The Bones of You

by Gary McMahon

  After a short while I started moving again. I walked out of the kitchen and toward the cellar door. The door was open. I walked down the cellar steps. The room looked different; it didn’t look real. It reminded me of a film set: flimsy, insubstantial, as if I could knock down the walls simply by running at them.

  A large black cat stalked out of the shadows at the far end of the cellar. It was huge, the size of a horse. The cat stopped, sat down, and looked at me. It wasn’t Magic, that was clear, but it had the look of him, as if it might be related in some way—a sibling?

  “Hello,” said the cat. Its voice was cool and measured. I didn’t recognize it per se, but I did feel that the tone or perhaps the timbre of that voice was familiar.

  I wasn’t surprised that it spoke. “Hi,” I said. Then I knelt down, made some strange kind of genuflection with my hands at my chest, and bowed down my head.

  “You know what you have to do,” said the giant black cat. “What must be done?”

  “Yes, I do.” Even in the dream, I had no idea what this meant, but it seemed like the right thing to say. I had faith that it would come to me, that I’d know exactly what to do when the time came.

  “She’s special, your daughter. We like her.”

  “I know.” I lifted my head and looked at the cat. Its eyes were strange. It took me a while to realize what was wrong with them, that they were human eyes and not the eyes of a feline. They were, in fact, my dead father’s eyes.

  Behind the cat, outlined in the darkness, I could see a small group of figures backlit by some kind of gauzy illumination. Small, short, and very thin, they were holding hands. I realized there were children back there, in the shadows. They began to hum a tune. I didn’t recognize what it was, but I felt calmed.

  “Do everything you can. Make it all right again.” The cat licked its lips. My father’s eyes stared me down; they stared right through me, to the bone.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “I know you will, son.”

  When I woke up, I was terrified. I was convinced that the giant cat with my father’s sad eyes was sitting just outside my bedroom door, waiting for me on the landing.

  It took me a long time to get out of bed and take a look. It took me even longer to get back to sleep afterward.

  FIFTEEN

  Signs of Violence

  When I got up the following morning, I felt like I hadn’t slept. It was late. I made a nice brunch of coffee, toast, and fried eggs. The food filled me up; the coffee helped me pretend that I was properly awake. I cleaned the house, straightened Jess’s room (that was how I thought of it now: her room, the room in which she belonged).

  Magic followed me around the house, slinking along behind me. He never took his eyes off me, but whenever I reached down to run my hand across the fur of his back, he scampered away—just a few feet, then he’d stop and lick his balls.

  “Please yourself, bastard cat,” I said.

  Later that afternoon I got together my karate gear and left the house. It was to be my first time at the new dojo, and I was excited. I’d never stopped practicing karate, but it had been a long time since I’d attended any official classes. I used to teach a few students myself, back in the day. I didn’t realize I’d missed it until now.

  The dojo was located on a tiny industrial estate, in a room above a bedding factory. It took me twenty minutes to drive there, and when I arrived, nothing looked open. I was pretty sure the retail outlets attached to some of the warehouses must be open for business, but there was hardly anyone around. The place looked kind of bleak, as if nobody wanted to go there. That was fine by me.

  I parked the car and got out, hauled my big sports bag onto one shoulder as I walked across the car park and toward what I assumed was the entrance. There was a fire door to the right of the main warehouse doors with a sign above it that read “Karate Classes.” I tried the door but it was locked. There was a buzzer with the letter K written beside it in an elaborate Japanese style, so I pressed that. I heard the muted sound of the buzzer through the tatty old intercom. There was a lot of static, and then somebody said, “Yeah. Come on up.” The buzzer sounded on this side of the door; a latch clicked. I pushed the door open and went inside.

  The ground-floor area in which I was standing had a couple of battered wooden garden benches positioned along one wall. I ignored them and climbed the narrow stairwell to the first floor. The staircase jinked to the left, and then ended in a small landing. Another fire door with a strengthened glass panel set at eye level barred the way. Somebody had pinned a handwritten notice to the door: it said “Osu,” which is a Japanese word meaning to show respect.

  I took off my shoes and held them in one hand, then pushed open the door with my free hand. I took a step forward, made a quick, shallow bow, and then continued inside onto the padded floor. The feel of the mats beneath my feet took me back in time. It made me feel young again, forced me to remember the first time I’d ever stepped into a dojo at the age of eight or nine. I was terrified but exhilarated. After that single hour’s class, taught by a short, fat man who in all honesty didn’t really know his Mae geri from his Mawashi geri, I was hooked on martial arts for life.

  To the left, the big windows looked down on the car park. Against the wall alongside the door I’d used to come in, there was a short counter. A man in a loose-fitting karate gi stood behind the counter, writing something down in a notepad. He didn’t look up until I’d walked right up to him and stood on the other side of the counter.

  “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Adam Morris. I called several weeks ago about training here, and whoever I spoke to told me to just turn up when there was a lesson on.”

  “Yes, that would have been me. I’m Ted Hannah; I run the place.” He bowed from his neck, stuck out a hand, and I shook it.

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “Although, we almost know each other already.”

  I was intrigued. “How’s that?”

  “You know Toby Salt, don’t you? Big bloke, had a glass eye, trained out of your dojo in North London.”

  I nodded. “God, that takes me back…it must be fifteen years since I saw Toby. How is he?”

  Hannah paused, shrugged his broad shoulders. “He was put away for manslaughter about five years ago. He killed a man during a fight over a woman in a pub car park.”

  “Ah…right. That sounds exactly like the Toby Salt I knew.”

  Hannah laughed. He came around from behind the counter. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, but he had long arms—a good reach—and wide legs. He looked lethal. “Small world, isn’t it? I bet we know half a dozen of the same people.”

  “How come he remembered me, then? I mean, Toby and I were hardly best friends. We just trained together for a while.”

  “Toby is many things, but he isn’t ungrateful. You helped him through his black belt grading. He loved you for that—when he moved away from London and came here, he trained with us. Wouldn’t shut up about it. You know what Toby’s like…”

  I smiled, remembering the good-natured man-mountain who’d come to my classes three times a week. He was keen but not too skilled; more about strength than technique. That was probably what got him locked up—that brute strength, the untamed aggression.

  “So, you aren’t teaching anymore?”

  “No, I gave that up years ago. To be honest, I haven’t trained properly for a while, either. I worked on pub doors for a while, started using lazy techniques. I’m interested in getting back into the traditional side of things again.”

  “Excellent,” said Hannah, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let me show you around.”

  He led me across the dojo floor to a door in the opposite wall. He opened the door, bowed, and walked inside. I bowed and followed him.

  “This is our humble changing area.” He raised a hand, indicated the hooks on the walls, the benches, the two tiny shower cubicles. “This is th
e men’s. The door on the other side is the women’s. We’re pretty basic, I’m afraid, but it suits our needs.”

  “It’s great,” I said, and I meant it. I’d been out of this environment for too long; I needed to go back to basics, to start afresh. “This could work out well for me, as long as you’re happy with me training here.”

  “Couldn’t be happier,” said Hannah. “The class starts in twenty minutes. Students should start drifting in shortly. We have a good cross-section of ages and abilities: a couple of novices, and then everything up to Second Dan. They’re all good people. No egos, no nonsense, just students who want to train hard and learn hard.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said. I set down my bag on one of the benches and started to unzip it. “Do you want me to sign up now, or after the class?”

  “Afterward will do,” said Hannah. “See if you like it here first, then we can talk about club fees and everything else.”

  He left me to change. I stripped off my clothes and put on my gi, enjoying the feel of the cool, crisp material against my skin. I fastened my belt and sat down on the bench, trying to clear my mind. It wasn’t long until the first of my fellow students walked in, and after that the changing room slowly filled with eager voices, anxious chat, and quiet introductions.

  After the class I went back out to my car and sat behind the wheel. My body ached. I’d worked hard and enjoyed it. The muscles in my thighs felt like they were throbbing. My fists were like stone; they felt heavy, unstoppable. It had been a good session. I’d had no qualms about signing up for the long run.

  I watched the stragglers leave, then a few minutes later Ted Hannah came out, locking the door behind him. He didn’t see me looking at him, so I just sat there and watched as he climbed into a small blue van and drove away.

  I felt poised on the verge of big changes, as if I were sitting on the edge of a cliff and waiting to topple off into the cleansing waters below. Everything was changing: new place to live; new place to train; new way of thinking. I could get behind this. I could really make a difference to my life. Perhaps I could even become the kind of father Jess really deserved.

  I drove back home cocooned in silence, not even bothering to turn the radio on. As well as being good for me, the training session had brought back some bittersweet memories—of people I’d taught and trained with, things I’d done, risks I’d taken. Darker memories hovered nearby, like the huge black wings of something that was somehow stalking me from all sides. I pushed them away, not willing to examine them. There would be time for that later. I’d avoided thinking about the secret Holly and I shared, the one great, bad thing we did together—the thing that effectively ended our marriage—for such a long time that it was like second nature to do so.

  But soon I would allow those memories in. I’d hold them close and let them smother me. Because if I didn’t, I knew they’d kill me—just like they were killing Holly by latching onto her addictions, hollowing her out, turning her into an empty shell.

  Back home, I changed into my overalls. I was due to work a late shift, three till ten, and couldn’t let Evans down. I could also do with the money. My erratic work schedule of late meant that my finances were low, and if I wanted to give Jess the things I felt she needed, I had to start bringing in a more regular salary. Maybe I could even set up a dojo of my own again, or start teaching classes for Ted Hannah if he needed the help.

  It felt good to be making plans, even vague ones. I realized that I hadn’t done that for a long time. I’d been living in the moment, reacting instead of acting, and life had begun to lose its luster. This new start was just what I needed; it made me feel like I might have something to offer after all.

  I drove to the factory and was early for my shift. I took some gentle ribbing for that; I was usually the last one in the door and the first one out at shift’s end.

  We were busy that afternoon. There were lots of deliveries coming in and plenty of goods to be stored and sorted. I felt tired. I suspected it was because I’d started training again and my body was in some kind of shock. My arms ached, my back wailed, and my legs went stiff whenever I stopped working for even a few minutes.

  At break time I tried to read but couldn’t relax enough to take in the prose. I didn’t want to spoil the book so I just put it away and wandered over to the rear office, where the coffee machine was. I peeked in through the door, but Carole’s desk was empty. I got a black coffee from the machine and carried it into the staff canteen—a small room at the back that had no windows and no ventilation but boasted a hand basin and a microwave oven.

  Evans walked in when I was halfway through my coffee.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Run off my feet. I don’t know why, but there’s a rush on today.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it gets like this.” He smiled, rather sadly, I thought, and opened the can of soup he was carrying, poured the contents into a bowl, and popped it in the microwave. He didn’t say anything while the soup heated, and when the ringtone on the microwave sounded, it seemed to fill the room. Evans took out his soup and brought it over to the table. “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head, sipped my coffee.

  “What’s up, Evans? There’s clearly something on your mind.”

  He blew on his soup and looked at me. “You and Carole…you’re, well, friends, yes?”

  “Kind of. Yes. Yeah, I suppose we are.”

  “She didn’t turn up for work today.” He picked up his spoon and took a taste of the soup. Licked his lips. ”She hasn’t called in sick or anything, and that’s not like her.”

  “Okay…so you’re worried? My, my, you have a heart after all.”

  He showed me that sad smile again. “It just isn’t like her, that’s all. She’s not like the rest. She’s…considerate. She wouldn’t just fail to show up and not let me know.”

  I finished my coffee and balled up the paper cup in my fist. I turned and threw it at the bin near the sink. I scored a basket first time. “I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. I couldn’t tell you where she is.”

  “I know this makes me sound like an old mother hen, but could you drive past her place on your way home tonight? I’ve tried calling. She isn’t answering. Like I said, this isn’t like her. Not one bit like her. She’s been distracted lately…as if something’s not right, something she won’t talk about.”

  I’d never seen him like this. He was genuinely concerned. “Okay, mate. No problem. I can go past her flat on my way. I’ll check on the place, see if she’s there. If there are any lights on, I’ll knock on the door and ask her if she’s okay. Does that suit you?”

  “Thanks, Adam. I know I’m being daft, but I kind of took that girl under my wing a couple of years ago, when she was having trouble with some bloke. She’s vulnerable. Always has been.” He paused, squinted at me. “That’s why I was pleased when you two seemed to hook up. You’re good for each other.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d realized how much he knew about me and about my on-again off-again relationship with Carole. “Yeah,” I said. “She’s a good one. We get on well. But we’re just taking things slow.” I shook my head, smiling. “Why the hell am I even telling you this? You’re my boss, not my therapist.”

  Evans laughed. The sadness hadn’t lifted, but it had eased a little. “I always did say we were like one happy family here.”

  The rest of the shift was less busy, and I was glad of the change of pace. The downside was that the time dragged, and by the time I’d finished for the day my mind was fuzzy. I just wanted to go home and get some sleep.

  As promised, I drove to Carole’s place on my way home. The streets were quiet; the traffic was light. The street where she lived was in a good part of town, so everything was silent as I pulled up at the curb opposite her apartment block.

  I sat in the car and watched the flat. Carole’s lights were on but there was no sign of anyone being home. I waited twenty minutes until I saw something.


  A shirtless man crossed the room in front of the window, left to right. I’d been inside there before, of course, so knew that he was coming out of the bedroom. He was tall and lean with plenty of wiry muscle on his narrow frame, as if he lifted a lot of weights. He had a spattering of ink across his chest and upper arms: black, curling designs. There was some letter work there but I couldn’t read what it said at that distance. It looked like foreign writing anyway.

  I had a strange feeling in my stomach. A bare-chested man was coming out of Carole’s bedroom: it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. I’d thought we might have had something; I’d thought we were starting on a journey together, and that it might be one worth taking.

  I’d thought a lot of things. All of them wrong.

  The man stood with his back to the street in front of the window. There was what looked like a huge bird of prey tattooed across his back, all done in black. It was good work, but it was ugly.

  Then Carole appeared. She followed him out of the bedroom. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt. I watched as she stopped at his left-hand side and said something to him. He didn’t respond, so she spoke again, this time with more emotion. The trouble was, I couldn’t identify the emotion. It could have been passion; it might have been hatred. It could even have been fear.

  Before I realized what was happening, the man turned quickly around, fast as a snake, and raised his hand. I thought he was going to hit her, and I started to get out of the car. But he didn’t: he stopped his hand an inch or so away from her flinching face, opened the palm, and cupped her chin. There was no tenderness in the gesture. It was meant to intimidate.

  Carole smiled, but there was fear in her eyes. Even at that distance, from across the street, I could see it. There was no doubt in my mind that she was scared—scared to the bone—of this man, whoever the hell he was.