The Bones of You

by Gary McMahon

  “It’s fine, Daddy.”

  I was getting nowhere with this, but if I tried a more hard-line approach, I risked scaring her. If there was something going on, I had to coax the details out of her. It was the only way. She’d never been very forthcoming when it came to talking about her problems, and each time I saw her it seemed harder to get her to open up.

  “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If there was anything wrong, I mean.” I rubbed the shampoo more forcefully into her hair, lathering it quickly. Then I rinsed it off using more water from the jug. “There. All done.” I replaced the jug in its place by the sink.

  “Thanks. Yes…yes, I’d tell you.” She opened her eyes. She smiled at me, and everything seemed wonderful. Then I looked again at the bruises and the word “wonderful” lost all meaning.

  Her eyelids flickered. She saw where I was looking and seemed to remember the bruises were there.

  I reached out and stroked her arm. The marks were dull, dark, fading. “How did you get these, Jess?”

  She smiled again, but this time it was less convincing. She was hiding something, or at least preparing to.

  I waited.

  “I got in a fight. At school.”

  A fight, just a fight… I could deal with that. Christ knows I’d been in enough of them myself growing up.

  “What was it about?”

  “Silly,” she said, cocking her head to one side and raking a finger in her ear to get out the water. “A girl said you were horrible and you hated me because you’d broken up with Mummy.”

  I nodded. My mouth was dry. “You know we love you, sweetheart. We’ll always love you.”

  “Yes. That’s what I told her. She hit me so I hit her back. I got in trouble. Mummy had to go to school and talk about it with my teacher.”

  I felt relieved, but at the same time there remained an element of doubt in my mind. Jess was a child, and children lied all the time. I couldn’t be certain about any of this until I spoke to Holly—and there was another thing: Holly should have told me. I might be an absent father, but I was still a father. It was my right to be told about anything that went on in Jess’s life. At least now I could redirect my anger to a tangible target. I could rage at Holly for keeping me out of the loop. It wasn’t right to exclude me, particularly now that we were both trying to give some stability to the situation with Jess.

  “Come on, now. Get yourself out and dried, and we can watch some TV. I’ll put the cartoons on for you.” I reached into the bath and pulled out the plug, stood and walked out of the room. I leaned my back against the wall next to the door and closed my eyes. My legs felt better now. They felt fine, as if they could support my weight easily. The connection between body and mind had been reestablished. I was safe. I could be in control again.

  I needed to speak to Holly but I wasn’t going to ring her right then, when the information was still fresh and the blood was still hot in my veins. It would be better to wait a while and let things cool down. If the past had taught me anything, it was not to act in the moment. Wait and let everything settle. Make an informed decision when all the facts are at hand.

  The past…

  It always came back to the past, what I’d done and what I’d allowed to happen.

  I tried not to think of it, not when my daughter was drying herself in the next room. But it was impossible. The past was never far from my mind. It was always hovering just beneath the surface, a hungry mouth waiting to be fed. I saw in my mind’s eye a thin, dark man lying on a bedroom floor, his head bleeding and the curly hair beside his right ear all knotted and thick with gore. He wasn’t moving. His face was still. He had blue lips. One of his eyes—the right one, on the side of the skull trauma—was shut tightly; the other eye was open and bulging.

  The past…

  How I wish none of this had happened. How long and how deeply I had wished that I could turn around and put it right, and never have to suffer in the way I’ve suffered ever since. Everybody has their own ghosts, and this was mine: a naked black man on a bedroom floor, with blue lips, one bulging eye, a halo of blood around his head. And a hole in his skull. A hole through which everything had seeped: his hopes, his dreams, his fears, his addiction.

  Sometimes I’d see his face in my dreams, and wake up screaming. Other times I’d wake up in silence, and see him standing there in the shadows of the room, bleeding out into my life, staining it crimson: a bloody shadow, a leaking phantom.

  That bastard. He would never leave me alone.

  “Daddy!” Jess came out of the bathroom. She was smiling. There was a light blue towel wrapped around her head. She looked so grown up, a tiny version of innocence on the verge of womanhood.

  “Hey, sweetheart. Let’s go and watch a movie.”

  She took my hand and squeezed. I was the luckiest man alive. She was my baby girl and she loved me. That bleeding apparition could never really hurt me, not when I had this sweet, sweet talisman by my side.

  ELEVEN

  Sad Hours

  We watched gaudy cartoons for a few hours, and then, when it was dark outside and the wind started to finger the walls and the eaves, Jess started to yawn. Her eyes were heavy and she kept twitching awake from a short, light doze.

  “Come on, you. I think it’s time for bed.”

  She stretched like a cat, yawning again, and a smile broke out on her face. She looked exactly like her mother when she smiled, but in truth I hadn’t seen Holly smile like that for a long time. The smiles had been pulled out of her, slapped around a bit, and left for dead in the gutter. Addiction didn’t allow smiles, not genuine ones. It replaced them with cynical, seductive impersonations. Hollow expressions designed to get some more of whatever it was she craved.

  Jess walked up the stairs ahead of me and pushed open the door of her room. The cat darted off the bed and into a corner, where it eyed us suspiciously.

  “Can Magic stay in here with me?”

  “Okay, baby. I’m sure that’ll be fine.”

  The cat seemed to understand what we were saying. It walked slowly over to the bed and hopped back up onto the mattress, making a slow circle before dropping down onto the sheets.

  Jess hugged me, kissed my cheek, and then climbed into bed. She yawned again. Her eyes were bright but empty. It wouldn’t be long before she was asleep. I tucked her in, kissed her forehead—lingering perhaps a moment too long as I did so—and then backed away toward the door. Her eyes were already closed. Her right hand was resting next to the cat.

  “Good night, kidda.”

  “’Night…” she murmured softly, already partway toward whatever dreams beckoned her.

  “I love you.”

  “…love ooh…”

  “I love the bones of you.” It was something my mother had often said, a family saying. I kept the phrase only for Jess. Nobody had ever heard me say those words, not even Holly. There was something special about them; they were like an incantation, a spell to summon only the good things.

  I love you. I love the bones of you.

  Could there be any deeper, more desperate expression of affection from one human being to another? If one existed, I’d not encountered it. These words, ineffectual as they might eventually prove, were heart-words: they were tugged, still bleeding, from the heart’s most secret places and used only in times of great and unguarded honesty, to express the greatest truth of all.

  These are the things we leave behind: the things we said, the things we did, the things we intended; the things we wrote, painted, or sculpted; the things we created out of love or out of hate; the people we knew, the connections we made. These are the things that become our shadow, our little impression on the world. And these, too, will fade. Eventually, nothing remains but the silence.

  I left the room and shut the door behind me. Then I opened the door an inch, mindful that Jess had never liked to be shut in completely. Like her father, she always needed an escape route. Shadows spilled out of the gap, and for a moment I had the im
pression they were shifting like fog. I walked away, went downstairs, and passed through the kitchen to the side door.

  I stepped outside into the night. The air was cool on my skin. The wind kept dropping and then lifting again; it sounded like someone moaning for help. I stared at the sky, at the small, spaced-out stars, and then at the house next door. There was an impression of something dark over there, and it was deeper than a natural darkness. Bad things had happened, fell deeds had occurred. I wondered if it might not be sensible to move out again, find somewhere else. I tried to remember how I’d first heard about this place, and drew a blank. Hadn’t someone told me it was available—someone at work? Perhaps I’d seen it advertised on the notice board in the back office. I’d looked at so many properties during that period, that the whole thing was a blur. I couldn’t even remember why this one had seemed so right in the first place.

  As I stood there, I had the impression that somebody had walked up beside me. I sensed more than felt a presence at my side, as if it were reaching up, reaching out, to hold my hand. At first I didn’t want to turn around and look, because I thought that I might scare it away. Then I realized how stupid I was being, and I looked anyway.

  There was nobody there, but I was left with the impression—like a fold or a dent in the air—of someone having stood there: a child, perhaps, certainly someone smaller and weaker than myself. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t afraid. Whatever had been there, I knew it couldn’t hurt me.

  It occurred to me then that all empty space is occupied. By thoughts, dreams, memories…or simply by the shadows of the people who’d once stood there.

  “Hey.”

  The voice came from the front of the house. Initially I failed to recognize it, and then her name came into my head: Pru. My new friend.

  I turned, smiling. She was standing a few yards away, not smiling. Her hair was a mess. Her clothes looked grubby and rumpled, as if she’d slept in them.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I could use a cup of tea and a chat.”

  “Come on inside. I’ll put the kettle on.” I walked back into the house, leaving her to follow. There was clearly something wrong, and I didn’t want to push too hard.

  I made the tea. Pru sat down at the table. She kept picking at her nails and examining them as if there was something of interest going on.

  “So.” I sat down at the table. “Are we going to sit here saying nothing all night, or are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  She bit her bottom lip. The black fringe of her hair fell across her eyes, shielding them. She made no move to push it away. “I was attacked.”

  I felt myself stiffen. Violence does that to me: makes me alert, focuses my mind. “Where and when?”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. I got away. I’m just a bit shaken, that’s all.”

  She was hiding something. I could tell. It was in her eyes, in the way she was sitting with her shoulders hunched.

  “Come on. Spill it. Tell me everything.”

  She shrugged. “I was walking through that subway tunnel—you know, the one about half a mile from here.” She waited for me to nod and then continued. “There was this tall figure. I think it was a man, but it could’ve just been a really tall woman. I’m not sure. Anyway, this figure followed me into the subway. I stopped to light a cigarette, and the figure grabbed me.”

  “That was stupid,” I said. “Stopping in a dark subway tunnel, like that.”

  “I know, I know…I just didn’t feel threatened, you know. I thought whoever it was had walked the other way. I only knew they’d followed me in when I felt their hands on me.”

  I leaned forward, feeling tense. “So what happened then?”

  “I fought. I hit out, kicked out…did everything to get away. Then I ran.”

  “Good girl.”

  “But something…this one thing. It scared me more than the attack.”

  “What was it?”

  “The figure…the person. Whatever. Whoever the fuck it was, they knew my name.”

  I waited. There was more. Of course there was more; there always was.

  “Or at least they knew my father’s name. That’s what the figure said as it grabbed me: my dad’s name, Robert Shingley. It was in this muffled voice, as if the person was eating something and speaking through a mouthful of food.”

  She was shaking. It was the first time I’d really seen her look uncertain. “So what are you saying? That this person, this assailant, had something to do with your dad?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying.” She wrapped her hands around the builder’s mug into which I’d poured her tea. “I have no fucking idea.” She levelled her gaze, staring directly into my face. It was unnerving. Her eye makeup was smudged. There was a mark on her right cheek: a smear of dirt. “I’m scared. Dad’s book stirred up a lot of shit. What if this is some kind of obsessive? I mean, it’s Halloween soon. That’s when she killed them. That’s when Little Miss Fucking Moffat killed her victims. She kept them tied up, tortured them, and then slit their throats on Halloween night.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Didn’t you know?” Her eyes were wide. She bared her teeth. It took me a moment to realize that she was laughing at me.

  “Christ, don’t you know anything? She killed them as some kind of offering. She was trying to raise a demon, or a spirit. Some crap like that. The kids were her sacrifices to whatever the fuck she thought she was trying to conjure up in the basement of that house.” She turned her head and glanced in the direction of the house. I could see the muscles in her neck straining. A vein stood out, as if it was engorged with blood. “She was trying to raise a demon down there.”

  I still didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing; I said nothing at all.

  * * *

  Pru refused to let me call the police. Once she’d calmed down, and thrown back several mugs of tea, she kissed me lightly on the cheek and left.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said.

  “You can stay here if you like. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  She smiled. Her eyes were bright in the darkness outside. “You’re a nice man. You know that, don’t you?” A look of regret crossed her face.

  She turned away and walked off along the street, not looking back. I watched her leave; I kept my eyes on her until she was out of sight, and then I stayed there a little while longer just in case something happened. Then I went inside and locked the door. I went through into the front of the house and checked the other door, the windows. Pru’s story had spooked me. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d been attacked, but what she’d told me about the house next door. The sacrifices. On Halloween.

  Halloween wasn’t a date to which I’d personally ever given much thought. I was vaguely aware of kids dressing up as ghosts and monsters and walking the streets clutching lanterns, but that was the extent of my interest. I simply didn’t make that big a deal out of Halloween. Even Jess, God bless her, was largely ambivalent. She joined in and she enjoyed the fun, but it wasn’t a big thing.

  I went upstairs and into the bathroom. I ran the cold tap, cupped water into my hands, and splashed my face. I brushed my teeth and washed my hands. Staring at my face in the broken mirror, I wished for a moment that my life had turned out different. I didn’t want any of this: an ex-wife, an estranged daughter, and weird friendships with people who flitted in and out of my life. Why couldn’t I have a proper life, like other people? A mortgage, a new car every three years, kids that loved me, a wife that cooked me nice meals even when I cheated on her…

  I smiled and experienced the illusion that it was part of the crack in the mirror, a crack in reality. God knew what might crawl out.

  I left the bathroom and stood on the landing. The door to Jess’s room was ajar; it meant that the cat could come and go as it pleased. It was strange how quickly we’d adapted to having the animal around, giving it the freedom to roam.

  I approached the door and stood outsi
de. I could hear a whispered voice through the gap. I leaned in toward the door and tried to make out what Jess was saying, but she was speaking too low for me to make out the words.

  Was she talking to the cat, to Magic? Maybe telling him a bedtime story?

  How cute.

  Slowly, I pushed the base of the door with my foot. It opened a fraction more, but still I couldn’t make out what my daughter was saying. Gently, trying not to disturb her, I moved the door even farther. When there was enough room between door and frame, I slipped my head inside.

  I could see Jess by the light creeping in around the open door; she was sitting on the bed with her back to me. Her back was held straight, her shoulders were relaxed. In the mirror on the dresser opposite, I could see her face. Her eyes were closed.

  Was she talking in her sleep?

  I couldn’t see the cat anywhere. It wasn’t in the room.

  Jess was whispering softly. It sounded like a song, or a poem. More like the latter, because it was lacking the cadence of song lyrics. There was no tune, but there was a distinguishable rhythm. “Bright-dark. Bright-dark. Bright-dark. Bright-dark.” She repeated the nonsensical phrase like a single word, over and over again.

  I moved forward into the room, easing the door wider. I crept up behind her, but she was completely unaware of my presence.

  “Bright-dark. Bright-dark…”

  When she laughed, I stopped moving. It was louder than the words, and possessed a blunt quality that was completely lacking in genuine humor. It was a bitter laugh, a sardonic chuckle. A sound I’d never heard Jess make before.

  “Jess…sweetheart. Are you okay?”

  She turned quickly, twisting at the trunk. Her eyes were still shut. Her mouth was pulled into a bitter grin.

  “Hey, Jess. It’s Daddy. Are you asleep?”

  She opened her eyes. There was a moment when she failed to recognize me, didn’t register at all who I was. Then realization dawned, and the awful grin changed into her usual bright little smile. “Hi, Daddy.”