The Darkness of Bones

by Sam Millar

  Slowly and deliberately, in a perverse teasing movement, she ran the evil-looking blade up and down her bare arm, testing metal against flesh—a perforated flesh, freckled with needle marks and ant-sized nicks.

  “Please, Judith …” pleaded Jeremiah, noticing how quickly her pupils were dilating, withdrawal rapidly taking over. This was when she was at her most dangerous—drying out.

  Gently, she rested the razor in the crank of her elbow, before twisting the mother-of-pearl handle, slightly, creating a line on her pale skin. The thin line whitened then turned red.

  “Judith!” screamed Jeremiah, rising quickly.

  “Don’t,” she said calmly, her voice automatic, like an answering machine. “Don’t you fucking dare to come any closer.” She transferred the razor to her throat, just below the jawbone where a white scar rested like a pearl necklace.

  Jeremiah wished she had screamed the words, because her calmness was always menacing, a notification of something dreadful about to happen.

  “Okay,” he said, defeated. “You win. I’ll get it from the—”

  “No! … no … just tell me … just tell me where it is.” Her eyes became slits of suspicion. “That’s all. I only need a small hit, a little buzz. Then your Judith will be back, the way you like her—the way you enjoy her. Don’t you want her back, your lovely Judith?” The slits were now lines of manipulation.

  Resigned, Jeremiah simply sighed and nodded. “Over on the book shelf …”

  Cautiously—her eyes never leaving her husband—Judith stepped backwards, her left hand reaching towards the shelf, tearing frantically at the books, causing them to tumble to the ground, their pages flapping like startled doves.

  It was the penultimate book that revealed the hidden treasure. “The Power and the Glory? How original,” said Judith, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Shouldn’t it be The Powder and the Glory?”

  “Having those packages brought to the shop is dangerous. Someone could alert the police. That weasel-faced youth had the audacity to bring the package to the shop in broad daylight.” Jeremiah sighed wearily. “Joe is getting suspicious. You can stop this. You’re a strong woman. Addiction is for the weak.”

  “Fuck that little insect, Joe!” She made a snorting sound with her nose, forcing snot down her nostrils. “You have the cheek to talk about weakness! You were addicted to religion and gods before I came along, before I taught you how fucking irrelevant they all are. Besides, I am weak—willingly weak—because the weak are cruel—very fucking cruel.” Wiping the snot with her bare arm, she left a snail trail on the skin.

  Jeremiah hated when she spoke like that, and felt a tiny bubble of anger threatening to surface. But he struggled to contain it, knowing she was capable of something he would not like. Resigned, he sat back in the chair.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to stop you,” he mumbled.

  “Stop me? Could you? We both doubt that, don’t we?” Tearing at the parcel’s brown skin, Judith fumbled for the village of syringes and powder contained within, her eyes watching Jeremiah’s face.

  Within seconds, the powder and needles were in her hand, and she worked them expertly, giggling nervously to herself. “Heroin is a heroine. It was devised by men to destroy and enslave women. But not this woman. I do everything willingly.”

  Her movements made Jeremiah think of a tricoteuse clacking her needles, sitting at the guillotine, thriving on pain and suffering, throwing her head back with laughter as each head departed from its body.

  Ignoring Jeremiah’s accusing glare, Judith quickly attended to the task at hand, easing the needle into a pale vein. Normally, she would inject into a muscle, prolonging the rush for up to eight minutes; but he had annoyed her, the fucking sanctimonious hypocrite with his judgmental eye, and she went straight for the vein—a guaranteed instantaneous feeling of euphoria.

  Licking her lips greedily, Judith felt the surge begin, flowing steadily and gaining speed, as waves of incredible comfort flooded in. The intensity of the rush caused a reddening of her skin, bringing false life and empty promise to it. Her breathing slowed severely, almost near-death in its nothingness, while the pupils of her eyes constricted to mere pinpoints, her body going limp, relaxing for the first time in hours.

  Jeremiah relaxed also, knowing that the confrontation was over—at least for the next three to four hours, until the magic wore off.

  Walking towards Jeremiah, Judith stopped abruptly at his back, studying him with her slow-blinking eyes.

  Jeremiah could feel her shadow on the back of his neck. He imagined the bloody redness of her eyes drilling deep into his soul, searching for oily lies.

  Placing her hands gently on his shoulders, Judith squeezed, massaging his aching shoulders, almost lovingly. Jeremiah’s face relaxed, his back loosened. He felt tiny buzzes of electricity touch his skin. They were delicious, like a battery rejuvenating.

  Now was the time to tell her.

  “There was an article in today’s newspaper.”

  He felt her hands slip from his shoulders—a specific shift in interest.

  “Newspaper?” Judith turned to face him, her lips pinched, her brow wrinkling severely. She gave him the look—her look when he had displeased her. “I thought we agreed that you would keep away from such trash? You know how it upsets you, fills your head full of sins.”

  He wished he hadn’t opened his mouth, now.

  Judith leaned her lips to his ear. The telltale smell of vinegary residue misted from her mouth as she sniffed, suspiciously, at his neck. “I can smell body odour. You haven’t washed.”

  His heart beat faster.

  “Just my hands,” confessed Jeremiah, producing the ill-washed items for her to inspect.

  “Go and shower,” she commanded.

  Easing himself from the chair, Jeremiah was grateful to give his stomach some movement. Judith waited until Jeremiah was gone before sitting down on his chair. She could feel his heat from it, slithering up her bony arse. It disgusted her, his heat, but she did not move, fearing she would disturb the dragon seeping lovingly throughout her body.

  Gently closing her eyes, she listened to the dragon’s whispers. Its words were beautiful and dark…

  Chapter Five

  “For God will bring every work into judgement, with every secret thing, whether it be good, whether it be evil …”

  Ecclesiastes 12: 14

  RESTING IN BED, Adrian studied the bone through an old magnifying glass. He no longer believed it to be the crow’s. Too large for a crow—or any other bird, for that matter.

  He wondered how he could determine what kind of bone he had discovered, where it had come from. Bits of speckled darkness played games with his thoughts. What if the bone originated from human remains? Was that possible? Of course not, but there was little harm in hoping. Perhaps he could glean some information from books at the library.

  A knock on the door startled him, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Adrian? Are you awake? Can I come in?” asked Jack, knocking once again.

  “What? Yes—no! No, hold on a sec.” Hurriedly, he slid the bone beneath the sheets and placed the magnifying glass on his bedside table.

  “Adrian?”

  “Right! Yes, come in.”

  Entering the room, Jack said, “Sorry for disturbing your Saturday morning, but I just want to apologise for last night, and for what I said, about Mum.”

  Adrian calmed his breathing. “It was no big deal. You were right, anyway. There are no such things as ghosts. I don’t even know why I said it, now. It’s embarrassing.”

  Jack sat down beside the hidden bone. Adrian’s heart beat faster.

  “We’ve other, more important, things to worry about, such as your exams. You know how important they are, and how Mum always wanted you to do your best?”

  “I’m the top in my class at maths and science. There’s no worry there.”

  “If you keep taking days off, there will be,” said Jack. “Mister Hegar
ty was good enough to call this morning, first thing. Said he called yesterday, but there was no answer.” Jack looked slightly uncomfortable. “He informed me that you missed yesterday’s class—and the Friday before that.”

  Adrian felt his face redden. “I just needed some time to myself—get some thinking done.”

  “You don’t need to take days off from school to get some thinking done. School’s the best place to do your thinking. Understand?”

  Adrian nodded, reluctantly. “I suppose.”

  Small relief lines appeared on Jack’s face. “Good.”

  “No, it’s not good, Dad. What about you, and all the drinking? Every time I come home, you’re drunk.”

  Jack sucked in a slice of air before releasing it in crumbs. “I … look, Adrian, it’s not as if … it’s not as if I’m an alcoholic. It’s been a long, dry spell for me …”

  Adrian’s face tightened.

  “Okay. Okay,” said Jack. “I’ll cut down on the booze.”

  The words brought a smile to Adrian’s face.

  “Now, I’m going to put on a big fry, for both of us. No more eating out of packages,” said Jack, rising, his large palms pressing down against the hidden bone.

  For a heart-stopping moment, Adrian envisaged his father pulling the sheets back, revealing the secret.

  Fortunately, Jack stood and then walked towards the door.

  “Dad, do you know if there was ever an old abandoned graveyard, over near Barton’s Forest? Or anywhere about, near there?”

  “Barton’s Forest? Abandoned graveyard?” Jack seemed to be thinking. “No, not to my knowledge. The nearest graveyard is Milltown Cemetery, about five miles away. But that’s still in use. Why do you ask?”

  “What? Oh—no, nothing, really. I have an essay due in two weeks, about old graveyards. I was just wondering.” Adrian felt his face tighten with redness. He hated the thought of lying but was secretly astonished at the boldness of the lie.

  Jack shook his head, seemingly amazed by the topics bestowed on his son’s generation. “Graveyards? Wish I had been given subjects like that, when I was at school. When I was a kid, many moons ago, our essays were writing about an aunt or an uncle. You kids, nowadays, have it made, with such a diverse curriculum.”

  “I know, we have such an easy time of it,” replied Adrian, sarcastically.

  Opening the door, Jack stopped abruptly. “Funny, now that you mention it, I remember being told by an old wise owl that bones are authors.”

  Pushing himself up in the bed, Adrian looked slightly puzzled. “Authors? What do you mean, Dad?”

  “Every one has a story to tell.”

  Chapter Six

  “Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.”

  H.P. Lovecraft, The Outsider

  THERE IS A small circular box in Judith’s bedroom that she keeps in plain view, near her bedroom window. Occasionally—when doubt and weakness attempt to seep into her thoughts—she will open the box, and remove a set of Polaroid photos. The photos are of a naked child—a boy—not yet in double figures. The boy’s face is partially obscured. The photos are almost black as if overexposed to light, or wrongly shot in a darkened room. Only a bold white line running up the cleft of the young boy’s scalp, mimicking the rounded valley of his buttocks, plays contrast.

  The photos have aged quite a lot since their original introduction, and unlike good wine, they have not aged well. Fading is entrenched—as are numerous tiny rips. Some of the rips are accidental; nervous fingers have caused others.

  Even now, all these years later, Judith believes she can clearly remember the photos being shot; the quick flash prior to the photos being vomited out through the thin mouth of the camera; the hand waving the photos, drying them, spreading them on the wooden table like a game of solitaire.

  She believes she can remember the boy crying, whimpering, terrified of making a noise. She believes she can remember other things, also, but prefers not to.

  Perhaps it is only her imagination telling her that she can remember such fine details, but what she needs no imagination for is the smell of unwashed skin and the darkness of a room suddenly bleached white, turning her eyes to water, and the soft voice telling the young boy that it’s better in the light. So much better. Come and look at yourself. See how the skin glistens like stardust, my little bunny.

  Chapter Seven

  “The artist brings something into the world that didn’t exist before, and … he does it without destroying something else.”

  John Updike, Writers at Work

  “EEXPRESSIONS GALLERY”, READ the sign above the door. “Owner: Sarah Bryant. Auctions and viewing held daily. Original art paintings bought and sold.”

  Jack knew Saturday afternoon was the gallery’s busiest time of day, but what he had to say to Sarah couldn’t wait any longer.

  The entrance door was ajar, and he entered. A few seconds later and his eyes located Sarah standing adjacent to a large painting, speaking to a Japanese man. She seemed to be hugging the frame, as if desperately wanting to be in the painting. Her body movement and beaming face said an imminent sale.

  Waving at Jack, she indicted with a finger. “One minute,” she mouthed, smiling.

  Jack held up his hand. “No hurry,” it said. Glancing quickly away, he began studying the other paintings peppered throughout the gallery.

  It was less than one minute before she appeared at his side, a kiss awarded to each cheek. “Into the office, darling. Great news,” she proclaimed.

  “You shouldn’t leave your door open like that,” said Jack, annoyance in his voice. “It’s an invitation to criminals. Violent crime is on the increase, and there are a lot of dangerous people out there.”

  “I know, but I have my own personal protection. Don’t I?” Sarah smiled as she led the way down a small corridor towards her office.

  Entering the office, Sarah walked to a large mahogany desk, easing out a drawer before removing a cheque.

  “For you, darling.” She handed Jack the cheque.

  Looking at the amount, he appeared slightly rattled. “This is a wind-up. Right? All this money for that last painting of mine?”

  “Less my twenty per cent, of course.” Sarah replied with a businesslike smile. “This isn’t a charity shop.”

  “Do you know how long it would have taken me to earn this sort of money as a detective?”

  “Well, you’re no longer a detective; you’re an artist. I always advised you not to sell yourself short. I certainly won’t!” She laughed a throaty laugh. “Hopefully, it will encourage you to give up that horrible private investigating and turn professional, as an artist. Now, what’s the mystery you couldn’t tell me on the phone, this morning?”

  Jack sighed. “There’s no easy way to say this, Sarah, but I don’t think we can see each other for a while.”

  “Oh?” Sarah frowned. “May I ask why?”

  “This isn’t easy, but this morning I had a conversation with Adrian. It made me feel a right bastard. It was about his mother, how he misses her.”

  “Of course he misses his mother. What son wouldn’t?”

  “I’ve hardly spent any time with him lately. Any spare time I have, I’m with you or the business. It just isn’t right.”

  “I know exactly what you are saying and the reason for it, but isn’t it time to live again?” said Sarah. “How long are you going to use Linda’s tragic death as an excuse? I’m sorry if that sounds rude and ruthless, but I’ve never been one for diplomacy or self-made martyrdom. Your marriage was already on the rocks when I came along. Don’t forget that.”

  “I’m not accusing you,” replied Jack, defensively.

  “Sounds like it.”

  A strong silence sneaked between them. Sarah was the first to break its hold. “Okay. I surrender. If our relationship is making you unhappy, I’ll not cause a scene. You can have your way—for now. I’ll leave you alone for the next few days, see how you feel. How
does that sound?”

  “I really don’t deserve you. Know that?”

  “You’ve probably never uttered a truer statement, Jack Calvert.” She leaned towards him, and kissed him on the lips.

  Directly across the road, hidden from view, a figure watched as Jack and Sarah emerged from the gallery. Less than a minute later, Jack entered his car, hit the ignition, and then waved goodbye.

  Sarah blew him a kiss, in return.

  The figure’s hands were balled, fingernails cutting angrily into palms. When the hands opened again, the skin was bleeding profusely.

  Chapter Eight

  “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.”

  Proverbs 26: 11

  BY CONJURING UP a mental map of the forest, Adrian tried to rediscover the exact location of his find two days earlier. He failed. Too white. Too blindingly white. There was texture but no shape, like a frozen lunar landscape.

  Understanding now that he hadn’t a hope of finding the location, he cursed himself for not having marked the place with something to guide him back. He should have pissed his name on the area, instead of wasting it cleaning the bone, the bone he now wanted to be human. But what if there were no more bones? Even if it were human, it could have been there for hundreds of years. Couldn’t it?

  No. It was clothed in rotten flesh …

  Opening a pack of cigarettes—liberated from his father’s room—Adrian popped one in his mouth. He struck a match on his jeans and quickly transferred the flame to the cig, nodding to himself with satisfaction. He was the Marlboro man in the wilderness; he was Sean Connery at the casino. The cigarette made him feel older, and that’s what he wanted. His father would go nuts, of course, if he thought he smoked. Guns were no problem, but cigarettes? They’re deadly, his father would say, his straight face hiding the irony.

  Inhaling deep within his lungs, Adrian imagined his father standing, surveying the whitened landscape, figuring out what had to be done next while he watched the dying sun reach the hills on the horizon, sliding down behind them. When the sun was half obscured, Adrian knew that he had come a very long way from the road, and that darkness was creeping in around him. Moving to leave, he thought he heard a whisper somewhere nearby.