‘Jakey?’
The boy turned his gaze back to the street outside. It was empty, just a few parked cars and a woman wheeling a bike.
‘He’s back, Daddy. I saw him. Ol’ Bloody Bones is back.’
101
Finding somewhere to live was easy enough. No one wants to rent a draughty beach house in the middle of February, especially not one battered by winds sweeping in from the estuary.
The isolation suits him.
He sits in a chair by the window. A jagged flare of lightning illuminates the bay. Then the rain comes.
In the background, the radio rumbles on. A meteor has crash-landed in Chelyabinsk, Russia. That Paralympian with prosthetic legs has shot dead his girlfriend. And the police have still not found him.
Or her.
He swallows down his mug of tea. The dregs are cold, but he does not notice. He has paid his rent for six months. There’s an option to buy, his new landlord said in his email. If he likes living here.
He knows he will.
This house has three bedrooms. A boarded attic. A small garden for his rabbits.
He watches the waves crash against the harbour wall, and feels at peace for the first time in weeks. His wife, he thinks, would have hated it. He misses her still.
The local newspaper is spread across the table. He turns the pages, pauses, intently reads a story. After fishing in the drawer for a pencil, he jots down a name. A street.
He writes a letter.
Later that day, he moves the mahogany display cabinets he bought at an antiques street market from the garage to the hallway. They are tall and narrow. They have glass doors.
He tries not to remember what he has lost.
He pictures the boy with the skewed skeleton, the Frith family house in the city with its Let Agreed sign, the ease with which he prised their forwarding address from a temp at the contract cleaning firm, brought in to scrub away the history of its inhabitants along with the dust. He will bide his time, he thinks. Not yet.
Not yet.
As for the girl with the hands, the defeated eyes, her future is not yet decided. But there is no rush.
She is safe for now, undiscovered.
It is almost time, he thinks, to begin again.
A few days later, he leaves the house.
His hair is longer, much darker. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles distract from his black eyes, a beard disguises his jaw, the hollows of his face. He wears a loosely fitting white shirt, soft faded jeans. He has put on some weight.
He follows the coastal path, gazes at the frothing sea. When the wind blows, he tastes salt in his mouth. It is fitting that he finds himself here, treading in the bootprints of his ancestor.
He walks through the Old Town until he finds the house he is looking for, squashed up against its neighbours. The window frames are painted white, the bricks an ugly contrast of brown and black.
He knocks on the door.
A young woman answers. She is twenty-five. She is wearing a dress patterned with floral sprigs and thick black tights. Her face is collapsing, her underdeveloped facial bones unable to support the muscles and tissues of her adult self. Her chin is small, her eyes slant downwards. Her blonde hair hangs over malformed ears. Something about her reminds him of his wife.
He feels a joyous knocking in his chest.
‘You came,’ she says, and a smile lights her face. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I got your letter. Thank you.’ She dips her head shyly. ‘No one has ever asked to draw me before. I’m not your average’ – she laughs – ‘model.’
He cocks his head, smiles back. Runs his tongue along his teeth.
‘The imperfection is the beauty,’ he says.
The young woman colours and her fingers flutter to her face. The man is tall, and his presence seems to fill the door frame. He scuffs the sole of one of his shiny black shoes on the porch step.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He seems awkward, perhaps a little shy. It is endearing. She smiles up at him, encouraging. Before silence can stretch between them, she holds open the door, and the Bone Collector follows her in.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There was once a girl who dreamed of becoming an author. Those dreams would have stayed that way were it not for those who have become part of my own book of life.
Thank you to the incomparable Trisha Jackson from Pan Macmillan, who championed Rattle from the very beginning. It’s been a joy working with you. Shout-outs must also go to Natasha Harding, Claire Gatzen, Amy Lines, Anne O’Brien, Silvia Crompton and the fabulous Pan Mac publicity team, especially Francesca Pearce.
Much love to my agent, Sophie Lambert, for her sharp eye, brilliant ideas and unrivalled ability to tease from me a story worth telling. Your faith and friendship are valued.
To all the team at Conville & Walsh, especially Jake Smith-Bosanquet, Alexandra McNicoll and Carrie Plitt, your skills really do help pay the bills.
I owe a great debt to all those with Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva. Your stories inspired the character of Jakey Frith. Particular thanks must go to Chris Bedford-Gay, his son, Oliver, and the charity FOP Friends; and to Nancy Sando, a founder of non-profit organization IFOPA, whose positivity and spirit taught me that this disease need not mean a life sentence. Jakey’s condition was accelerated for the purposes of storytelling. Any mistakes are my own.
Florin Feneru, Identification and Advisory Officer at the Natural History Museum, your knowledge and patience should be applauded. Very loudly. Again, any errors are mine.
Thank you to my lovely friends, who have asked enthusiastic questions and shared in my moments of excitement; to my writing buddies; to Richard Skinner and the Faber Academy crew.
I owe a very large drink to Keith Loakman for letting me borrow The Bank, to Tracie Couper for her amusing workplace anecdotes (her magazine is nothing like Psychic Weekly, by the way) and to Cherry Anthony, my very first reader.
Mum and Dad, I’m so grateful for your unconditional love, unstinting enthusiasm and all the unpaid childcare; Steve and Cein, see, you can finally read it now; thank you to Pops2, my most vocal champion; and to Steve Bliss, the copper in the family. Any inaccuracies are my fault, not his.
Thank you for buying this book. Writers are nothing without readers. I hope the eagle-eyed amongst you will forgive me the liberties taken in altering the names of a couple of Blackheath’s beautiful streets.
Every story has its heroes and these are mine.
My Isaac and Alice, who never complain about the weekends I spend in front of the computer, the untidy house, the half-empty fridge. You are a continual source of joy.
Lastly, Jason. Who makes me fall in love again every day. Who provides endless cups of tea and tissues. Who saves my words (and my sanity) when I nod off over the laptop. Who is full of ideas and encouragement, and is always in my corner, spurring me on.
So this one’s for you, lovely boy. You believed in me before I dared to believe in myself.
Author’s Note
Stone Man Syndrome (Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva): A rare, debilitating disease that causes sufferers to grow a second skeleton which literally traps them in a prison of bone. The eyes, tongue, diaphragm and heart are characteristically spared. At present, there is no cure.
Tommy Rawhead: ‘A bogeyman, typically imagined as having a head in the form of a skull, or one whose flesh has been stripped of its skin, invoked to frighten children. Freq. used in conjunction with Bloody-Bones.’ – Oxford English Dictionary
RATTLE
Fiona Cummins is an award-winning former Daily Mirror showbusiness journalist and a graduate of the Faber Academy Writing a Novel course. She lives in Essex with her family. Rattle is her first novel.
First published 2017 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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d companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-1228-8
Copyright © Fiona Cummins 2017
The right of Fiona Cummins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
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Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication page
Contents
PROLOGUE
FRIDAY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
SATURDAY
8
9
10
11
SUNDAY
12
MONDAY
13
14
15
16
TUESDAY
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
WEDNESDAY
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
THURSDAY
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
FRIDAY
47
48
49
50
51
52
SATURDAY
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
SUNDAY
63
64
65
66
67
68
MONDAY
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
TUESDAY
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright page
Rattle: A serial killer thriller that will hook you from the start Page 33
