The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

“But as long as Kate has her horses, we can’t stretch to it,” my poor, deprived husband says mournfully to David. “Do you know how much they eat? What their vets’ bills cost?”

  Before David can sympathize, the Andersons arrive.

  I’ve primed Ella, because she doesn’t really know her, that Jo will look like a movie star and will probably flirt her arse off with her husband, if she’s on form. Ella doesn’t care, and, anyway, arty types have their own obscure dress code. But as Jo and Neal walk in, I’m knocked sideways.

  She’s wearing the skinniest skinny jeans and a loose top from which her legs and arms stick out like little pins, her hair messily swept up so she looks girlish. I realize that, quite simply, I’ve overdressed for my own party.

  Neal shakes Angus’s hand and kisses me, my accusations of the other weekend clearly forgiven, his warm bonhomie drawing our neighbors over, so that while Angus fetches drinks, they’re soon chatting like old friends. Jo hovers in the background.

  “Hi!” I hug her. “No Delphine?”

  “She’s at home, not feeling great,” says Jo. “Poor little thing. I just want her better by Christmas.”

  It’s the most motherly thing I’ve heard her say about Delphine. “I know what you mean. Come and meet our neighbors.”

  Shortly after that, Rachael and Alan join us.

  The Andersons are on a charm offensive. Appearing to exist only in the moment. Looking at them, you’d never guess that we were bystanders on the edge of their tragedy. Neal takes David’s card and says he’ll pass it on to a colleague of his who badly needs a good architect, while Jo declares she simply has to see Ella’s work, because for ages she’s been looking for something different. Then the conversation inevitably turns to the prestigious award Neal was nominated for, but he won’t be drawn.

  “I feel tremendously humbled,” is all he’ll say on the subject. “Do you know how many unsung heroes there are out there? They’re the ones who deserve it, far more than we do.”

  I glance at Jo, her expression unreadable, as she watches him.

  I’m expecting a somber evening. It’s still so soon after Rosie’s death, after the news about Alex, which is why I’ve kept this gathering so small. But it’s a good evening. We drink a little too much, say one or two things we’ll probably regret, and Rachael’s laugh fills the house. We part late, as old friends sharing heartfelt, even happy, Christmas wishes. Angus and I watch them walk down the drive, breath freezing in clouds, feet crunching on the gravel.

  “That wasn’t a bit as I expected.” He shakes his head. His arm goes round me. “I thought we’d have fireworks or a drama of some sort, after everything you’ve been saying. Really nice people, aren’t they?”

  I thread my arm under his sweater. “They are. But I feel so sorry for them, don’t you? It’s their first Christmas without Rosie. .. . It’ll be so hard—for all of them.” Then I reach up and kiss him. “Thank you.”

  He looks surprised. “What for?”

  “For understanding. For stopping me from getting too sucked in. For always being here.”

  ROSIE

  It’s only now, when I see what was concealed, read the spaces and the darkness and the hidden things, that the pattern emerges. The zigzag of lost jobs and broken hearts, embellished here and there by my mother’s attempts to create perfection. The barbed wire hung with diamonds, or rusting iron sprinkled with stardust, because under the glitz, that’s what the Andersons really are.

  It’s another town, another house, another school. But this time it’s different. It’s a home somehow, not because of the big, pretentious house. Nor is it the school, which is okay, but I’ve seen too many schools.

  It’s subtler, suspended in the air, carried in the stream that’s hidden by the rushes. The Canada geese that gather their numbers here know about it. And the swallows that come every summer. The wind bursts with it. Have I stumbled on a portal to something bigger, or is it a premonition of what is coming?

  It’s when the fear starts, too, in flashes at first, then like in those dreams where you’re running from someone so close that no matter how fast you run, you hear their breath coming in harsh gasps and their feet closing on you, knowing they’ll stop at nothing until they hurt you, so that when you wake up, you taste fear, even though you know it was just a dream.

  Only now when I awake, when my eyes open and familiar sounds reach my ears, it stays with me. Even with Alex, I know I’m not safe, that danger has somehow woven itself into my life like a time bomb. And that I’m waiting for the ticking to stop before it explodes.

  It’s not a life I wish for. Instead, I crave a small piece of Grace’s life, the way you want tickets to the Arctic Monkeys or the new Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie or the hot boy in school to ask you out. To wear it, be Grace for a day, to know how it feels to be Kate’s daughter. Grace is cool. Funny. Pretty. A butterfly flitting between her friends and her pretty life.

  While I’m the moth who sees the flame too late, leaving my wings charred and my body lifeless. Like everything that went before, it was written into the small print of my life, meaning whatever happened, wherever I was, there never was any other way.

  16

  With Grace’s arrival imminent, I rush around, adding last-minute touches of eucalyptus from the tall tree in the garden, cutting pine and more ivy, their lingering scents combining with that of wood smoke. Wanting everything to look perfect. Grace loves Christmas as much as I do. She bursts in, long hair flying, eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Mum!” She hurls herself into my arms, little girl Grace of years back. I hug her.

  “I’ve missed you. . . .” Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of her hair.

  “Me too.” She pulls back. “I can’t believe that guy we saw is Rosie’s murderer.”

  I nod. “I know. Nor could I.”

  “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” Peeling back the past months to reveal old wounds still healing, her eyes now glistening with tears.

  I nod, realizing the weight I’ve been carrying. That all of us have. Of worry and responsibility, for Grace and her friends, that though it receded slightly had never left us—until a murderer was behind bars.

  “We’re going to have a good Christmas,” I tell her softly, because the past is what it is, watching her eyes light up.

  “I’ve got presents for under the tree. And we need to decorate it. Can we do it today?”

  “I’ve done the tree, Grace. . . .” Her face falls momentarily. “But I’ve left the cards. Only I thought you’d want to look at them first.”

  My heart warmed by her familiar smile.

  We go outside to help Angus carry her stuff in; then, while he stacks the firewood that’s just arrived on either side of the fireplace, Grace and I ice the Christmas cake. We’ve a month stretching ahead before she goes again, a month in which our family will be complete. A rare peacefulness washes over me and, with it, a kind of thanks. That it’s Christmas, that my husband is here and my daughter is safely home. At this moment, there is nothing more I could wish for.

  Can we at last move on? With Alex held in custody, I start to imagine we can, until my world is rocked yet again and the closure, the sense of security that briefly crept in, goes up in smoke. Laura calls with the news that Alex has been released, pending further investigation. It seems there’s simply not enough evidence against him.

  ROSIE

  Trust is fragile. Hope means nothing. And like I said before, disappointment eats you away, so you stop believing in people. Since losing me, Della, too, is learning this.

  Between the pictures, I find myself back at home. It’s the same house, yet it’s changed. There’s a darkness that wasn’t here before, a menacing presence within its walls. And there’s the apple tree in the wrong place. Even I know that. Alex told me how trees need light and space to grow and spread their roots. They shouldn’t be crammed in with other plants, like this one is.

  In the time that’s passed since I was last here, Della,
too, has been removed from her old life and dropped headlong into this one. As I slip through the window, she’s in her room, writing stuff, so engrossed she doesn’t notice the bed sink slightly as I join her, or that the feather touch on her hair is my hand.

  It should be a lovely room. Big, bright, with the hand-carved bed and the girly-pink covers she’s yet to grow out of. The heavy rug and bespoke curtains, neat, designed, perfect—but not quite. On her mirror a picture is stuck—crooked—of me, taken earlier this summer. I watch her look at her reflection, see both of us.

  It’s still and lifeless. Lightless. A room of sadness and shadows. Then I see that it’s not so tidy, either, and that the floor is littered with torn-up paper, joined by more as Della rips another sheet several times, scattering the pieces like snowflakes.

  “Kate.” I whisper the name, a sound wave rippling into Della’s head. “Kate can help you, Della. Kate’s good. You can trust her. You need Kate. . . .”

  If she hears it silently, I can’t tell. Della writes. Slowly, deciphering her thoughts in neat, precise letters. Then more rapidly as I read over her shoulder. Realize she’s writing to me.

  Dear Rosie,

  Are you there? I wish you could hear me. I’m really frightened. Is it going to happen to me, too? Is that what you meant when you knew what was going to happen? Because I feel it, as well. Unless someone does something, I’m going to die, as well, and I . . .

  A tear falls, smudging the letter, so it isn’t perfect anymore, making Della scribble, then gouge angrily into the paper with her pen, before she picks it up and shreds it, flinging more pieces in the air. As they flutter down, I blow, wave my arms, hoping she’ll notice the ones that change direction, swirling upward in little currents.

  For a moment, I’m back in that room with the baby who’s crying. Standing there, saying, “It’s okay, Della. You’re not alone.”

  I stand in front of my sister now. Reach for her hands, stroke her face, wipe her tears away, wanting her to feel my arms around her. To know that I love her, that I’m okay, that she’ll be okay, too.

  Then the miracle happens. She looks up, straight at me, our faces just inches apart.

  From her intake of breath, for a moment, I almost believe she sees me.

  17

  It’s a Christmas that’s subtly different. Maybe in the reference to loved ones at the midnight service at our village church, in the way people suddenly have more time for each other. In many ways like any other, with an excess of food, mulled wine, and family gatherings, but with a jollity that’s muted. A New Year’s Eve party at Rachael and Alan’s follows, where our mood is defiantly riotous, after which Angus returns to work and I drive Grace back to Bristol. Then, for the first time in a month, I’m alone.

  Part of me welcomes the silence, the days I have to worry only about my own life, stopping only to cook a meal for two when Angus comes home, sleeps, gets up early, and is gone again. But it’s quiet. Too quiet.

  And before I have time to adjust, it changes again.

  “They want me up in York for a while,” Angus tells me, late back from work yet again. Dark gray circles under his eyes give his face a haunted, skeletal look. “The senior chap up and left, just like that. They’re really stuck, Kate.”

  “For how long?” I knew he had extra work, but not this.

  Angus shrugs, then yawns, one continuous motion of tiredness. “They don’t know. A few weeks, most likely. Maybe longer. But I’ll be home on weekends.”

  “Can’t someone else go?” Not liking the thought of having two separate lives. I know people do this, but with the exception of a few days here and there, Angus and I have never been apart.

  He hesitates. “It might be a smart career move, Kate, running that office. And the trouble is, there isn’t anyone else.”

  After he tells me, it seems no time passes before Angus leaves. Bereft, missing him more than I ever imagined, I call over to see Rachael.

  “You have no idea how lucky you are.” Her blast of no nonsense is exactly what I need. “Look at this place. It’s a pigsty, Kate. No, wipe that. Even the pigs live better than this.”

  We both know she’s lying. So her kitchen is a mess, piles of washing, letters from school, the detritus from breakfast covering the worktops, but it’s the kind of untidiness that shouts of family and children and purpose, all so lacking in my own home.

  “Laura still thinks Alex is guilty,” she says, glancing behind her, as if any moment he might walk in. “A crime of passion. Alex wants Rosie back, she agrees to meet him, and when she doesn’t give him what he wants, he loses it.” She shrugs. “Sounds plausible to me. They just lack evidence.”

  “How will they prove it?”

  “Forensics, I suppose. Eventually. We’re back to waiting, aren’t we? Just promise me, Kate, because I know you go to that nursery where he worked. This time, stay away from him, okay? Coffee?”

  She turns to rummage in her dishwasher. “If I can find some mugs . . .”

  Against the clatter of china, my eyes are drawn to a familiar face on her small TV.

  “Rachael! Quick! Look at this. . . .”

  She stops what she’s doing, and I turn up the volume just in time to hear Neal’s voice. But unlike last time, this isn’t about Rosie, as instead he gives a dispassionate yet penetrating account of surviving in a war zone.

  I don’t speak, just watch him disbelievingly. From his expression, his tone of voice, he gives away nothing about his own tragic loss.

  “God,” says Rachael when he’s finished. “From watching that, no one would have a clue.”

  Slowly, I rediscover the solace in ordinary things, finding I like it. A good book or a TV program Angus wouldn’t want to watch. Clearing out my desk. And time to do these things, where I’m not clock watching, not cooking the next meal, so busy that time itself becomes a gift. While it rains, I spring clean. Then, when the clouds clear and the sun comes out, I pull on my boots and start on the vegetable garden, clearing the weeds, digging in compost, in readiness for planting the first seeds. And with clients’ gardens to design and my horses to look after, life goes on. It’s just a different life.

  I bump into Laura at the farmers’ market one Saturday. After spending Christmas at home in New York, she’s back for a few days, catching up on Rosie’s case, where nearly five months on, evidence is still sketchy and, on the surface at least, progress minimal.

  “Do you think Rachael would mind if I planted some bulbs?” she says, looking at the stall laden with pots and bowls of budding narcissi and hyacinths.

  “You have bulbs,” I tell her, picturing pinprick shoots just breaking the surface in her garden on either side of the front door. “It’s only the end of January. Wait a month and you’ll have flowers.”

  If the murderer still hasn’t been found, if she’s still here.

  As we walk together to the car park, she sighs. “I keep thinking someone, somewhere, must have proof. They must. They’re just not telling.”

  “You really think it was Alex, don’t you?”

  Laura nods. “You’ve got to admit everything points to it being him.”

  I frown. “But if it was him, someone must know. Surely they’d tell the police—especially with an innocent teenager murdered.”

  “Believe me, Kate, there are plenty of people who wouldn’t. Put it this way. Imagine, just for a minute, if Angus had done something terrible and you were the only one who knew about it.”

  I look at her as though she’s mad, then think of Angus, back at home for the weekend, enjoying a rare late morning in bed. It’s impossible to imagine him hurting anyone. “Sorry. It doesn’t work. Not Angus.”

  “Okay, maybe he’s not a good example.” She hesitates. “But when people are continually exposed to violence for a long time, the shocking becomes less shocking. And, of course, if you want to badly enough, you can make excuses for anyone, like ‘It’s not his fault. His uncle abused him as a child.’ Or ‘Her mother used to beat he
r and lock her up.’”

  And while I know it happens, it’s so far off my radar, I shudder.

  Laura frowns. “You’d be amazed what people will put up with, Kate. The trouble is, for so many of them, especially when they’re vulnerable, it’s easier to stick with what they know, however brutal or awful that is, than to change it or walk away, like you or I would. The devil you know wins every time.”

  “But surely the most likely explanation is that Rosie got abducted by a total stranger who murdered her.”

  “It’s possible.” Laura’s thoughtful. “Only, you have to ask how she ended up so far off the beaten track before she was killed. With no obvious signs of a struggle, until that point.”

  Which means only one thing.

  It’s not something I’ve even considered, and I think it rather than say it, but the thought sends shivers down my spine. If Laura’s right, Rosie must have known her murderer. Bringing me full circle.

  Back to Alex.

  “Laura said something that made me think,” I tell Angus later that evening, after supper by the fire and a bottle of wine. “Because Rosie was found quite a way into the woods, she thinks she must have known her killer.”

  “The police will be working on it.” Angus slumps down into the sofa and kicks his shoes off and rests his feet on the coffee table. “I have missed this fire.”

  “Mmm.” But it’s back in my mind, that only someone she knew, and must have trusted, could have done that. Pointing more and more to Alex.

  “I forgot to tell you. We’re moving into an apartment,” Angus carries on. “Now that Ally and Nick are up there, too.”

  “What was that?” Suddenly, he has my full attention.

  “I’m going to be sharing this palatial, luxurious apartment with Ally and Nick.”

  “Sharing?” I repeat it as I work out how this makes me feel.

  He nods. “It’s a huge place. You’d love it. Great views of the city.”