BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending

by Diane M Dickson

  “I don’t want that I don’t think. I’m sorry but I just want to go home now, and then I’ll write it all down and send it to you. Give me your address?”

  “Tell you what, you just tell me where he is, so I can go and visit. Then write the rest of it down, all you know.”

  “You don’t need to go, do you? Why don’t I get you a picture – of where he is?”

  “Well, that’s an idea, but actually I’d much rather go myself. I can’t pretend I’ve ever felt much for him, not until now, but the poor little bugger had a rotten deal, and we had the same mum. No, I’ll go. Where is he?”

  “It’s so long ago. I’m not sure I can really tell you.”

  “So, how were you going to take a picture then? More lies, Lily, yet more lies?”

  She was backed into a tight space of her own making, rat in a trap. Her heart clenched again, reminding her that time was short.

  “He’s at my home. Peter is at my home.”

  “Oh, okay. So, ashes then. Will you let me have them? I can bury them where mum is. That would be good…” He stopped as she began yet again to shake her head.

  “Don’t bully me. This isn’t what I had expected to happen, I can’t think.”

  “Okay, look, give me your address, let me come to you. Let’s have a day or two and then I’ll come down to Portsmouth. We can meet somewhere or I can come to where you live. You decide. I’ll ring you. Day after tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go, I really do. You think about it all, write down what you can remember and then, I’ll call you. In the end, you’ve done the right thing, you really have. Let’s allow things to cool off a bit, yeah?”

  Lily nodded at him, she welcomed the chance to think things through. “Yes, that’s alright, yes. Just one thing though, before you go.” He paused, half-turned towards the door, waited for her to continue. “Why would he do that? Your grandfather, why do you think he was involved?”

  “Maybe I’ll explain, maybe not. It’s complicated.” And he left.

  Lily sat for a while longer, had another cup of coffee and then, when she felt strong enough, she left the pub. It had gone wrong, most of it had got away from her. She would ignore his calls, he couldn’t find her, she would leave it, let it rest.

  Chapter 17

  Lily tossed and turned and didn’t sleep. She was out of bed at two in the morning, making tea, pacing back and forth in the cold kitchen. Too late she understood that she should never have gone down this route. The dreadful secret had been held for decades, there had been no need to bring it into the light. She had done it only for herself, to salve her own conscience and to cross the remaining ‘t’s before it was all over.

  Now though, there was Terry Robertson. More than that there was Clive, the evil that he had been a party to. Sold his own grandson, that’s what Terry had said.

  She was desperately tired, could barely keep her eyes open, but the bedroom did not tempt her. She didn’t want to use the wide bed, where she still slept on what had always been ‘her own side’. The dark shapes that moved in the darkness, as the moon snaked its silver light between the curtains, were no longer soothing shadows, they leered and threatened her drowsy eyes. It was no longer the friendly space of past years. She gazed through the window at the garden and found no comfort in darkened trees and the wall, black and blank, like the end of the world.

  The cellar was in total darkness of course, but she lit one of the tiny candles, and the light guided her down the stairs. If she could open the grave, take out the contents. What would there be? The box would have rotted surely. Would there be strands of the blanket, tiny bird-like bones, a pathetic skull, like something that you would find in a museum? After all these years, there couldn’t be much left.

  She could take them out and dispose of them more kindly. Put them in the garden perhaps. Fashion a little grave, tell Terry Robertson that they had been unable to bear the thought of the baby alone in the cemetery.

  That would paint them in a better light. He would know, probably, that even doing that without permission was wrong. But maybe it would soften his attitude, and then she would have accomplished at least a part of her task. He’d know where his brother was and could take him away.

  She looked around. It was a dreadful space, mouldy and damp and if he saw this, he would think of it as nothing other than what it was, a hiding place for their crime. The thought of bringing him here, down the old stairs and watching his anger and horror, yes, probably horror, unnerved her.

  As night gave way to the overcast, cold day she opened the shed, and brought out the border spade.

  In less than five minutes, she had to acknowledge that it was useless. Together, all that time ago, they had struggled to break through the earthen floor, and hollow the space. Now, alone, so much older, and frail, she was perched, panting and in pain on the narrow ledge before she had even taken out one small spadeful.

  She clambered back upstairs. The world outside was wide awake by this time, bustling through the day. Lily was divorced from it all. Her existence was focused totally on Peter and her disintegrating life. She looked at the bottle of pills on the worktop. It would be an answer. She tipped a few onto the table. Her fingers reached and touched the pile of tablets. She didn’t know what they would do. They were to calm her down, that would work surely. If she took them all then she would drift away, calm and unafraid. Should she write a note? Should she explain about Peter? The grave? How would she be found? She would lie on the settee, listen to the world outside and drift into whatever was next, or, as she really believed, simply cease to be.

  She took the medicine and a glass of brandy into the lounge, and put them carefully on the side table. She moved aside the stuff that had been left there. It was the booklet from the funeral directors, the information about funerals and cremation. She flipped through it. The photographs of the cemetery spoke to her maudlin mood. The crematorium, floral tributes, coffin choices. She had done all this such a short while ago and now she would hand the task over to someone else.

  Possibly Charlotte Mary’s cousin, who was the only family there was left, would arrange things. All she had was left to him after all, and it was a sizeable legacy. The house, money, shares, everything they had accumulated. Yes, he would do it. If he forgave them for Peter. She would write that in her note, ask him to arrange things. The pictures of the urns reminded her of duties undone. But why did it matter? If Charlotte Mary’s ashes were not collected, then presumably they would be disposed of somewhere. Sprinkled on a flowerbed or something.

  The idea sneaked in under the planning. One minute it wasn’t there and then, suddenly it was. Terry Robertson had wanted to take the ashes to his mother’s grave. Peter’s ashes. There were no ashes, not for Peter. She turned the booklet in her hand. The enormity of what she was thinking turned her stomach over. Why not, what difference would it make to anyone? Charlotte Mary was gone anyway, Carol Robertson wouldn’t know. Peter wouldn’t care. It would affect no-one but her and Terry.

  She paced back and forth, struggling with thoughts that crowded at one another. It would compound the first evil, surely. But then it would put Terry Robertson’s mind at rest. Whatever there was between him and his grandfather was not her concern, and anyway she could do little to help with that. His grandfather, the spectre of this man, the man who had sold his grandchild, it wouldn’t be denied. This was not what she had expected and it was becoming more and more difficult to push it aside.

  Chapter 18

  There were many sites advertising containers for ashes, and suggested disposal methods. Fireworks, your remains could become a firework! Lily found it surprising there were so many options. Though it was fascinating, and though she knew that Charlotte Mary would have made amusing comments and inappropriate jokes, she simply searched quietly. She ordered what she wanted, with delivery the next day. A short telephone call to the funeral director organised the collection of Charlotte Mary’s remains.

  When Terry rang, s
he put him off until Monday. She needed the weekend. Time to breathe, to plan, and to give due deference to the loathsome task in front of her.

  Later in the afternoon she walked to the place, slowly, remembering how she had chosen to walk on the day of Charlotte Mary’s funeral: trudging slowly through drizzly rain, something ordinary to anchor her against something enormous.

  The reception desk was attended by a girl she hadn’t met before, and that suited her mood. She wanted to be anonymous, invisible. They ordered a taxi to take her home, it was too far to walk both ways, and the parcel was surprisingly weighty. She had been suffering many more incidents of shortness of breath, more of the clutching pain, and needed the spray often.

  She knew that she should make an appointment with the doctor, discuss her options. There had been talk of some sort of surgery, more drugs. But she didn’t want it. She didn’t want the waiting around in hospitals and clinics, the enforced discussions, and she didn’t want to make any more decisions. She had no great desire to hang on to a life that had become so very dull, so ordinary.

  The box was inside a blue plastic bag and she didn’t look at it, not until she was home. It was just a plain thing. Charlotte Mary’s name and dates were on a small label. She placed it on the sideboard. For a while she stared at it. She didn’t know how to feel. Here it was, all that was left of the brilliance, the beauty and the huge ego that had been her partner for decades. She had expected to cry, but her eyes were dry. She had expected sadness, grief. There was nothing, just a sort of numbness. It puzzled her, and she had to face the fact that her feelings for Charlotte had been diluting gradually for years and it was only habit, and laziness, and of course fear, that had held them together. What a waste. What a dreadful waste.

  Sitting as it did on the polished wood, the effect was too much like an altar, so in the end she pushed it into the china cabinet, closed the door and climbed upstairs to bed. She was worn out. She took two of the pills that she was only ever supposed to take singly and crawled under the covers. In minutes, she was asleep.

  * * *

  The delivery was early and the driver handed over the parcel with a bright smile. Lily watched him drive away, and stood gazing down the road long after he had turned at the junction. So often these days she found herself slowed almost to a standstill. Staring for minutes at a time, at bubbles in the washing up water or watching water flow into the washbasin as her hands dripped onto the bathroom floor.

  “Morning, Lily. How are you?” The woman from the house next door paused on the way past the gate. “I’ve been meaning to come round. See how you’re doing. If you need anything, anything at all, you know where we are. Please, give us a call or just come to us, come and knock on the door. If the lights are on, you’ll know we’re in. You must come for supper sometime soon, or maybe lunch.”

  “Thank you. Yes, lovely, thank you.” She backed into the hall, slammed the door, shut out the world.

  After tearing away the padded bag and the plastic wrap, she held the contents in her hand, turning it back and forth. It was a nice thing, the little blue urn. It had a lid to screw off and the image of a white bird on the side of it. She imagined it was a dove. She sighed. He should have had something like this, shouldn’t he? Tears came then. No, he shouldn’t have had something like this at all, what he should have had was a life. She felt the anger building, it took her breath away and she had to sit down, until the dizziness abated.

  * * *

  She laid a fresh white cloth on the kitchen table and placed the blue ceramic container on top. Inside the crematorium box was a transparent plastic bag. It was sealed. There was quite a lot, more than she had expected and it was obvious immediately that it was more than the blue urn would hold.

  She went to the kitchen, fetched the scissors, and a dessert spoon. Briefly she wondered what she would do with the leftovers, the extra ashes. She tipped her head to one side – how very strange it all was.

  Chapter 19

  Lily unscrewed the lid of the blue urn. Inside was white and smooth. She opened the box and sheared off the closure of the plastic bag. She spread open the top and then, so that there would be adequate access for the spoon, folded it down, rolled over the edges. Charlotte Mary had been colourful, a bird of paradise, a humming bird, exuberant and flashy. And here were her remains, grey, dull sand, a few small clumps mixed among the grains. Lily leaned her face closer to the table. There was no smell, nothing, it was all very bland.

  She reached in, poked with her index finger at the surface. It left a small indentation. She rubbed some of it together between her finger tips. Gritty.

  What had it all been about? The rebellion, the passion, the pain. It was all so very pointless, if this is what it came down to.

  The sound of gentle knocking on the kitchen door made her jump. The handle rattled. Through the small glass pane, she saw the face of Sandra from next door. Middle-aged, kind, sometime plant waterer and receiver of parcels, holder of the spare keys. Sandra and Bob moved in just a few years ago, so they were never lied to, never misled about the relationship. She was waving and smiling.

  Lily pulled a tea towel from the rail and laid it over the items on the table. “Hello, Sandra. What can I do for you?”

  “I felt bad, this morning, when I saw you. Afterwards, I realised it seemed that I was just, well you know, saying something because I’d seen you. It wasn’t that at all. I really meant it. We have been thinking about you. I wonder if you’d like to come now and have tea? I have made a cake, I know you always liked my carrot cake.” She laughed. “Well, you always said you did.”

  “That’s kind of you but…”

  The other woman reached out, grasped Lily’s hand. “Lily, don’t mind me saying it, but you don’t look well. Not surprising really but… come on, come. Just for half an hour, have a cup of tea, some cake. It’s not good for you, in here on your own. I’ve hardly seen you out at all. It must be hard, we know how long you’d been together. Even though she’d been ill, it must be hard.” She was pulling at Lily now, she threw an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, just for half an hour?”

  It was easier to go than to fight, so, with a glance towards the table, Lily allowed herself to be dragged outside.

  Sandra’s house smelled of baking. It was warm and welcoming, and as Lily leaned against soft cushions on the couch she felt an overwhelming urge to cry. Her life had become so dark, so very desperate, that this home was less of a comfort and more of a taunt.

  She accepted the plate loaded with cake, nodded, smiled, and murmured responses to Sandra’s questions and harmless chatter, and she experienced it all as if from a great distance. She thought about the table in her own kitchen, she wished that she had taken the way out, and that she no longer existed.

  Sandra was kneeling in front of her. When did that happen? “Oh, you poor love.” There was moisture on her cheeks and Lily realised that her hand was shaking. Sandra took away the plate and slid onto the settee. She wrapped Lily in a gentle hug. “Have you seen the doctor, are you getting any help? It’s no shame to ask for help.”

  Lily pulled away, wiped at her face with the napkin. “No, no, I’m alright. Really, I am, it’s just now and then, you know. I am so sorry, making a fool of myself like this. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise. It’s me who should be doing that. We’ve neglected you.”

  “No, really. It’s fine. I’m no company anyway. Please, I think I’d like to go home.”

  “Stay, eat your cake, rest for a while.” Sandra picked up the plate and held it out.

  “No, no, I’m sorry, I have to go. I just have to go.” Lily pushed up from the couch and rushed towards the door. “I’m sorry Sandra, you’ve been kind. I just can’t do this now. I am so sorry.”

  Back in her own house she slammed the door, turned the lock, and then ran into the front room to drag the curtains across the window.

  She threw herself onto the settee, drew up her knees, curled into a ball and ga
ve in to the wails and sobs that had skulked in her soul for thirty years.

  Exhaustion brought her some small relief with a couple of hours of sleep. When she woke, it was the middle of the afternoon. She went into the kitchen and poured a mug of milk. Standing by the window she had her drink and then turned to look at the table. The strange bumps under the tea cloth. She had to do this now. Terry Robertson would come on Monday, and she had to be ready for him.

  She didn’t give herself time to think again. She dug the spoon into the contents of the polythene bag and spooned them carefully into the urn.

  Chapter 20

  The contents of Charlotte Mary’s box were depleted, but it wasn’t empty. Lily replaced the container in the china cupboard.

  She took the small urn into the living room and stood it on the coffee table. She brought out one of the votive candles, and a glass holder, and lit the wick. The brave little flame quivered now and then in a passing draught, but burned bright and true as the light in the room faded.

  Slowly it came to her that she had pulled a veil across the facts, already she was thinking of this small, blue jar as Peter’s. It wasn’t, it was just another lie.

  She blew out the candle, leaned back against the cushions, and closed her eyes. Maybe Sandra was right, maybe the doctor could help her. She knew that her thinking was becoming muddier, that the sharpness of her mind was more blunted than could be attributed to the effects of grief alone. She also knew that it was fear and sadness, and the ever-present guilt that were smothering her spirit, and no doctor could help her with that, because it was far, far too late.