipline.

  Patricia just looks at me with pure disappointment; like the monkey on the Coco Pops box.

  As I go to follow DC Steadman outside, Leo rushes down the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Stay back, Mr Duffill. We need to take your wife into custody.’

  ‘I’m not his wife.’

  Leo pads down the stairs. ‘What have you done?’ he asks me.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve just been looking for Robin.’

  ‘In someone else’s house,’ Patricia adds.

  DC Steadman raises an eyebrow. ‘Cherrie Forrester, I am arresting you for burglary. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do or say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  Burglary? I didn’t steal anything from Greer’s house. Did I?

  ‘Do you understand?’ he repeats.

  ‘Yes. Are you going to cuff me?’ I raise my hands up, wrists together.

  ‘We won’t need cuffs if you are going to behave, Ms Forrester.’ DC Steadman stares at me.

  ‘We’ll speak at the station, okay?’ Patricia whispers.

  DC Steadman grips my arm and pulls me down our drive towards the waiting police car.

  ‘Wait, she hasn’t even got her shoes on!’ Leo grabs his trainers, the ones I put by the door. ‘Take these.’ He gives them to Patricia.

  ‘Everything will be okay,’ she tells him.

  Leo nods with a weak smile.

  DC Steadman helps me into the back of the car in full view of all my early-bird neighbours. My arrest will be all over the estate by morning. Everyone will assume it’s for Robin’s murder, rather than breaking into Greer’s house. I know how these things work.

  As I stare out of the police car window, I have two thoughts. The first is that men are idiots. Why did Leo give me his trainers when my boots were right by them? The second is what I will say when questioned. I should tell them about Greer’s weird kiddie bedroom, but they must have seen it already if they searched his house.

  And if I describe his house’s interior it’s as good as a confession.

  Chapter 35

  Wailing sirens and a blinding burst of light ta
ke me to the police station.

  Patricia helps me out of the back seat. She puts Leo’s trainers on my feet. They are too big, so they slop around when I walk, making me shuffle. Shit, I look down and see I’m still in my pink robe. Embarrassing, but lucky since my coat has a stolen butcher knife in the pocket, and is covered in blood.

  After they escort me to the custody suite, I go through an alarming number of questions with the custody sergeant; who looks like a smiley comedian off the TV. I spend the whole time answering questions about medications I don’t take and allergies I don’t have. It’s not until the end of it all I realise the comedian the sergeant looks like is an indifferent Michael McIntyre.

  In a weird twist, they offer me a book to read called The Code of Practice. I’m then told I could call someone to tell him or her I’m here. Nodding, I hold the book in a limp embrace against my chest. They take the belt from my robe and the laces from Leo’s trainers. Next thing I know, I’m in a cell.

  Hours creep by; though, I can’t be sure of the exact time since I’m not wearing a watch. Maybe I should read the book they gave me, but I feel like that would be giving in to them somehow, so throw it across the cell. It lands in a papery heap.

  I remember sitting in judgement like this once before. Barely a teenager, my newest foster family locked me in my room. They spent hours asking me questions through the door about their dog. Bertie was a lovely collie-cross who never cared who I was, or what my father did; which was more than I could say about the Turners. They had already judged me before I’d walked through their door.

  Bertie was old and affectionate. One night, I’d watched as he’d pulled himself off the floor to sit by the back door. I let him out; thinking he needed a pee. When he didn’t come back, I went outside looking for him. When I saw his matted fur on the ground he reminded me of Trumpton. A still-cuddly toy sprawled across the ground. I’m not sure how long I stared at his body for, but it was how they found me. I was back to social services within a day, only this time there was a nifty new crime attached to my file: dog killer.