by N V Peacock
‘Dad says we can catch up on Strictly, but can we go to the park first?’
‘Sure.’ I then remember something. ‘Why don’t you wear the robot costume for Nostrom? You didn’t get your trick or treating this year.’
‘Thanks, Mum!’ Robin scoots off to pull on his cardboard boxes.
‘You look happy. It’s a good look.’ Leo sits down across from me to wait for our son to turn into a robot.
‘Why wouldn’t I be happy? No more secrets, no more danger. And our family is whole again, and growing,’ I say.
‘We’re a minority. Most parents never find a child missing beyond the twenty-four-hour mark.’
The change of topic is jarring. I close the laptop. ‘I read the statistics too.’
‘How did this all happen? How could one podcast change our lives like this?’
‘I changed my name for a new beginning,’ I mutter.
‘I get it. I said I was sorry for how I behaved. I just needed time to process everything.’
I don’t remember him using those exact words, but there’s no point in arguing about it. Not now.
‘Ready!’ Robin shouts and awkwardly jumps out wearing his robot boxes.
‘Come on then, tiger,’ Leo says, then turns and adds, ‘you too, Nostrom.’
Hand in hand, they step out of the front door, and wait for me on the driveway.
As I watch them, I realise that, even though my past is no longer hidden, the world is still turning. The people I love are beside me. Forgiveness for what I did with Mr Bones should never have been mine, but it is. I got my son back. Looking down by the door, I see Robin’s school shoes are neatly nestled between my boots and Leo’s trainers. He’s such a good boy.
Mariah’s predictions were crap. I didn’t turn out like my dad – why should Robin? As I think this, I pull on my coat and feel the weight of the butcher knife shift in the pocket. No harm in leaving the blade in there a little longer. No one can predict the future. Someday, I might have to, once again, let out Little Bones.
Epilogue
With two mugs of tea, Lawrence sits down at our dining room table. ‘Are you sure he’ll talk to me?’ he asks.
‘Last time I visited, Dad said he would. I’ve never known him to go back on his word. I told him you helped me. He says you deserve the truth.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes, but if you don’t want to talk to him, I can just fob him off. He’s my dad, but he’s a terrible man. He saw little boys as objects that he could use and discard for his own amusement. He’s sick, even admitted to me he’d do it all again if he got half a chance.’
Pursing his lips, Lawrence nods. ‘I understand, but I still want to know how it happened.’
My mobile rings. I look down to see the prison number.
‘Hello?’
‘Ma Cherie, how are you?’
‘I’m good. Lawrence is with me.’
‘The stalker, yes.’
Moving away into the hall, I whisper, ‘Dad, I really need you to behave. Lawrence helped get Robin back – we owe him. You owe him more.’
‘Of course, I understand.’
‘Can I put you on speakerphone?’
‘Yes, please do.’
I press the button, walk back, and place the phone on the table.
‘Mr Hendy, thank you for speaking with me.’ Lawrence bites his lip. The first signs of anger are already eating away at his gentlemanly veneer. He’s exchanging pleasantries with the man who murdered his only child.
‘You want to hear about your son?’
‘Please.’
‘I picked Thomas Edwards up outside a newsagent. He’d bought football cards. You remember, the ones kids collected back then. It was getting dark. I pretended to be a taxi. I did this a lot. Sometimes with Leigh, I mean Cherrie, in the car, sometimes alone. He was hesitant at first, not like some of the others. I laid on the charm pretty thick. Said I had a son his age and I wanted to make sure he got home okay.’
Lawrence trembles as he reaches for his hot tea.
Quickly, I place my hand over his and say, ‘We can stop this now. You don’t have to hear any more.’
Lawrence whispers, ‘Thomas went out that night to show off his new trainers. Trainers I bought him.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I tell him.
‘Should I continue?’ Mr Bones asks.
Nodding, Lawrence tries to smile at me. Tears are in his eyes, yet there is also now a glint of completion. He is getting the answers he wanted, pain be damned.
‘Yes, carry on,’ I say to Dad.
‘I took him home and used chloroform to knock him out. I did this to all the boys. I never wanted them to suffer. I put him in the holding cupboard while I made dinner for Cherrie. Afterwards, I became inspired to create a new sculpture. Quickly, I took his life. It was peaceful. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.’
‘Why him?’ Lawrence asks. ‘Why not another boy?’
‘Luck and timing. He was the right boy, the one all alone. I am sorry, Mr Edwards.’
‘Thank you,’ Lawrence pushes out through gritted teeth.
‘Bye, Dad,’ I say, reaching to hang up the phone.
‘Ma Cherie, when can I see Robin? You promised me you’d bring him here.’
I don’t remember promising him anything, but I did many crazy things to find my son. I might well have given my word to facilitate a playdate of sorts; however, I’m not willing to jump down that dark rabbit hole just yet. Mr Bones will have to wait; it’s not as if he’s going anywhere.
‘Soon,’ I say and hang up.
Looking over, I see Lawrence’s face contorted in a silent cry. I shouldn’t have arranged the call.
‘You wanted to know,’ I whisper.
He nods at me and covers his mouth to stop from screaming.
I need to disrupt his reaction. ‘Tell me about your Thomas. What was he like?’
Lawrence’s face eases at the thought of his son alive.
‘Tommy. He was so good at school; loved maths and science. He’d have grown up to become an engineer. He wanted to build robots.’
‘What was his favourite food?’ I ask.
‘Sunday dinners, especially lamb.’
‘Tommy sounds just like Robin.’
‘He loved football too. He was going to try out for the school team that year. I used to play with him in Black Friars Park. He’d climb so high on those swings that I thought he’d hurt himself.’
‘Tommy and Robin would have been such good friends.’
Lawrence looks away. ‘Thank you for setting this up.’
‘Did it help?’
‘No. Not like I imagined.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘You were a child. It was your dad’s fault, not yours.’ Lawrence pauses. ‘Did your mum know? Did she help him?’
I think through my answer. Too many secrets and lies cloud the truth. ‘She took the answer to the grave with her, but I doubt it. She didn’t have Dad’s cravings, she just craved Dad,’ I say, but my words don’t convince him nor me. Dropping my hand to my extended stomach, I silently promise my daughter that I will never treat her as my mum did me.
As Lawrence and I talk, he exorcises over twenty-five years’ worth of questions about Mr Bones and his victims. I reply with what I can, all the while contemplating the answer to the question he’s leading up to, Were you there when Tommy died? I ready myself to admit that, when Dad drove him to our house, we played football together. That his son’s last meal was a Sunday roast on a weekday. And that the next time I saw him, I was helping my dad bury his body in the same garden we had played in earlier. But Lawrence doesn’t ask the question I’m dreading.
Between teas, Robin runs over and gifts our guest with a crayon drawing of Nostrom. In the picture, the robot is holding Lawrence’s hand and smiling.
‘Thank you,’ he says and ruffles Robin’s already messy hair.
I’m then presented with my own Crayola masterpiece. I l
ook down at the page and see my son has drawn me with my swollen belly, Leo, and himself with another man; a man who has his arm around my son’s shoulders.
‘That’s lovely, sweetie. Who’s that with us?’ I ask.
Robin laughs. ‘Come on, Mummy. Don’t you recognise Mr Bones?’
Acknowledgements
The time and effort that goes into writing a book is massive. But it’s not just down to the writer’s efforts; behind every successful author is a team of publishing professionals, a longsuffering family, and a fantastic array of friends all offering support and help.
I’d like to thank everyone who stood by me while I wrote Little Bones; especially my friends Julie Kendrick and Karen Rust, who patiently listened to me talk about characters, plot and my research for hours. Both kept my worries and negativity at bay, when either could have easily halted my progress and stopped me achieving my dream. These incredible, patient, and talented friends came to me through my writing, so I have a lot to thank my books for!
Thank you to my family who understood when I couldn’t spend weekends with them; as I was holed up with a laptop, a flask of strong tea, and a dream. The book you hold in your hands right now is the reason I sacrifice so much of my free time to my writing.
A huge thank you to the team at Avon; especially my amazing editor Bethany Wickington. Beth plucked my manuscript from an open submission pile and believed in it, and me, enough to offer me a contract – without her, you wouldn’t have read this book. Thank you to the lovely PR guru Sabah Khan, without her you’d have never heard about this book. The Avon designers did such a fantastic job on the front cover that I almost cried when I first saw it. I hope my words are worthy of such an eye-catching and beautiful front cover.
Thank you to Rebecca Fortuin, Audio Editor at HarperCollins, whose excitement over the audio book of Little Bones was contagious. Together, we included extra content you won’t find in this book, so if you can’t get enough of Mr Bones et al., then download the audio book today.
I’d like to thank fellow thriller author and friend Jane Isaac, who writes gripping and dark thrillers, and is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Our conversations are always reassuring, intriguing and above all fun.
A big shout-out to all the members of my writers’ group, Creative Minds. Through the years, the group has gone from strength to strength and grown to over 20 members. Writing is a solitary pursuit, so never underestimate the power of spending time with like-minded individuals and the motivation you can gain from a regular meet up. These people, and you know who you are, are some of the best I’ve ever spent time with. Creative, open and wonderful to talk to, writers are some of the most amazing people you’ll ever meet and I feel so lucky to know each and every one of you.
A special thanks to my mum whose dream it was to become an author herself and who has been a tireless cheerleader for my writing. She has read every word I’ve ever had published – I hope you enjoy this book too, Mum!
I had the astounding news during the UK’s COVID Lockdown that HarperCollins, one of the largest publishers in the world, was interested in publishing my book; it was surreal. Without being able to see my friends and family in person, this amazing news only sank in a little – it wasn’t until lockdown eased and I could share the success face-to-face that I had that pearl-clutching moment!
The world went through some unwanted radical changes in 2020 and the pandemic touched all our lives. So, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge everyone who made a positive difference during this troublesome time, whether it was just a simple ‘hello’ to connect with a stranger, or risking their own life to save others - Thank you.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge you. Yes, you, my lovely reader. Without you buying, recommending and reviewing my books, I couldn’t do what I love. Writing is everything to me; I’m not sure what I’d do if I couldn’t indulge in plotting and writing prose. So a big thank you to you too. I have so many books locked in my imagination that I can’t wait for you to read!
About the Author
N V Peacock lives in lovely Northamptonshire. She works full time and spends her spare time writing, reading, and running a local writers’ group. She started her writing career with short stories in anthologies for publishers all over the world, before turning her hand to novels. After writing two YA supernatural series, she decided to indulge her dark side and write an adult thriller. As an avid writer, she spends every minute she can creating characters, drafting stories, and plotting. Nicky writes for her readers and appreciates every review she receives; without them, she couldn’t do what she loves.
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