LITTLE BONES
N V Peacock

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © N V Peacock 2020

Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

N V Peacock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008436353

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008436360

Version: 2020-09-28

Dedication

For you, the reader.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Too many young boys are out tonight. Broken-voiced taunts and high-pitched laughter echo down the road to him. Crowds make him more careful. One boy alone is easy prey, but with packs of children roaming the streets, his actions need to be more careful, more considered and more inconspicuous.

To inspect the young faces on offer, he slips down to second gear. Crawling along the kerb, he hunts for the right one: the one all alone.

Emerging from a newsagent is a boy around ten years old with a plastic bag; wearing hand-me-down clothes, but sporting new white high-top trainers. For a moment, the boy stops. He looks down at his feet, eyeing his trendy footwear with pride, watching how the metallic embroidery catches the light. Happy, he almost skips forward, but then remembers his purchase. Rustling in the bag, he brings out a shiny packet of football cards, which steal his focus, so it takes a few seconds for him to notice the car creeping beside him.

Carefully, the driver rolls down his window. ‘Can I give you a lift, mate?’ he says.

Looking down at his cards, the boy keeps walking, albeit at a quicker stride now.

The driver glides the car along to keep pace with his prey.

‘Don’t be afraid – I’m a taxi.’

‘You don’t look like a taxi.’ The boy stops and quickly adds, ‘And I’m not afraid.’

‘I’m off duty tonight, mate. Look, I have a kid about your age. I’d be worried if they were out this late, all alone.’

Smirking, the boy says, ‘It’s not late.’

‘It’s dark. You should be home by now. Your parents will worry.’

‘I’ve spent all my money, sorry.’

‘No charge.’ He then whispers the next sentence like it’s a secret only he and the boy share. ‘Look, the streets are full of crazies. I’d hate to see your face in the morning paper. Didn’t your parents ever warn you about predators who take little boys off the street? There was that kid who never made it home last week. You know the one.’

The boy narrows his eyes. A kid at his school did go missing a few weeks ago.

‘All right. My dad said to get home before the streetlights come on, so you’d be doing me a favour.’

The man grins. ‘No worries, mate. Hop in.’

The boy quickly slides into the back seat. When the man hears the slam of the car door, he knows he has his prize. It’s like the snap of a jaw, the puncture of teeth, the squeal of an animal knowing its time has ended.

The boy’s face will be in the newspapers, not the next morning, but maybe the one after. The man sees it in his mind’s eye and smiles. He’s killed four boys now, and the police haven’t connected the cases. Even if they had, no one would ever consider him a suspect. He lives with his happy family in a beautiful home. No one would imagine he has a dark blue room in that house. A room where each boy he has stolen gifts him his last words and final breath. A room where he hasn’t bothered to wipe the blood off the walls, or even muffle his victims’ screams.

He’s the perfect man, the perfect partner, the perfect father. No one would ever see anything different. Monsters who kill little boys are evil and ugly and wear long dirty macs. Those sinister creatures skulk in the shadows while committing their dark deeds, ashamed of admitting the why with the how. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see a monster, but the smile of a man about to get what he wants.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks his prey.

‘Thomas.’

Chapter 1

The blade slices through the flesh, and a pink sliver falls down into a perfect curl.

‘Cherrie!’

I look up at my name to see Mr Dawson, my boss, pointing towards a customer; a fifty-something woman with sharp features and an even sharper stare. Our eyes lock, and her fake fingernails begin clacking an impatient rhythm on my countertop.

Smiling, I stuff my hands into new plastic gloves, and then step towards her.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Five sirloin steaks.’

She narrows her keen eyes at me. I hate it when they stare; I’ll probably drop all the meat on her beady-eyed watch. Carefully, I pull two steaks onto the scales. The cost is already at £13 but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Reaching over, I grab a third steak.

Suddenly, the customer cocks her head and asks, ‘Do I know you?’

I try not to react. Instead, I widen my smile and continue piling up her meat like a butcher’s game of Jenga.

‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ she says.

‘I’m here in the shop most days.’ I nod, trying not to look her in the eye.

‘Do you live on the Pine Holmes Estate?’

The moment the question leaves her lips, she realises how silly it is. I’m just a shop assistant, and the houses in Pine Holmes are worth more money than I’d see in three lifetimes.

‘I wish,’ I say and laugh, although it comes out more like a strangled hiccup.

Without bothering to tell her the final price, I quickly wrap up the meat.

‘So, where do I know you from?’ She’s not even asking me now, just talking to herself.

Thrusting the package towards her, I throw her another smile, hopefully one that concludes our encounter. Still, the woman lingers. Looking down, I see her palm is flat against my clean glass countertop. As she moves her hand to collect the meat, she leaves behind a sweaty smudge.

‘I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before. This is annoying.’

‘Sorry, you don’t know me. I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ I say, which is the truth, just not the whole truth. Daring to look her in the eye, I commit her face to memory so I can avoid her in future. She may not remember who I am now, but I might not be so lucky next time. Memories have a habit of snapping back into place like elastic bands.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ I ask.

With a blank face, the woman stares at me. If we lived in a cartoon, this would be when I see inside her mind to watch the exhausted mouse on its wheel. I want to yell at her to give the poor rodent a break and stop her pointless interrogation but instead, say, ‘Enjoy your steaks.’ Life isn’t a cartoon, not even close.

I turn away from her to continue slicing the ham. With my back to her, she loses interest and wanders deeper into the belly of the shop.

These encounters only happen now and then. Strangers who feel a tickle of familiarity when they look at me, and mentally chase their tails trying to figure out how I’ve crossed their paths before. Nowadays, people’s attention spans are thankfully low. Usually, when I slip on the plastic cap and apron, no one bothers to look beyond them. It’s why I love this job so much.

Grabbing a cloth, I wipe her parting smudge from my countertop. I wring my hands together, shut my eyes, and remind myself that that is all she is, a smudge on the surface of my day, nothing more. When I open my eyes, I realise she didn’t even once say thank you. If Robin behaved like that, I’d have grounded him for a month.

‘Hey!’ Tracy steps out from the area behind the plastic curtains, where we sign in the meat deliveries. We affectionately call it backstage and the counter onstage.

‘Where have you been? I’m onstage all on my own as a one-woman show.’

‘Feel like having fun tonight?’ she asks, avoiding my question.

‘I can’t go out tonight. Leo’s buying a bottle of wine and we’re watching Strictly Come Dancing together.’

‘I swear Leo is the most boring boyfriend in the world.’

‘Boring is underrated.’ I smile.

‘Look, I thought Gran was going to go with us tonight, but now she’s told me that she already went with her mates from bingo instead. We need a fourth person.’

‘A fourth person for what?’ I ask.

‘Come on, Cherrie, when are you going to join the rest of the world on Facebook? We’ve been talking about tonight on there for ages.’

‘I’m a private person. I don’t like strangers seeing stuff about me.’

Tracy lets out an exaggerated sigh. ‘We booked a psychic, but she’ll only see groups. We need at least four people. And I’ve been so looking forward to it.’

‘Why?’

‘I just want some hope that I have more of a life to look forward to than this.’ She motions at a pile of sausages.

‘I get the need for hope; just why four people?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like some mystic number.’

‘Because four people’s money makes it worthwhile for her to get her psychic on,’ Tracy replies with a sigh. ‘Please come with us.’

‘I’ve never been to a psychic before. What do they do?’

‘Her name is Mariah. She reads tarot cards. Gran told me she predicted her little bingo victory last week, and her heart operation. It’s only £25. A bargain to know your future.’

‘Look, can I think about it and come back to you?’ I ask.

I’m not sure I believe in all that psychic stuff, but if I’m wrong and this woman sees things in my past she shouldn’t, it could be disastrous.

‘I need to know now. Come on, Cherrie.’

My kneejerk answer is no. There is no win here. If this fortune-teller is crap, she’ll tell me nothing, and I’ll be down £25 to discuss nonsense with a stranger. If she’s good, she’ll see my past. Not that I can tell Tracy my concerns. We may have been best friends for the past decade, but she has no idea who I am, or should I say who I used to be. I ought to say no. However, if I turn down this invitation, it could be months before the girls ask me out again. I could do with a night out, and as much as I worry about someone recognising me, it still hasn’t happened yet. My name may live on the tips of the tongues of busybodies, but it is yet to be spoken aloud by those close to me. I can’t let my past rule my present.

‘Okay, I’m in,’ I say.

Tracy jumps up and down. ‘You’re the best, Cherry Pie.’

She hasn’t called me Cherry Pie in ages. A sudden warmth makes me grin back. ‘What time and where?’

‘Pick me up at seven. We’ll go together. Wait.’ She stops and narrows her eyes at me. ‘You’re not going to flake out on me, are you?’

‘No, I promise I won’t flake out on you.’

‘Fab. Oh, and there are privacy settings on Facebook, just so you know.’ With that, she disappears backstage.

It’s Saturday, but the shop is quiet. Boredom affords me far too much time to think through what I’ve just agreed to. The worry of a stranger poking about in my past continually wriggles to the surface of my mind, like a worm in the rain.

On my break I text Leo that I’m going out with the girls tonight. His text back is cool along with an emoji my phone is too old to read. I still have an iPhone 4; emoji created after 2010 show up as an alien face. Leo says I need to update, as I’m only getting messages with half the information, but I love my phone. It was given to me at a time in my life when everything started to get better. It was the day I found out I was pregnant with Robin. Leo treated me. He wanted us to only ever be a fingertip away. I’m not prepared to give up on that solid, plastic daily reminder that I’m loved.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’ve served two more customers, and counted the chicken wings and stuffed olives twice. Tracy has already left to get ready for tonight. I’m alone. Almost.

As I put the lids back over the deli tubs, I see a young woman of about eighteen looking over her shoulder then back again at the pre-packaged meat. Shoplifter. I reach behind the counter and pick up our radio. It’s our only security – it links us to the main shopping centre’s lads in uniform. We call whenever we need backup.

I hesitate. If I catch a thief, it will mean hours of police statements and paperwork, which would equal an escape from the psychic encounter tonight, but it would mean no Strictly with Leo and Robin either, ruining my Saturday night.

The shoplifter raises her gaze. She holds my stare as her hand snakes out and grabs a chicken. A whole chicken. Without even looking away, she puts it under her coat. It protrudes like one massive knobbly boob. I’ve seen nothing like it before. Is this some gang initiation thing? Ten years in the job, and I’ve never seen anyone blatantly steal in front of me. Like a toddler who you’ve told no to, but does what they want anyway. Damn the extra time. Without breaking our staring contest, I lift the radio to my mouth.

‘Security Team, come in.’

The radio crackles, and I smile at the girl. Robin went through bouts of both terrible twos, and the even more terrible threes; this shoplifter has no idea who she’s dealing with. If she wants to act like naughty kid, then I’ll treat her like one.

The girl purses her lips, blinks, and puts the chicken back. As she does, her coat flaps open, revealing her pregnant belly. The giant mound before her dwarfs her thin frame. When was the last good meal she ate? Who is looking after her?

An eardrum-pounding bleep sounds and Tim, the head of security, comes over the radio: ‘Hey, Cherrie, are you okay down at Dawson’s Food? Over.’

When you hold the radio, stealth is off the menu. In the past shoplifters have stampeded towards me when hearing it go off, but this girl looks as if she’s about to cry.

I soften my smile. ‘Everything is fine. Just wanted to say goodnight. Over.’

‘Oh yeah, you part-timers only work until five on a Saturday now. Have a good weekend, Creeker. Over.’

‘Thanks, you too. Over.’

She stares at me, mouth slightly open. Is she shocked I’ve given her a break, or waiting for the right moment to shove the chicken back under her coat?

Putting the radio down, I motion to the company sign hanging above my section and say to the girl, ‘They call this place Dawson’s Creek. After the TV show.’

‘What TV show?’

‘Never mind.’

Wringing my hands together, I make a decision. I pack up some meats, olives, and cheeses into a large package.

‘Here, take this.’ I wave the package towards her. ‘And take some bread and milk.’ I nod over at the shelves sitting parallel to my section.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks, yet walks up to take the food before I can answer.

‘Looks like you need a bit of help. I know what that’s like. Don’t worry; I’ll mark it all down as being out-of-date. We throw out a shocking amount of food here.’

‘Thank you.’ She looks down at the food package as if it’s the most amazing thing she ever held; wait until she gets her baby in her arms.

‘You’re welcome. I’m here again Monday until five. Come around the back, and I’ll save more out-of-date stuff for you.’

‘The guy on the radio said your name was Cherrie. Is that right?’

‘Yes. I’m Cherrie.’

‘I’m Kylie.’

‘Your mum used to watch Neighbours eh?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. See you Monday, Kylie.’

She nods, takes a loaf of bread and a four-pint jug of whole milk, and then leaves.

The shop is eerie when it’s empty, so I quickly check the tills are cashed up, then leave, locking the front door behind me.

It’s five-thirty and already so dark I have to use the torch on my phone to light my way. Fortunately, I parked my car just down the street from the shop, so my time in the shadows is limited.

Climbing into my little Ford, I strap on the seatbelt and then twist on the engine. It sputters out its anger at being disturbed, yet fortunately gurgles to life.

In the summer, I walk to work. I only live half a mile away from Dawson’s Food, but in the winter months, when the nights close in quicker, I use the car. I don’t much like the dark.

Opening my front door, I find a quiet house. I check my mobile and find Leo has texted to say they’ll be late. He has included an emoji my phone can’t read. I’m guessing it’s supposed to be some sort of frustration face. They were at his mum’s today, and she has a habit of making dinner later to keep them longer.

I pull off my boots and place them by the door, leaving space for Leo and Robin’s shoes when they get in. I grab a microwave meal from the fridge, then pop it on. I run upstairs to see if I can change clothes before it’s cooked. Pulling off my apron, top and jeans, I wriggle into a pair of corduroy trousers, and tug on a blouse and a jumper. I bound downstairs just in time to see three seconds ticking down on the microwave. It’s a small life victory.

Clutching my meal, I plop down onto the couch, turn on the TV, and check the clock. I have over an hour before I need to pick up Tracy, so I can fit in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Ever since I saw the medical series could be streamed, I’ve binge-watched it. I’m only on season four; it’s comforting that I have at least another eleven seasons to spend with the feisty surgeons.

Reaching for the remote, I’m about to change the channel when I see a boy’s face filling up the screen. He looks only a little older than Robin, and is sporting a chocolate-smeared grin and a Christmas jumper with a fat reindeer on the front. The caption reads, Thomas Doncaster, age ten. I want to change the channel over; I won’t be able to see a full episode of Grey’s if I don’t, but my finger doesn’t want to press the button on the remote. Something bad has happened.

Chapter 2

‘Thomas Doncaster disappeared last night between the hours of six and eight. He was last seen outside the newsagent’s on the Rosemount Estate in Northampton wearing a navy Adidas jacket, blue jeans and white trainers. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact the hotline number below.’

The local newscaster glares at the audience for a second longer than necessary, as if she knows the guilty party is watching and she can force her contempt at him through the screen. Suddenly, the camera angle changes. The newscaster twists around to a second camera, meets the viewers with a fake smile, and then proceeds to talk about the latest knife crime statistics.

Rosemount is only fifteen miles from my house in Oak Cross. A thought wrapped in a memory bobs up to the surface of my mind; I let it sit there a while before I mentally burst it. What could have happened to this little boy? His parents must be so worried, consumed with the worst thoughts in the world. What could be happening to him right now? Will they ever see his chocolate grin again, or give him a Christmas present?

I have to find out more about Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance, but I barely get to sign in on my laptop when I hear rattling keys. My front door crashes open and in floods Hurricane Robin. He throws off his shoes, and they land like two little bombs on the floor.

‘Mummy!’ he yells, throwing himself at me.

Catching him, I pull his flailing body into my arms. As I do, his red Puffa jacket deflates, making a fart noise. He giggles.

A gush of cold air hits me, and I look up to see Leo closing the front door. A bottle of wine nestled in the crook of his arm.

‘Hey, bloody freezing out there. You still going out tonight?’

‘Yes, Tracy will kill me if I don’t.’

‘Okay, you better wrap up warm,’ he says, and then walks into the kitchen.

I hug Robin again. He wriggles, but I hold him steady so I can whisper, ‘You know never to accept lifts from strangers, right?’

‘I’m eight years old. I’m fully aware of stranger danger, Mum,’ he replies, pulling away from me.

‘Even if there’s another child with them. Never get into a stranger’s car.’

‘I get it. I won’t.’ Robin shrugs off his jacket. I can see he has eaten spaghetti at his gran’s house; there are speckles of red all over his beige jumper. Leo’s mum quite often leaves her mark on my son.

‘Get changed into your PJs, sweetie,’ I say.

Robin scrambles up the stairs.

‘He was looking forward to us watching TV together tonight,’ Leo states, lounging against the wall with a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘We both were.’

‘We watch TV together every night,’ I say.

‘But Saturday nights are special family time.’

I had been looking forward to sharing tonight’s special family time.’

I wanted to tell Leo about Tracy’s supernatural entertainment tonight; we could have laughed about it later. Right now, though, a twinge of guilt stops me. I should be staying in with my family. Spending my time with them, not gallivanting off to see some second-class sideshow. My future is obvious: sitting on the sofa holding Robin close, drinking wine and laughing with Leo. What more could a psychic say to me anyway? It’s not like she could dig up anything about my past I don’t already know. Just as I think this I get a text from Tracy: Looking forward to tonight Cherry Pie. With my best friend’s hatred for grammar, I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement; however, I do know I made a promise.

I text back: See you soon x.

Leo walks over to me and hands me his wine.

Looking at the half-empty glass, I go to swig the rest, but stop. ‘Oh, you’re sneaky, are you trying to get me drunk so I can’t drive tonight?’

Letting out a playful laugh, Leo says, ‘You can’t blame a guy for trying. Tell you what.’ He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me close. ‘I’ll leave a glass out for you for when you come back.’

‘Deal.’

The lower level of our house is open plan with strategically placed kitchen units and bookcases separating the spaces between the dining room, kitchen, and living room. So, while I spend an inordinate amount of time doing my make-up on the dining table, I can still watch Leo loading the dishwasher in the kitchen, and hear Robin bumping about upstairs.

‘How can putting on PJs end up such a noisy performance?’ Leo asks after a particularly big bump.

‘He’s dancing. Practising the moves from Strictly with that teddy your mum bought him last Christmas.’

Leo grins. ‘I hope the teddy isn’t leading.’

It’s only a night out with the girls, but I need to make an effort to look at least passable. I touch up my foundation, hiding the dark circles under my eyes. I pick out a new lipstick I bought last year; it’s pillar-box red and claims to be kiss-proof. I gently apply it, pucker my lips then blot it with a tissue. Just as I finish up, Leo places a glass and half the bottle of red wine in front of me.

‘Don’t get excited; like I said it’s for when you get back. It’ll be waiting for you right here – that and this.’ He lifts his jumper to reveal his distinctive hairy dad bod, then has the good grace to laugh.

‘I can hardly wait. You know,’ I say. ‘This lipstick is kiss-proof.’

‘That’s a bold claim,’ he replies sitting down beside me. ‘Shall we test it out?’ He leans in to kiss me but hesitates when there’s a thunder of footsteps down the stairs.

Sitting back in his chair, Leo says, ‘Hey, tiger, you excited for Strictly?’

Robin nods, then looks over at me. ‘You look pretty, Mum. Just like one of the dancers.’ He then grins. ‘Dad told me to say that.’

‘Oh, you were meant to keep that part secret and earn brownie points with your mum.’ Leo turns to me. ‘He never lets me get away with anything.’

‘And neither should he.’ I get up to hug Robin, but Leo intercepts. He wraps his arms around my back and dips me into a Hollywood kiss. Soft lips and the taste of red wine overpower me. Only Robin’s giggling breaks the spell. I wriggle out of Leo’s embrace and quickly check my face in the mirror. I have visions of me looking like a clown-demon who crawled out of Stephen King’s imagination; however, my lip line is perfect. It really is kiss-proof. Good to know not everything about my life is a lie.

‘Are my lips as red as Mummy’s lips?’ Leo asks Robin, puckering his pout.

‘No, your lips aren’t red at all, Dad,’ Robin replies. He turns to me. ‘Is your lipstick magic?’

I reach out to Robin and kiss his cheeks, his forehead and his nose. He laughs at first, but quickly complains, so I let him go. There’s not a single red mark on him. I look up at Leo to see he has vanished back to the kitchen.

‘Mummy, you’re so embarrassing.’

‘That’s a big word. And to be embarrassed there needs to be someone else here to see me kiss you,’ I say.

My son wrestles out of my arms. ‘Nostrom is here. He sees you.’

Robin has drawn Nostrom a few times; he looks like a red robot, all boxy with bright lights. It could be much worse. His imaginary friend could be a six-foot-tall man in a dirty rabbit costume like in Donnie Darko. Leo’s mother doesn’t approve of imaginary robot friends but I don’t mind him. As long as he’s good for my son, he’s all right by me.

‘Well, perhaps I should kiss Nostrom, too?’

‘Robots don’t like kisses. You can kiss me again instead.’

I tickle my son and kiss the top of his head.

‘Hey, I see you just had a microwave meal, again,’ Leo says from the kitchen door. He reaches behind him and produces a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘I know you’re not drinking tonight, but it can’t hurt.’

We sit and eat together. Leo wolfing down the sugary treats, while Robin takes his time sucking the chocolate from the biscuit. Too soon, Leo says, ‘Come on, tiger, Strictly will be on any minute.’

Robin shoots off the chair and jumps onto the couch. Leo gets up, bends down and kisses the top of my head. ‘Have a good night and be careful,’ he says, then follows Robin.

As I go to leave, I hesitate. I would prefer to stay home. I’m not even sure why I agreed to this psychic thing in the first place. Leo looks up, winks and playfully lifts his jumper again.

I grab my car keys and yell, ‘Bye!’

Tracy is never ready on time and tonight is no exception. I knock on her door and her gran greets me. Tracy has lived with her since her parents died. My best friend never talks about what happened to them, and I’ve never asked. Our friendship has grown on mutual, unspoken boundaries.

‘Aren’t you seeing Mariah tonight?’ Tracy’s gran asks.

‘Yeah, I’m not expecting much,’ I say, checking my watch. It’s past seven.

‘I’ve been to psychics and mediums all over the country; she’s one of the best. My sisters used to visit her up North. I can’t believe she moved down here.’

‘What’s the difference between a psychic and a medium?’ I ask, then realise it sounds like the set-up to a crude joke.

Tracy’s gran doesn’t hesitate. ‘Well, psychics can see your past, present and future. Mediums talk to the dead. Mariah’s both.’

The house suddenly feels warm. I undo my coat and shrug it off. ‘I don’t want to talk to the dead,’ I mutter.

‘Pardon, Cherrie?’

‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter. I might not even bother with a reading. Perhaps I’ll wait outside, just listen to what she has to say to the other girls.’

‘Oh, no, it’s booked for four. You have to go in. Four bookings is the minimum,’ she reminds me.

I’m about to ask about her visit to Mariah, when I hear Tracy coming down the stairs.

‘Sorry for being late, Cherry Pie. Perfection takes time.’ She smooths down her long, straight hair.

I put my coat back on and grab Tracy’s arm. ‘Come on, we still have to find Mariah’s house. Who are we meeting there?’

‘Our wayward Creeker sisters Shania and Gurpreet.’

‘I’ll text Gurpreet. Tell her we’ll be late.’ I fish out my mobile to fire off a quick text.

Once we’re in the car, I ask Tracy for the address.

‘Bramble Court on the Hackerwood Estate, Mariah’s number seven.’

I turn off our estate and head towards the main road. There’s probably a quicker route, but this is the only one I know, and Tracy’s not offering any help. We get onto the A13. I drive until I see the Hackerwood sign.

‘Did you hear about that boy Thomas Doncaster going missing?’ I ask.

‘No, but kids go missing all the time,’ Tracy says staring at her mobile.

‘Not really, not like this.’

‘Like what? Are you just assuming something sinister happened?’

Carefully, I reply. ‘No, I just think …’ A stream of answers flood my mind: Kids can be taken, strangers want children for horrible things, and terrible fates can befall lone boys. ‘I just worry, that’s all.’

Tracy looks over at me and shrugs. She has no children, perhaps until she does, she won’t understand my concern.

We drive on towards Hackerwood; a sinking feeling settling in my gut the closer we get.

‘I saw what you did today,’ Tracy suddenly blurts out.

‘Huh?’

‘The vagrant preggo. I saw you give her the food,’ she says.

‘I thought you’d already gone home.’

‘Nah, I had to sort out some paperwork in Mr Dawson’s office. Why did you help her?’

‘She needed it. Her name’s Kylie.’

‘You know her?’ Tracy asks.

‘No, I only met her today. I gave her the stuff we would’ve binned or taken home ourselves.’ I’m not sure I like Tracy’s tone, maybe she’s nervous about tonight, and if she’s worried, perhaps I should be too.

‘I’d already done the out-of-date stuff. I took it all home,’ she says.

‘Well, you missed some. Don’t be mean.’

‘I’m not being mean,’ she replies, her childish lilt betraying her. Tracy then turns away from me to stare out her window. Now and then, she opens her mouth, yet no words come out.

I veer off into Bramble Court. It’s a long, curvy road twisting around new houses built on the edges of an older estate. The fresh cream buildings look bright against the scarlet bricks of the old council terraces; they glow against the dark night like clean bones.

‘Well, we won’t be in business much longer if we keep giving food away,’ Tracy finally says, fiddling with my heater.

‘Kylie can’t eat enough to put Dawson’s out of business.’ I laugh.

‘Don’t joke; I’ve seen the books.’

‘What?’

‘That’s it, number seven, right there.’ Tracy points at a new, beautiful detached house with a gravel drive. Bringing the car around, I park next to Gurpreet’s Honda.

I twist off the engine and watch as Tracy struggles to find her seatbelt clip.

‘Is Dawson’s Food in trouble?’ I ask.

She huffs at me, then gets out. ‘Let’s just enjoy tonight. I wonder how many dark, handsome strangers I’ll have in my future.’

Heading to the door, we walk past an expensive black Audi sitting in front of a double garage.

‘The psychic business must pay well,’ I say, staring at the perfect paintwork and leather interior. It’s immaculate inside. My car sports hundreds of sticky patches all in the shape of Robin’s fingers.

‘Come on, Cherry Pie.’ Tracy grabs my arm, pulling me away from my car envy.

At first glance, the house looks every other on the street; however, the source of the glow from the windows of this house is not electric but candles. Dancing flames beckoning you with their heat, until you get too close and you lose part of yourself in a bargain you never meant to make. I shouldn’t be here.

Before I know what’s happening, Tracy rings the bell. Quickly, the door opens wide, making us both jump, but instead of the expected clichéd clairvoyant, it’s a man in the doorway. He’s thin, of average height, and has a downturned mouth; it clearly takes extra effort for him to smile, as he gives us a withering look.

We must have the wrong house. Does this poor man continually suffer random weirdos arriving on his doorstep expecting to have their fortunes told?

I’m about to apologise when he asks, ‘Are you here to see Mariah?’

‘Yes,’ Tracy answers, stepping over the psychic’s threshold.

As she pulls me in with her, I expect a melodramatic clap of thunder to ring out across the shadowy sky, but of course, it doesn’t.

‘And you are?’ the man asks, fiddling with a clipboard like a mild-mannered doorman.

‘Tracy Carter and Cherrie Forrester.’ Tracy nudges me.

He drags his finger down the page. ‘I’ve got a Tracy, but no Cherrie.’

My name’s not down; perhaps I’ve successfully wormed my way out of this uncomfortable night. I can spend my money on a takeaway, eat the sinful snack with Leo, and stay up late watching TV programmes that wash over you like a lazy dream.

‘Yeah, my gran, Donna Carter, had a reading the other night instead. Cherrie has taken her place tonight,’ Tracy says.

‘Oh, I’ll change it.’

He writes in my name, and the dream of an all-night TV and fatty food binge with my boyfriend evaporates in a scribble of biro. Oh crap, will Mariah sense I don’t want to be here? You don’t need to be psychic to spot a reluctant visitor. She’ll think I’m rude, which could be the least of tonight’s worries.

Grinning, Tracy pulls me further into the house. We walk down a thin, beige corridor to find a tiny living room with barely enough space for the two massive couches squashed into it. This house is like the anti-TARDIS, big on the outside and small on the inside.

On one of the couches are Gurpreet and Shania. Huddled together, they stop whispering when they see us in the doorway.

‘See,’ says Gurpreet. ‘I told you she’d come.’

Clearly referring to me. I step forward, bend and hug Gurpreet, my defender.

Shania blushes when I ignore her, then says, ‘That’s not what I said. I said you’re not normally allowed out on a Saturday night.’

Tracy plonks down next to Shania. I carefully perch beside her. The thought of being alone on the empty couch opposite is leaving me cold.

‘Okay, ladies,’ the doorman says, tentatively edging into the room.

I haven’t even caught sight of Mariah yet. I hope it’s not this weasel-looking guy in drag, and that he expects us to keep straight faces while he shuffles tarot cards, and digs around in our minds for our deepest, darkest, blood-soaked secrets … I shouldn’t be here. I wriggle in my seat. Tracy rests a heavy hand on my knee.

The man squeezes past our sofa to stand before us. He’s making little sounds beneath his breath, like an actor loosening his lips ready for a monologue. Are we paying for this too? If I had wanted Shakespeare in the living room, I’d have booked am-dram tickets, which I suspect might have been a better idea.

‘My name is Jon. I’m Mariah’s husband of fifteen years, and let me tell you, being married to such a talented psychic for so long is a huge feat. If I plan a holiday, she’s already packed her suitcase. I try to organise a surprise birthday party, she arrives early to greet her guests. I buy her jewellery … well, she’s a woman, so doesn’t mind shiny presents.’ He fake laughs while all four of us simultaneously sigh at his sexist joke.

Jon turns around to scoop up four clipboards off a nearby table.

‘Fill these in, please.’ He gives us each a clipboard, then leaves the room.

Tracy nudges me. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think if he were married to a real psychic, she’d have predicted all his jokes would be crap,’ I say. Everyone giggles.

I look down at my clipboard and scan the questions. Nothing too intrusive, just the basics of name, address, age, and ticking a box to promise I won’t have a heart attack mid-reading. However, I dither.

I look up to see Jon has appeared back in the doorway. He’s staring at me.

‘Umm, why do you need all this?’ I ask him.

‘Health and safety. Please fill it in if you want a reading.’

I want to scream at him that I don’t want a reading, so taking my personal information isn’t necessary. Then again, if I don’t go through with tonight’s entertainment, I’ll prove Shania right, Gurpreet wrong, and Tracy will never let me live it down. We’ll be old ladies shuffling along in the shopping centre; she’ll look at me and say, ‘Remember when you ran out on me at the psychic’s house? Didn’t see that coming.’

I must frown, as Jon scoffs and walks away. He’ll be telling Mariah to give me a bad reading, which ironically could be useful. If this psychic is real, her laziness could mean she leaves my buried secrets untouched to rot.

‘Fill it out. Go on.’ Tracy pokes me in the ribs.

I pick up the pen. The form asks for my birth name, my address, date of birth, and my In Case of Emergency contact; I put down Leo. I tick the boxes, which say I don’t have a disability and my heart is fine. I go to sign it. I hesitate again. I declare all the information given is correct, it reads in big black letters. There’s one piece of information I’ve given that isn’t one hundred per cent correct, but what sort of enforcement powers could this home-working sideshow have? I sign it.

As if he’s been watching, Jon suddenly steps back into the room. He collects the clipboards. ‘It’s £25 each,’ he tells us.

We all give up our money, which Jon rolls up in his hand. He disappears, shutting the door behind him. I can hear a murmured conversation. Closing my eyes, I try to make out the whispered words. Are they talking about me?

‘I’m so excited about my reading.’ Shania rubs her arms as if she’s cold.

‘Yeah? Not concerned she’ll see you’re dating a married man?’ Tracy says.

‘Shut it. What about you, Cherrie? Any skeletons in your closet?’

Swallowing hard, I choke a little and have to clear my throat.

‘Oh, perfect little Cherrie does have something to hide.’ Shania crosses her legs and nudges us all; our bodies knock together like the balls of a Newton’s cradle.

I’m about to reply with a lie when the door opens.

‘Welcome!’

I look up to see a thin woman in a black maxi dress, only a little older than I am. Her hair is short and dark, and her long nose is the most noticeable feature of her face. She’s striking, with bright maroon lipstick teamed with thick black kohl-lined eyes.

‘Hi,’ Gurpreet mutters, perhaps expecting us all to say it at once.

‘I’m Mariah. Thank you for coming tonight. I will choose my first reading.’ She carefully looks at us all. I feel like a harem wife hoping her husband doesn’t pick her for the night.

Mariah’s stare rests on each of us in turn. I cross my arms over my chest and try to smile at her, although I fear I might just be baring my teeth. Tracy and Shania both shift in their seats.

Smiling, Mariah takes Gurpreet by the hand. ‘You will be my first reading.’

The psychic pulls my friend off the couch and takes her away.

‘How come she got to go first?’ Shania complains.

‘Yeah, I don’t want to be last. Mariah will be knackered by the end of the night. I’ll get a crap reading.’ Tracy makes herself comfortable in Gurpreet’s vacant couch space.

‘I don’t mind going last,’ I say.

It feels as if this evening will never end. When Gurpreet comes out, and Shania goes in, the whole show repeats.

In the living room, Gurpreet gushes about how accurate Mariah was in her reading. Apparently, she predicted her long-term boyfriend was going to propose on Valentine’s Day next year. The psychic told her to say yes, that they would be happy together. I’m not sure I agree with that advice. Choosing your husband is a serious matter; it’s why I haven’t married Leo. He asked me once, when we discovered I was pregnant with Robin. In painful slow motion, he bent down on one knee, but he didn’t have a ring ready to slip onto my finger. I said no. Although he often calls me his missus to his mates, he has never asked again.

Shania comes out. Mariah, in equally dramatic fashion, chooses Tracy, leaving me for last. Why would she do that? Has she secretly read me already and needs to build up to being in the same room as me?

‘What was it like?’ Gurpreet asks.

‘Shit,’ Shania says. She catches me smiling at her reply. ‘Your lipstick is flaking. Shame. It was a great colour. A bold choice for a woman your age.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. I would typically throw out a comeback, but I’m far too relieved about Mariah’s crappy abilities to care about a little dig.

Shania regales us with a blow-by-blow account of the cards’ meanings and predictions. It takes so long to describe that, after a while, her voice sounds like white noise.

In the end, Gurpreet sighs. ‘What a shame. Mariah was so accurate with me.’ She leans across to pat Shania’s knee.

‘Oh, she was accurate all right; just didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear.’

What? Didn’t Shania just say she was crap! Does that mean she’s good; that she’s real? I gulp and look up to see Mariah escorting Tracy back into the room.

It’s my turn.

Chapter 3

Mariah’s hand is clammy and firm around mine. A silent gesture stating, you’re not going anywhere. I have you now. Perhaps I’m misinterpreting it and it’s more of a motherly, everything will be all right gesture. As if sensing my confusion, Mariah looks back at me with a broad smile. Although I don’t have much experience with mums – mine never won Parent of the Year – I decide it’s a nurturing gesture.

We walk down a hall the colour of curdled cream. It’s tight due to a tin shelf jutting out along its length. As we pass, I see there’s a collection of silver photo frames adorning the shelf. Each one shows a happy little girl about six years old. She has her mother’s nose and her father’s eyes. Their daughter. No doubt, they’ve confined her to her room while they work. Considering they have a kid, this place is almost spotless. I didn’t even notice any toys. Perhaps girls are easier to entertain than boys. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t trip over something of Robin’s; usually his discarded shoes.

Mariah notices me admiring her photos. ‘Sarah,’ she says.

‘She’s beautiful.’ Most mothers say this to one another regardless, but I mean it. Sarah has an easy smile and natural highlights in her hair, which catch the flash of the camera, giving her a perfect halo effect. I’m not sure why, but I feel more relaxed knowing Mariah and Jon have a child. I guess it’s a kind of parental camaraderie.

The psychic leads me into another boxy room. This one is candlelit and smells of earthy frankincense. In the centre is a low, round table with a black tablecloth. A deck of cards sits on top. Surrounding the table are thin scatter cushions. I quickly scan the rest of the room and see a sideboard with several cups and saucers. In the low light, they look magical, like something from a Disney film.

‘I do tea leaves too,’ Mariah says, as if to justify their presence.

I nod and, as I move towards the table, bump into some plastic-covered clothes hooked over the door of a cupboard. Touching the plastic, I see a dark, elaborate outfit beneath and the hint of something white and glowing.

‘Fancy dress for Halloween,’ Mariah explains.

‘Oh, that’s soon, isn’t it? Where does the time go?’

Moving the plastic aside, I count two costumes in the bag. It must be lovely to play dress up with your daughter.

‘Ready?’ Mariah motions for me to sit across from her.

My trousers are tight and it’s uncomfortable, yet I manage to sit down and cross my legs.

‘It’s good to meet you, Cherrie.’

In an elegant gesture, Mariah offers me the cards. ‘Please shuffle these, cutting them with your left hand, as it’s your left hand that deals your destiny.’

I do as she asks, although the cards are large and awkward and slip from my grasp more than once.

‘Have you travelled far tonight?’

‘No, I’m about twenty minutes away.’

‘The Rosemount Estate?’

‘No, Oak Cross. By Dawson’s Food where I work.’ I’m rambling and giving too much away.

‘The cards are ready now.’ Mariah motions for me to put them down.

I place the deck on the table and cut them with my left hand.

‘You’re left-handed,’ she tells me as if it’s some amazing revelation. As if I will suddenly look down at my digits exclaiming, Holy crap, that’s why I’ve never been able to use regular scissors!

‘Yes. All my life,’ I say.

‘In the past, left-handed people were considered sinister.’

‘All polar bears are left-handed.’ A fact Robin read off an ice-lolly stick last summer.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she replies.

‘Perhaps that’s why they’re becoming extinct,’ I add. ‘Polar bears only have right-handed tin openers. They can’t get into their cans of tuna.’ That was the worst joke ever. What am I playing at? Wait a minute, I’m paying this woman – it’s her job to entertain me.

‘More likely we’re ruining the planet,’ Mariah says flatly.

I tap the top of the cards. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Yes, good. We will begin.’ Mariah closes her eyes and waits.

I feel conspicuous now, and for some reason Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance races through my mind. Hoping he is okay, strongly suspecting that he’s not, I can’t stand this anticipation. I should ask if she knows anything about Thomas.

‘Mariah? Can I ask you about something?’

Opening her eyes, she gives a little nod.

‘Have you had any visions of that missing boy – Thomas Doncaster?’

Mariah purses her lips and leans forward. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but his mother and brother came for a reading just after it happened.’

‘Really?’

‘People often seek out psychics when they feel the police are failing them.’

‘How can the police be failing them? Didn’t he only just go missing?’

She snorts.

‘Did you see anything?’ I then ask, wanting to end my question with the word helpful, yet deciding against it.

‘Not at the time.’ Mariah moves closer to me. ‘I did see him this afternoon, though.’ She then looks around us as if someone is watching. ‘He had lost his shoes and was coughing on car fumes.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

She whispers, ‘I fear he is no longer with us.’

I was expecting a lazy response of, he’ll be found safe soon, not some ominous death prediction. I want to ask more questions about Thomas, but Mariah cuts through my thoughts with a clap of her hands.

‘Now, before we begin I need to clarify how this works. I will deal you five cards. One represents the past, which still affects your present. One is your present as it is today. One is your future as it will be if you continue on your current path. The remaining two are messages from the spirits.’

‘Oh, I think I’d prefer to just stick to the past, present and future. No spirits, thanks.’

‘You get both. In life, sometimes we get things we don’t want along with the things we do. I can’t control what I see. I simply pass the information along in the hope it helps.’

At Dawson’s Food, the customer is always right. Clearly, Mariah doesn’t care about that in her line of work. A wave of defiance rolls over my manners, so I ask, ‘Did you tell Mrs Doncaster you think Thomas is dead?’

Mariah coughs and grins at me. ‘Do you have issues with the dead, Cherrie?’

‘I have issues with the living and the dead,’ I reply.

‘Death hangs around you, like black smoke on your bones.’ There’s a rasp to her words that makes me want to run. It’s icy in this room. Cold and dark. Last time I felt like this I was eight years old and hiding under my dad’s workbench listening to the knocking coming from the cupboard …

‘Are you ready?’ Mariah asks.

This isn’t real. It can’t be. People like Mariah don’t exist in reality. She’s hustling me, and that’s okay. Hustle away, lady. I’ve dealt with worse.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Excellent.’

She takes the cards and deals out five. I know little about tarot cards. Only what I’ve seen in films and the opening credits of Tales of the Unexpected. I do realise there’s one card I’d like to avoid. Mariah flips the first over – it’s Death. I lean back, hitting my shoulders against the wall behind me.

‘I’m sorry; I should have told you about the Death card before I began. Clients are often taken aback by this card, but it’s not as grim as it appears. It represents a new beginning. The end of something hurtful. Nevertheless, this card sits in your past. What does it represent?’ Mariah raises an eyebrow.

I almost blurt out that she should know what it means, yet bite my tongue. I have to keep reminding myself she’s not in touch with some cosmic energy; she can’t see my past. Who I am. I mean, who I used to be.

‘My parents died when I was eight,’ I say. It’s partly true, so perhaps it’s enough to keep her fake spirits quiet.

‘So, you went to live with another member of your family?’

‘Yes,’ I lie.

‘That will be it. You’ve not quite come to terms with what your parents did.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Leaving you so suddenly. They didn’t mean to; it wasn’t their intention.’

This woman is full of it. I slump back into her uncomfortably thin floor cushions.

‘Actually, I think they did mean it.’

She looks a bit taken aback, but quickly shrugs it off. Mariah’s not a real psychic, but she is a professional.

The next card is a picture of a small, smiling boy riding a white horse.

‘The sun. This is your present. There is a child around you.’

‘Oh, that’s my son Robin.’ I instantly kick myself for giving her both his gender and name. I’d be terrible in one of those hard-core police interviews.

‘He’s lovely, your little bird. He makes you so proud.’ Her lips lift into the practised smile of a mother.

‘Yes, he’s great. He’s the love of my life,’ I say, wishing I’d stayed home with him.

Narrowing her eyes, Mariah gathers her lips into an unflattering grimace. ‘His father; I see a lion, Leo.’

‘How did you know his name?’

‘Leo is a challenge. Set in his ways. It’s his mother’s fault. The woman panders to him, making him need lots of attention.’

‘Yes, I guess so.’

She closes her eyes. I edge towards her.

‘Men rarely grow up. Trust me. Jon has a habit of making everything my fault. He then makes it his business to fix it. Is Leo like this?’

‘Kind of. He can be annoying at times; but he loves me. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.’ Even as I say this, I realise that there might be at least one thing he wouldn’t do for me.

‘Annoying, yes. That’s what I meant.’

I’m not sure it was, yet she pulled Leo’s name out of thin air. It’s not as if he is a Chris or a Bob. She didn’t even say I see the letter L, to entice me to offer the name. Mariah said it as if she just knew.

‘What should I do about him? Does he get better?’

‘They never get better, just easier to handle. Let’s see if he’s in your future.’

The next card is the Ten of Wands. It shows a lone man dragging a mass of tall tree branches.

‘What does it mean?’ I ask.

‘Someone is working against you. This future is almost immediate.’

‘You think Leo is plotting against me?’ I say, knowing it’s absurd.

‘I don’t think so. It could be, though. Be wary.’

Knowing she can’t mean Leo, I ask, ‘Um, could you give me more on the person I need to watch out for?’

Mariah sits up straighter. ‘Apologies, I have no further information to give. You’ll know them when you see them.’

Helpful.

The psychic looks down at the two remaining cards. These are the messages from the spirits. I’ve been lucky so far; she hasn’t uprooted any buried secrets. Will my luck continue?

With a quick flick of the wrist, she turns both cards over. The first shows a dark-cloaked figure standing alone. The other depicts a heart with three swords piercing it from different angles.

Mariah mumbles something I don’t catch.

‘What? Tell me, what do they mean?’

Pointing to the cloaked figure, she says, ‘This is the Five of Cups. The spirits are telling me there is a dark shadow around you. The other is the Three of Swords. You will be hurt, not once, not twice, but three times. Deep wounds.’

I’m about to question who would hurt me when I remind myself this is only a bit of fun. Everything she’s said has to be guesswork. I’ve watched Derren Brown; he would have been able to read me even better than her, and he definitely doesn’t have paranormal powers. Perhaps Mariah has found fear works better than hope in her readings and is dishing me up a big dollop of it, so I go away thinking hard about her dire predictions. If your mind marinates too long on anything you’ll make it happen like a crazy self-fulfilling prophecy, but she did get Leo’s name.

As she moves the cards around the table, I watch her fingers, with their chipped black nail varnish, dance over the pictures.

‘Your son is in danger.’

‘What?’

When I look at the cards, I see only meaningless images. What has she seen?

‘You can’t tell me that,’ I say, my voice getting higher and louder on every word. ‘You’re just mean.’ It takes a lot not to swear at her. A stray fuck you, paces behind my lips like a caged tiger.

Suddenly, she launches herself across the table and grabs my wrist. ‘Please, you must believe me. Robin is in danger. A dark shadow haunts him. You must take heed of this warning.’

‘What danger?’

Her chipped black nails are digging into my skin. I try to pull my arm away.

‘The spirits will not say, but they are giving you a warning. Take the warning. Guard your son.’

‘You’re hurting me!’

Looking confused, Mariah releases me.

‘Unfortunately, our time has ended.’ In a swift motion, she gets up and heads to the door. Reaching out, I try to stop her. I have to know what she saw about Robin. Unfortunately, I’ve been sitting on the floor for so long, my legs have almost atrophied. I have to push my palms against the small table to stand up.

‘Wait,’ I say to her, but it’s as if I’ve ceased to exist. Ignoring my pleas, she rushes from the room.

Great. She just told me Robin is in danger but didn’t bother to tell me anything else because my £25 worth of her time has run out. You’d hope a real psychic would have dug deeper if she believed in her words. Mariah has to be a fraud. None of what she said is real – it can’t be. If she was genuine surely she would have seen my past, and wouldn’t have ignored it; no one can ignore it.

I follow her back into the living room.

Now our business has concluded Jon spirits us out the house as quick as he can. It’s ten o’clock, so maybe Sarah can come down to watch TV with her parents. After all, it is Saturday night. Robin loves it when we stay up together; it’s his special treat for being good. For this reason alone, I don’t mind him hurrying me down their thin cream corridor, and then practically launching me through the front door like a bottle of champagne towards a new ship.

Once outside, we all hug and start to say goodbye. Although not sure I should, especially as I can’t guarantee Mariah can be trusted, I tell them what the maybe-psychic said about Thomas Doncaster.

‘Good grief,’ Tracy says. ‘How morbid.’

‘What a bitch,’ Shania adds.

‘Do you think she said anything to Thomas’s mum? I mean, do we ring the hotline and give them this info anyway?’ Gurpreet, apparently the only one of us who received a favourable reading, is now a stone-cold believer in psychics. I guess you’d have to be to ensure the good predictions come true.

‘No, kids come home eventually. I’ve concluded that Mariah is full of shit.’ Shania bumps me with her hip. I nod; I think it’s the first thing we’ve agreed since we met.

Gurpreet asks us all to go for a drink, and Tracy surprises me by declining the invitation. She must have seen my face after the reading; her curiosity is outweighing the need to punish her liver.

Tracy climbs into my car and we set off. We’re quiet at first. I’m still trying to make sense of everything. Mariah got Leo’s name without hesitation, yet went off on a scary tangent about the safety of my son, which can’t be usual, or good for business. I turn off onto the A13. The long straight road of the dual carriageway gives me the latitude to twist my thoughts into speech. ‘What did she say to you?’ I ask.

‘I got the Death card,’ Tracy replies.

‘The Death card means a new beginning.’

‘This time, it meant death. She said someone close to me would die soon.’

We’re both thinking the same name: Gran.

‘I’m not sure we should put much faith in her readings,’ I say. ‘Did she get anything right for you?’

‘Yeah, some stuff. That I worked with food and my parents died when I was little. It was eerie. What about you?’

‘She said some weird stuff.’ I turn off the A road and sweep onto the roundabout that leads to Tracy’s estate. As soon as I’m on a straight road again, I ask, ‘Did you talk about me with her?’

‘I didn’t pay £25 to talk about you, Cherry Pie.’

‘So you didn’t mention Leo’s name to her?’

‘No, why would I?’

‘She knew Leo’s name.’

‘Didn’t you put him down as your ICE contact on her form?’

‘Son of a bitch. I did.’ Tracy’s right. ‘Wait, didn’t you say your gran went to her too?’

‘Yes, Gran gave me Mariah’s details; hang on, yes. I bet she spilt my dead parent beans, and where I worked.’

A mixture of anger at Mariah’s fakery and relief that the grim predictions are bull sinks into both of us.

‘Well, what a waste.’ Tracy laughs. ‘We should have gone for a drink.’

I indicate to turn around. ‘What pub?’

‘The Hazel Tree. I’ll text them, let them know we’re coming.’

‘Just you. I’ll drop you off. I really have to get home. Leo left me half a bottle of wine to polish off, and I think, after tonight, I’m going to need it.’

‘Sure thing. Hey, maybe we should set up a psychic business. You’d be pretty good at it.’

‘I don’t want to tell people about imaginary disasters.’

‘You won’t have to. You can be a nice psychic who only gives good predictions.’

‘Predictions are a numbers game. Odds are higher for something bad to happen than something good.’

I pull in at The Hazel Tree. Tracy pops her belt and leans across to hug me.

‘Think about it, like I said, we should go into business together, you and me. No more Dawson’s Food,’ she whispers, raising her eyebrows.

‘What does that mean?’

But my friend doesn’t answer me, she just wriggles out of the car, then disappears into the pub.

A few doors down from the pub is the Drunken Schooner, a fish and chip shop who use beef dripping to cook its goodies. It’s now half past ten; I shouldn’t, but I pull the car in to park in front. I deserve a treat.

The moment I open the car door, the smell of the most popular chips in three estates hits me. Tonight was long and pointless. I deserve deep-fried goodness. I buy a large bag, then all but sprint back to the car.

Driving home always takes longer when you can smell chips drenched in salt and vinegar. I’d have eaten a few while driving if their wrapping was loose enough for me to steal a chip or two.

At home, I find Leo and Robin have already gone to bed, so I grab a plate, settle down in front of the TV with my wine and watch a couple of episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. The chips are the best thing about tonight.

As I watch the fictional surgeons have inappropriate sexual encounters and pointless arguments, I mentally push out everything caught in my mind today. Tracy’s weird comments about Dawson’s Food, Mariah’s obvious con job, and Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance; then let it all go, like a fisherman who already has his catch and is releasing the rest back into the ocean to be trapped in his nets another day.

It’s past midnight before I’m tired enough to go to bed. To avoid waking my family, I wash and clean my teeth in the downstairs toilet, then climb the stairs. I stop by Robin’s door. Mariah’s words of danger clatter through my mind. I should check in on him.

I push open the door. Instantly, I see my son is not in his bed.

Chapter 4

My hand shoots out, groping for the light switch. The bright flash shatters the darkness, stinging my eyes.

I rush forward and drag back Robin’s bedcovers as if it would somehow make him magically appear. I check under his bed. Nothing there but shoes and toys. The wardrobe. One door is protruding. I bound towards it. I reach for the handle, but hesitate. Do I hear knocking? I fling the door wide then push and pull at the clothes inside. Hangers slide and drop as I frantically grab at the wall of clothes before me. He’s not in there.

Panic grips me; its clammy embrace making each rushed breath sticky and sore. Bending over, I put my hands on my knees. Perhaps Robin went to the toilet. I stagger towards the bathroom; yet even from the hall, I can see the door is open. No one is in there. I burst into my bedroom and am about to yell at my sleeping boyfriend when I see my son’s body curled up on my side of the bed. I clutch at my chest and ease my breathing down. I’m an idiot.

‘You all right?’ Leo asks sleepily.

‘I was scared when I didn’t see Robin in his bed.’

‘Tiger missed you, so I let him kip in here till you got home. It’s late.’ Leo looks over at our red neon clock. ‘Are you only just back in?’

I could admit to getting back earlier, but don’t bother. I’m too tired to launch into tonight’s epic tale.

‘Yeah, the girls wanted to go to the pub.’

I pull off my clothes and grab my nightie from the dresser. As I crawl over Leo, I accidentally knee him in the stomach.

‘Cherrie,’ he complains.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

Robin stirs, but doesn’t wake up.

‘You smell like chips.’

‘I went to the Drunken Schooner.’

‘So you ladies were living it up in The Hazel Tree, eh?’ Leo whispers.

I don’t want to lie anymore, so I neither confirm nor deny his deduction.

Leo turns towards me. ‘Oh, I really fancy chips now. Give us a kiss.’ He moves in for a smooch, but I turn away.

‘I cleaned my teeth, no chips here, just minty freshness.’ I huff on him as proof.

‘Urg, why did you do that? Salt-and-vinegar breath is hot.’

Laughing as quietly as I can I say, ‘Go to sleep.’

We sleep in on Sundays, but Robin always wakes up early. I feel him twist around in the bed.

I grin.

‘Did you have a nice time last night, Mummy?’

‘It was good. How was Strictly?’

He tells me all about the dancers knocked out of the competition last night: what they wore, the songs they danced to, and the scores they got. My son has been entranced by the show ever since he saw his first episode. Between the music and the outfits and the sheer production, he unashamedly fell in love with it. Dancer became his first career choice, although lately it’s been pop singer and robotic scientist – I’m not sure whether he means he’s the robot or he works on them.

All too soon, our whispers wake up Leo. He turns around and grabs us both in a big-armed hug. To get to Robin, he squeezes me a little too tightly. What would a passive observer see in this Sunday morning scene: a boy beloved by his parents, a loving husband, and a lucky wife?

Leo gets up and makes breakfast: runny scrambled eggs and bacon burnt around the edges. Robin bounces around the living room trying to find where the lingering scent of chips is coming from.

Watching my family on a morning like this warms my heart and makes me so grateful. There’s a mother on the Rosemount Estate waking up without one of her sons. A son who right now could be barefoot and lifeless, if you believe in psychics.

‘How’s your breakfast?’ Leo asks.

I stare down at my untouched plate. ‘Great, thank you.’

‘You’d be hungrier if you hadn’t eaten all those chips last night.’

‘Can I have your bacon, Mum?’

Smiling, I slide my plate across to Robin. He raises his fork, ready to stab at the food.

‘What do you say?’ I prompt.

‘Thank you!’ Robin brings the fork down to skewer a rasher.

‘I have some paperwork to do today; can you entertain the bacon-snatcher for the morning?’ Leo asks.

‘It’s Sunday. Like Saturday night, isn’t that special family time too?’

My snide comment earns me an eye roll.

‘Well played,’ Leo says. ‘But my boss is putting pressure on me to seal the deal for the new housing estate up by Hackerwood.’

I narrow my eyes at him. The new estate is already there. It’s where Mariah lives. ‘Oh, Tracy told me it’s already been built on.’

Leo flops bread into the toaster. I watch him pull the slices down into the glowing red metal. ‘Yeah it is, but there’s room for more houses. They built them small. I want to secure the extra land.’

Thinking back to Mariah’s tiny rooms, it makes sense. I’m not sure why I tried to catch him in a lie.

‘Okay.’ I look over at Robin. ‘How about we go to the park?’

‘Sounds good,’ Robin replies, his words muffled by bacon and eggs. He stuffs a crust of toast into his already full mouth. With chipmunk cheeks, he rushes upstairs to get dressed.

Since I have a few minutes, I grab my laptop to check out what’s happening with Thomas Doncaster. Maybe he’s home already? It wouldn’t surprise me; Mariah was royally full of crap. It would be the icing on the cake for the boy to make it home safe; shoes still on his feet, and his lungs clean of car fumes.

Leo nudges me out of his way. ‘I need to borrow your laptop. Left mine at work. It’ll be free when you get back in.’

‘I’m ready!’ Robin yells from the hall.

Leo leans across as if to kiss my cheek, but instead sniffs me.

‘What are you up to?’ I ask, moving back from him.

‘Just checking if you still had the Schooner’s whiff.’ He laughs.

‘That sounds like a godawful perfume. Ooh, you’re not leading up to a joke about seamen are you?’

‘Bye, Dad!’ Robin yells, reminding me it’s time to go.

‘See you, tiger,’ Leo yells back, then leans in and kisses my cheek. ‘Take care in the park. It’s colder than a witch’s nip out there.’

I grab my thickest coat and meet my son at the door.

‘Which park are we going to?’ Robin asks.

‘Let’s not drive today; how about we go to Black Friars?’

Robin’s hand jumps into mine, and we walk towards the park. Black Friars is a massive urban expanse connecting the surrounding estates. I remember it from when I was Robin’s age. Dad used to bring me here. He’d pack cheese sandwiches and Tab. We’d pretend we were explorers in a mysterious land, bringing back pinecones and conkers as our trophies. There are rumours there was an old monastery on the land hundreds of years ago. I’ve heard Robin and his friends telling ghost stories about headless clergy who push you on the swings, and monks who chase away little boys if they come to the park after dark.

As we enter Black Friars, I notice how bright the sun is; its warm lustre strikes a glaring contrast to the cold morning air. I can imagine this place is foreboding when the sun goes down. All twisted trees and jagged bushes, yet in the Sunday morning light, it’s beautiful.

As soon as we’re beyond the park’s tree line, Robin lets go of my hand to run ahead. I quicken my pace to keep him in my line of sight, but he’s too fast, and I have to jog a little to keep up. He disappears around a bend in the path. I run faster.

‘Look at me, Mum!’

Around the bend, I see Robin swinging from a tree branch like a monkey. Laughing, he flops onto the ground.

Another little boy emerges from the trees. Seeing him, Robin gets up and darts across to say hello. They begin to play together.

There’s an old wooden bench, so I sit down to watch them laugh and run. I scan the park for the boy’s parents and quickly see the mother puffing up the path. We give each other the secret parent nod that can make friends from strangers, and she staggers over to sit with me.

‘I’m getting too old for this,’ she says.

‘Nice bright morning, though,’ I say.

‘Too cold for me.’

‘Yes, cold,’ I say back, glad that Robin wore his warm Puffa jacket this morning.

I nod and continue watching our sons play; chattering and sprinting about as if they were fireworks made of flesh and giggles. Their breath spirals through the air like the tails of rockets.

The woman shivers and pulls her coat tighter about her neck. ‘Did you hear about the Doncaster boy?’

‘Yes, how awful.’

I consider telling her about Mariah’s prediction of Thomas Doncaster. I’d love to erode the psychic’s words with mockery and gossip, but this woman is a stranger. What would her reaction be? Intrigue? Repulsion? Suspicion? I’m also now almost one hundred per cent sure Mariah is full of crap, anyway. I don’t need a stranger’s reassurance.

‘Look, Mum, look!’

Following Robin’s outstretched finger, I squint and see he’s pointing at a grey squirrel. The fluffy creature inches out onto a branch, oblivious it is now starring in a one-squirrel show.

‘Look, Mum!’ shouts the other boy.

His mum smiles. ‘Wow, good spot, Declan.’ She turns towards me. ‘Declan is such a good little boy. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

I nod. ‘Yes, I know the feeling. Kids are so precious.’

As she watches our two sons play ‘spot the squirrel’, an uncomfortable silence falls between us. Unsure as to whether I should say something, I get out my phone and begin to text Leo that we’ll be back soon.

‘What do you think happened to that missing boy?’ she suddenly says, making my phone leap out of my hands and onto my lap.

‘I don’t know.’ I retrieve my phone and put it away before I drop and break it.

‘Oh, where are my manners, I’m Kristine. With a K not a C. Everyone gets that wrong. I don’t know how many Christmas and birthday cards I’ve returned because of rogue Cs.’

‘Cherrie,’ I reply. ‘With a C.’

‘What an odd name. Were your parents foreign?’

Kristine sees my eyes widen but mistakes the look for surprise rather than anger. ‘Oh of course you’re not foreign. With that skin and hair, you’re another English rose. Our kind are few and far between now.’

I glance over to Robin in the hope he is having as bad a time with Declan as I am with the mother, but they look so happy. I don’t want to drag him away so, trying not to encourage further xenophobia, I ask, ‘What have you heard about Thomas Doncaster?’

‘Poor boy. I blame the parents. Letting their child roam the streets at all hours, bound to attract the attentions of a wandering pervert.’

‘Excuse me? It’s not the parents’ fault their boy is missing. How dare you say something like that.’

Kristine shifts in her seat. ‘Kids don’t disappear when someone is watching them properly.’

I open my mouth to protest, but a saying rattles through my mind instead: even a broken clock is right twice a day. This woman may be horrible, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. If left alone for any length of time, children can be abducted by strangers and bad things can happen to them; I know all this as fact. The thing is, you can’t watch your child twenty-four-seven.

‘And anyway, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before,’ she says with a smug smile. ‘There was that bloke, now what was his name? Mr something. Now what was it?’

‘You know, Kristine. It’s people like you who victim-blame and spread rumours that should be …’

‘Victim-blame! How dare you!’ Unbelievably, she clutches her bag to her chest, expressing her hurt.

‘I was just saying …’ But I don’t get to finish my sentence.

Jumping off the bench, she yells, ‘Declan!’ at her son who instantly stops mid-chase of Robin. ‘We. Are. Leaving!’

Without another word, Kristine with a K gets up and strides off. Her little boy waves goodbye at a disappointed Robin. The strangers then walk away from us, further into the park.

‘I liked Declan,’ Robin complains as we go to leave; fortunately in the opposite direction.

‘I know, sweetie, but his mum was simply awful,’ I say.

Robin laughs, grabs my hand, and as we walk home he tells me how nice it is not to have an awful mummy.

Home smells like roast lamb. Leo has started lunch. I find him hunched over the kitchen sink carefully peeling too many potatoes.

‘How was the park?’ he asks.

‘It was nice.’ I walk over and wrap my arms about his waist. ‘Oh, there was this horrible woman there though.’

‘Yeah, I’m not surprised, I hear the park attracts them.’ He grins at me.

‘Very funny.’

‘Robin have fun? He barely spoke to me when you came in.’

‘He was excited and wanted to tell Nostrom about his squirrel sighting.’

Leo stops peeling and turns to face me. ‘You mean you left Nostrom here with me? Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve had his imaginary robot eyes on me all this time?’

‘Why does that bother you? Have you been up to no good?’ I joke.

‘You don’t know what I get up to when you’re not here.’

‘Paperwork and making roast potatoes, very naughty.’

We both laugh. Leo puts down the peeling knife and hugs me. ‘Relax. I’ll finish lunch,’ he says. It’s the most romantic thing he’s done for me in ages.

Curious to see if there is any news on Thomas Doncaster, I use my bonus time to turn on my laptop. Kristine has to be wrong about an abduction. Mariah is definitely wrong about a murder; he’s probably already been found and is home safe and sound.

I sit at the dining room table and look for information on his disappearance. I type his name into the search engine. Several recent articles come up. He is still missing.

Most of the articles say the same thing just in different tones, depending on its newspaper’s political leaning. Thomas disappeared while out with his older brother, who he left alone to visit the newsagent on the Rosemount Estate. No one has seen him since. Police checked the shop’s CCTV, but the camera was at an odd angle, so recorded no valuable footage.

One article mentions a case from the early 1990s, the serial killer William Hendy. However, Hendy is now in prison. It asks, could a copycat killer be picking up little boys? My eye twitches at this wild statement. Thomas is missing, not dead. In the case of William Hendy, or Mr Bones as the media dubbed him, he killed boys, and for some sick reason known only to himself, he removed their flesh so he could use their bones to create macabre artwork. Innocent lives were nothing but grotesque art materials to him.

There’s a link in the article highlighting the killer’s name so, without thinking, I click it and a new search reveals thousands of results about Mr Bones. I scan the first three articles and see something odd. There’s a link to a new podcast called The Flesh on the Bones. I click through to find it has aired two episodes already – the latest uploaded only yesterday afternoon. I read the podcast’s summary:

Welcome to The Flesh on the Bones. This Northamptonshire-based podcast aims to flesh out the bones of the story behind one of the worst serial killer cases in the UK’s history: Mr Bones. How much did Mrs Bones know? Wendy Hendy, ten years the senior of her serial killer husband William ‘Billy’ Hendy, committed suicide two days before the trial of her toy-boy husband. No one knows if she was an accomplice in the deaths of eleven boys, or whether she simply ignored her husband’s bloodthirsty nature. In light of Thomas Doncaster going missing, we have to ask, is his case connected to Mr Bones? And if so, is the connection surface, or bone-deep? You decide.

I scurry off and grab my headphones. I shouldn’t. No good can come of it, but I have to listen.

Chapter 5

‘Welcome one and all to the very first episode of The Flesh on the Bones. I’m your host Jai Patel and it’s my job, nay duty, to seek out the truth, no matter where it is hidden. To dig up the facts, no matter how dirty. To put the flesh on the bones of this story. Here in Northamptonshire we have had our fair share of weird and crazy, and just when you think you’ve heard it all, someone comes along and snatches the new normal right out of your grasp. Today’s podcast will look at the current case, the disappearance of Thomas Doncaster, and will also cover the 1990 child murders committed by the infamous artist Mr Bones.

‘Now, why would I pick such a gruesome case as Mr Bones for my first ever podcast? Well, I grew up with it in Northamptonshire with the legend of a bogey man that was real enough to stand trial and be convicted. I know people who lived through those dark years when Billy Hendy freely stole boys, then boiled them up for their bones. I even saw a photo of one of the alleged pieces of art he created. Stark white, and jagged edges where he had broken limbs to match his sick artistic vision. You would never think that such a picturesque place as Northants would breed such a monster, but it did.

‘I remember when I was young. My friends and I would hang about the streets, joking, having fun and enjoying the small taste of freedom it allowed. But this was after Mr Bones was caught. Like there could only ever be one monster, and when he was behind bars, we were all free to enjoy ourselves again. Well, as poor Thomas Doncaster just found out the hard way, there are many more monsters out there. Monsters who lie in wait for boys walking home alone without their older brothers. I’m sure if I looked back over the missing children’s records for this region, I’d find others too. How many, who knows. Well, one person would know, the killer who has been taking them.’

Jai Patel both writes and narrates The Flesh on the Bones. As I listen on, I find the first episode is a regurgitation of the rumours in the press at the time of Mr Bones’ trial. He loosely links historical facts of the case to Thomas Doncaster, then backtracks, then vomits up another theory.

As host, Jai has a soft unassuming voice that masks the salacious undertones of his commentary. I’m stunned he can get away with openly claiming Thomas is dead. There is no evidence of this and surely if the Doncasters were to hear this they would be mortified. His assumptions remind me of Mariah. Perhaps in a future episode he’ll claim to be psychic too. I’m so angry that I almost stop listening – almost.

Leo appears in my line of sight. He motions for me to take off my headphones.

‘Your lunch is getting cold. What are you doing?’

‘I’m listening to this thing about Thomas Doncaster,’ I say.

‘Who?’

‘The little boy who’s missing,’

‘Oh, the one from Rosemount. Have they found him yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Poor little guy. You want me to bring your lunch out here so you can keep listening? I can eat in front of the TV.’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

Leo scoots off into the kitchen and comes out holding a plate with a slab of roast lamb, mint sauce, all the trimmings, and a cup of tea. I’m half expecting this good deed to be cold when it lands on the table in front of me, yet it isn’t. I smile up at him, and he bends down to kiss the top of my head.

‘Robin is eating with Nostrom upstairs. Apparently robots love lamb.’ Leo strolls across to the sofa. I watch him pick up the remote and flick through various channels. The flashing screen lights up his face as he finds something to watch while balancing his lunch on his lap.

I put my headphones back on and continue listening.

Jai likes to travel around town while he records his podcast. It gives his soundtrack a distinct feel of urban reality as if he’s in the middle of the story; there as it happens. I eat my lunch and half-heartedly listen to him condemn Thomas, berate the Hendys, and sensationalise the needless deaths of eleven boys in the 1990s.

I’m too busy eating roast potatoes to realise the first episode has bled into the second. I simultaneously don’t want to hear it, yet feel like I should.

It’s not until I hear Jai say Leigh-Ann Hendy, that I stop eating.

I hold a mulch of minted peas in my mouth as still as I can, so I can hear what he says next.

‘The only daughter of the Hendys, Leigh-Ann, was eight years old when her father was arrested. Mr Bones used Leigh-Ann to lure young boys into his car. Any child seeing another would assume their safety. Leigh-Ann, who the papers dubbed Little Bones, is now thirty-five years old and lives in the Oak Cross Estate under the new name of Cherrie Forrester.’

I yank off the headphones. My hand shoots to my chest to check my heart is still beating.

How does he know my name? What gives him the right to broadcast it! It’s not his secret to tell. My new family has no idea about my time as Leigh-Ann Hendy; no one currently in my life does. Everyone knows me as Cherrie Forrester, and to be fair, I’ve now lived longer as her than I did as Leigh-Ann. I changed my name when I was seventeen years old. I wanted a new beginning as someone else, someone who wasn’t nicknamed Little Bones by the media.

Tentatively, I put the headphones back on.

‘She got a new life, a fresh start; which is more than can be said for the young boys her father butchered. Leigh-Ann has a family and works at a local independent retailer in the town centre. How much does she remember …?’

I check how many people have listened to the podcast. This episode only came out on Saturday afternoon and it already has over two hundred subscriber downloads. Subscribers who could be anywhere: UK, international, local …

Slipping off my headphones, I stumble back from the table, knocking over my chair behind me.

‘Cherrie, are you okay?’ Leo asks from the sofa.

I push down the top of the laptop, stagger towards the sofa, and throw myself into my boyfriend’s arms.

‘What’s up? Tell me: what’s wrong?’

Should I tell him now and get all my dirty laundry out? Let him realise who the mother of his child is? Tell him my dad would wait until after sunset, then drive the county’s streets luring young boys with lies. All the while, I would sit in the back seat, my innocent smile giving all his victims a promise of safety. A promise never kept.

Could there be another killer out there? Was the Doncaster boy offered a lift by a kind man with his little daughter in the back of his nondescript grey Ford? Is he now suffering the same fate as all those my dad snatched off the streets? Knowing my family’s skeletons, Leo could believe I had something to do with Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance.

Growing up in foster families all around the UK, this was their train of thought. A train that would repetitively follow the same tracks back and forth. All of them were certain Little Bones was Mr Bones’ apprentice. I was evil by association. Leo could think it too; could believe I could hurt a child. That I could harm Robin.

‘Cherrie?’ Leo says, still staring at me.

‘It’s fine. This whole Thomas Doncaster thing just has me rattled,’ I say. It’s not an out-and-out lie, but the words still make me shudder enough to wriggle from Leo’s arms. He wasn’t holding me tightly anyhow.

‘The kid will probably come home tomorrow. Don’t worry about it. You know what little boys are like.’

I do know what little boys are like. I watched so many of them accept a lift from my father. Worse, just take his hand on the street and walk towards their death without hesitation.

‘What are you doing for the rest of today?’ Leo asks me.

‘I want a PJ couch day. How about you?’

‘I need to get a bit of work done on the extension. I’ll join you and Robin on the couch after. We can watch the new film with Dwayne Johnson in. Robin loves that guy.’

‘Yeah, sounds great.’ Then, for some unknown reason, I add, ‘Thanks.’

Leo smiles at me before getting up and jogging upstairs. He’s been working on our extension for about two years. It’s a proper room now, with a ceiling and four walls; still, Leo wants it to be perfect for his grand opening, so neither Robin nor I can set foot in it until the official red ribbon cutting. He’s working hard. I hear him in there at all times, even in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. It should be ready in the summer; perhaps we can have a barbecue; on the other hand, would anyone turn up if they all find out who my father is, and that he is not dead like I told them, but alive and serving multiple life sentences in prison? Will I even be here for the extension’s grand opening? Leo could throw me out of my own home; take Robin from me – no judge in his or her right mind would award Little Bones custody of a young boy.

I need to stay ahead of this. I go back to my laptop and set up a Google Alert for Cherrie Forrester. If anyone else mentions me online, I’ll see it.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I find Leo changing into some old jeans and a cream jumper. I grab my PJs and go to change in the bathroom.

‘I’ve seen you naked many times, Cherrie.’

Blushing, I look over at him. There’s paint splattered all over the back of his jumper.

‘I can get the paint off for you. Just put it on top of the hamper when you’re done.’

Leo looks up at me and smirks. ‘I’ll just chuck it out. You’ll never get dark blue paint off a cream jumper.’

Chapter 6

Right now, two hundred strangers know who I am. They hold the dark secret I’ve been hiding. These random people now know me better than the people I love.

I’m not sure why I take so long to think about it – I need to report Jai Patel to the police. As I pick up my phone, I realise my police contact will have retired by now. I can’t even recall his name. I do remember he looked an awful lot like Magnum P.I. When I was little, I kept imagining him in a loud Hawaiian shirt on an even louder speedboat – the wind whipping through his moustache as he barrelled towards criminals. Without Magnum P.I., there’s probably no one left who remembers Leigh-Ann Hendy. Well, there’s one person who will remember me, but I haven’t seen my dad since I was eight years old.

After Robin goes to bed, I open the laptop and check The Flesh on the Bones subscribers. Twenty more strangers now know who I am … I’m being an idiot again. No one close to me listens to podcasts. I have to weather this new-media storm until it passes. As soon as he realises that he’s not in trouble, Thomas Doncaster will come strolling home. After that, Jai Patel and his Flesh on the Bones’ wild predictions will curl up and die; wither into digital dust. Jai will have to move on to a new crime and conceive different twisted lies to cash in on online with morbid rubberneckers.

Leo is working on the extension, so I absent-mindedly watch TV. I’m about to change channels when there’s a knock on the door.

Four panes of thick mottled glass make up my front door; through it, I see two shadows lingering on my doorstep. I open the door, leaving the chain off. Which I instantly regret. Standing before me are Mariah and Jon.

‘Um, hi. Did I leave something at your house last night?’ I ask.

‘No,’ Jon says, smiling at me.

Mariah is wearing the same black dress as yesterday, only now over the top of it is a chunky black jumper.

‘Okay, so why are you here at my house?’

‘Can we come in?’ Jon asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer. Gently, he pushes the door open so Mariah can walk inside my home.

Letting go of the door, I step backwards. ‘I guess so; quickly, though,’ I say. Leo still has no idea where I was last night. If he comes out now and sees my impromptu visitors, I’ll have to confess, and I already have enough on my plate.

‘Sorry to barge in like this,’ Mariah says, not looking at me. Instead, her eyes are everywhere, feasting on my family photos and assorted knick-knacks.

‘We don’t make a habit of surprise visits to clients’ houses. But, Mariah was so insistent we come to you.’ Jon shuffles into my living room.

‘I don’t want another reading,’ I say. ‘I have no more money.’

‘No worries. Consider this part of last night’s reading,’ Jon replies.

‘I had another vision.’ Mariah is looking at a photo of Robin on our mantel. In it, my son is wearing his school uniform and a goofy grin. ‘Your little boy, you must be careful, the danger is closer. Shadows are closing in on you quicker. Shadows who will swallow him whole.’ She looks pale. Her lipstick has all but rubbed away, so her lips now appear like flaccid grey caterpillars clinging to her mouth.

‘What the hell! I don’t want you here. I don’t want you spreading your insane lies,’ I yell at them. Both Jon and Mariah look surprised that I haven’t greeted their dire prediction with open arms. These people are crazy.

‘Mummy, are you okay?’ I look up to see Robin inching down the stairs.

‘I’m fine, sweetie. Go back to your room.’

‘Who are they?’ he asks.

When Mariah sees Robin, her face lights up. Her caterpillar lips morph into butterflies as she smiles. ‘He’s wonderful, Cherrie,’ she says, putting her arms out to my son.

‘Please leave. My boyfriend is out the back; if he sees you, he won’t be happy. Please just go.’

Robin looks from me to Mariah. ‘Who is this lady?’

‘I’m Mariah; I’m a friend of your mum’s.’

I want to correct her, but Robin wouldn’t understand.

‘Go back upstairs, Robin. Mummy wants to talk to her friends.’

Tightening his lips, Robin is about to argue, yet thinks better of it. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says to Mariah and Jon, then, God love him, he curtseys.

‘Nice to meet you, little bird,’ Mariah replies smiling at him.

‘I’m not a bird.’

‘You must have been named after one,’ Mariah says.

‘No, Mum and Dad named me after Batman’s best friend,’ my lovely little boy says.

I can’t help but smile; neither can Jon and Mariah. They chuckle and the atmosphere in my hallway almost visibly lifts.

‘You’re named after the superhero too.’ I wink at him.

Now confident he doesn’t just owe his name to a small red-breasted bird, Robin runs back up the stairs.

‘So sorry; we shouldn’t have come, but Mariah was so determined, and I thought what harm could it do? Better to give you the warning than something happen and we regret not saying anything. That’s happened before.’ Jon purses his lips as if to stop from telling me more.

‘Thank you for your concern, but Robin is fine. I’m fine.’

Mariah grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘Be vigilant, please.’

‘Okay. I will.’ It’s an easy promise. Robin is everything to me. I’d kill for him.

As his wife starts her journey down my drive, Jon turns to me. ‘I’m sorry about all this. Here, we want to give you a refund for your reading.’ He gives me £25 and walks out the door.

As I look at the money, I realise it’s his way of telling me that everything Mariah is saying is rubbish. She’s not psychic, just chock full of doom and gloom. I feel sorry for their daughter. What kind of life must she lead?

‘Come along now,’ Jon says as he holds out his hand for his wife. Mariah slips her hand in his, and they both get into their posh car.

Before I go to bed, I check The Flesh on the Bones podcast page one more time; only two more strangers know my name now, but maybe one is all it will take to shatter my new life into a billion sharp shards. Like six degrees of Kevin Bacon. A stranger listens to the podcast and blabs to their friend, who passes it along to another, and another, until all the people I care about have learnt who I am. I slump down onto the bedroom floor. With that way of thinking, how long before even Kevin Bacon knows I’m Little Bones?

Is this Mariah’s predicted threat? That my past is moving between my present and future and casting a dangerous shadow, like an eclipse of reality? What am I doing? I’m falling into her trap by dwelling on what she said. Mariah is not psychic. Robin is not in danger.

Leo is still beavering away in the extension. I leave him to it. He finally comes to bed after midnight. He’s happy and smells of fresh-cut wood and paint. He kisses the top of my head yet my mind is too tied up to allow my body a reaction. I pretend to be asleep. He tries to wake me one more time, and then gives up.

Chapter 7

When I look at the clock, I see it’s only 2 a.m., so spend the next couple of hours thinking through my options. I could come clean about who I am and what my dad did – hope my friends and family love me enough to let my lies slide. Of course, it’s not just the lies about my past; it’s the knowledge I was there. At the time, it was all over the papers, rumours of how involved Little Bones really was in the murders. A little girl whose dad included her on his hunts to collect prey. A little girl shown how to clean and break human bones.

Dad exposed me to darkness at an early age; criminology books all agree it can stain a young soul, driving them to commit equally dark deeds. Back then, once people knew their new schoolmate or foster daughter was Leigh-Ann Hendy they treated me differently to the other children. Little Bones was watched with a keener eye.

I lied about my mum too; telling everyone she died in an accident. I know it was a lie because I was the one who found her. There were three empty bottles of sleeping pills scattered on the bathroom mat, which I used to wipe my wet feet. She was in the bathtub; her head submerged. Her features should have been peaceful. They were not. My mother’s mouth was slack and falling to one side. Her glassy eyes were painfully wide. She had struggled at some point, perhaps regretting her decision. The water magnified that expression, while forcing her pale, dyed-blonde hair out around her like a limp sea creature. In that moment, I hated her. I hate her still.

At around four o’clock, I force my mind to be as still as the waters that surrounded my mother. I repeat the mantra, sleep don’t think. Sleep don’t think. What would I tell Robin about his grandparents? What would happen if they never find Thomas Doncaster, or if they find only his bones? What if some sicko has decided to follow in my dad’s footsteps? This thing could blow over or blow up. Most of the worries about my past are just that, worries. They never happen and, in hindsight, they caused more damage in my mind than they ever did in real life, but my luck can’t hold. What if Mariah does have a gift, and is right about Robin being in mortal danger? What if he’s in danger because of me? What if everyone deems me an unfit parent and the courts take him from me? What if – the worst way to start a question.

At six o’clock, out of sheer exhaustion, I roll over and close my eyes. I’m asleep for an hour before the alarm goes off. Leo throws out his arm to hit the snooze button, slapping me in the face as he does.

‘Hey,’ I say, shoving him back.

He turns over and spoons me, his breath warm on the back of my neck. His arm then snakes through the gap my hip makes on the bed.

‘Robin will be up in a minute.’ I slip from his embrace and out of my warm bed. It’s a cold morning, so when my bare feet hit the floor, I shiver. I reach for my fluffy pink robe and pull it on.

‘I had a dream about you last night,’ Leo says as he lazily rolls onto his back and scratches his hairy belly.

‘Yeah, what was I doing?’

‘I can’t tell you; you’ll take it the wrong way.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Well.’ Leo sits up. ‘You were wearing this long black see-through nightgown.’

‘Bit cold for that.’ I laugh.

‘Wait, that’s not all. You were straddling me.’

‘Really?’ I blush.

‘Yeah, you were smothering me with a pillow. One of the nice memory foam ones we bought last week.’

‘What?’ I stare at Leo.

‘You were trying to kill me. Do you think there’s any meaning to it?’ He comically raises an eyebrow.

‘Why would I kill you? There’s no life insurance to collect,’ I say and try to laugh.

Leo smiles. ‘Yeah, I’ll put life insurance on the shopping list for next week.’

‘Pop new pillows on the list too.’

‘Ha, ha, very funny. Yeah, I can just imagine you as some black widow serial killer.’

I want to respond with something witty, yet only manage to stammer out, ‘I, I, I need to get Robin up for school.’

Looking thoughtful, he falls back down against his pillow. ‘Probably means nothing, eh?’

Robin bounces around the kitchen while I make him cereal. He asks me about my friends who came round last night. I tell him they are new friends, and that they wanted to check we were all right. As subtly as I can, I ask my son not to tell his dad about my friends, saying that he’d be upset he didn’t get to meet them. I feel awful saying this, but I don’t know these people and what their intentions are towards my family.

‘Of course, I don’t tell Dad everything. But it was nice of them to come and see us,’ he says spraying milk and half-chewed Coco Pops across the counter. Instantly, his little hand jumps to his mouth. I grab a cloth and clean up the mess before he can shove the escaped cereal back in. It’s his favourite chocolatey breakfast treat, and I know he wouldn’t want to waste them; three-second rule be damned.

‘Yes, it’s nice to look after the people in your life.’ Although I say this, I really don’t mean it; Mariah and Jon don’t know me well enough to care that much about my son’s safety or mine.

Robin nods and then grins. ‘Mum, Halloween is a few weeks away, and the school is letting us get dressed up for the day. Can we buy my costume soon? Nostrom told me that good outfits sell out quick.’

‘Nostrom is oddly knowledgeable about the retail sector.’

‘He’s a robot – he knows a lot about everything.’

‘What do you want to go as?’ I ask as I butter a piece of toast.

‘How about a skeleton? They’re cool. My bones could glow in the dark. I can dance and it’ll look crazy.’

He carries on talking about how they are learning about the human body at school, but I can’t take in any further facts. He’s Mr Bones’ grandson, and without knowing, the same thing that enthralled Dad fascinates him.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘No skeletons, they’re too creepy.’

‘It’s Halloween; creepy is the point,’ Leo says from the doorway. I’m not sure how long he’s been watching us, or how much of our conversation he heard, but he’s grinning at me.

‘Yeah, Mum, creepy is good!’ Robin jumps off the kitchen stool, and runs around the counter to tickle me.

‘All right, we’ll see. You’ll be late. Go grab your school stuff.’ I twist my son around and nudge him towards the living room.

‘Bye, Daddy,’ he sings before he disappears to fetch his bag.

‘Bye, tiger.’ Leo looks at me. ‘Why don’t you want him to dress up like a skeleton?’ He takes a piece of toast off my plate and rams it into his mouth.

‘It’s just weird. There are so many things Robin could be. What about one of The Avengers? Thor might be fun; get him interested in myths and Viking gods.’

‘That’s a good idea. Perhaps we can swap Nostrom for Odin.’

I’m not sure if Leo is taking the piss or not. It’s only when he smiles I realise it was a joke. I force out a chuckle to appease his ego.

‘Mummy!’ Robin calls from the door. ‘Nostrom’s worried we’ll be late for school. Hurry up.’

Leo waggles his eyebrows at me. ‘Odin’s looking pretty good right now, eh? I bet he wouldn’t bother about tardiness.’

I drop my toast onto my plate. As I do, Leo swipes it up and eats it.

‘Actually, I think robots are kind of cool,’ I say, grabbing my coat. After pulling on my boots, I head for the door.

I unlock the car, and Robin runs for the passenger seat. It’s not worth the argument to make him sit in the back seat, so I let it slide. Also, while he’s next to me, I can keep a better eye on him. As soon as he’s in the car, he pulls off his shoes.

‘Robin, you need to put those back on.’ As I buckle up, an image of poor Thomas Doncaster’s shoeless body flashes in my mind. Quickly, I shake it off. Mariah has no idea what she’s talking about; I wish I’d never asked her about it.

‘Can I keep them off; just for the car ride? I promise I’ll put them back on again when we get there. Please?’

I start the car and pull off the drive. ‘Okay, just remember we’ll be there in less than ten minutes.’

‘Lovely,’ Robin says, wiggling his socked toes as if he is on a sun lounger at the beach.

Leo must have driven my car yesterday, as he’s left the radio on an Eighties station. We listen to Shakin’ Stevens’ song about an old house. Robin chair dances to it, while I grind my teeth. When I hear the opening beat of Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’. I can’t take it anymore, so switch it off.

‘Mum, why’d you do that?’

I don’t have a good answer for him. I can’t tell him Dad would listen to Eighties pop music while he worked in his art studio. Sometimes, when he let me work with him, we would sing along while painting bones; bones I often held against my own limbs to see if they were similar to mine.

‘Mum, please can I listen to the wolf song?’

When I don’t reply, Robin reaches over to turn the radio back on.

‘I’m sure this song was on Strictly once. The couple I like danced to it.’ He hums the melody and then sings, ‘I’m on the hump down after you, sense is a pound, it’s in lost and found, and I’m chunky like the wolf.’

I laugh at him. ‘Those are not the lyrics.’

‘I like mine better.’ He then sings, ‘Cause I’m chunky like the wolf.’

After a brief argument about shoes, I drop Robin off at school.

My shift is from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. today. I can see Shania is already on my counter, a runaway cleavage poking out of her top. Smeared across her face is a distinct look of disappointment.

‘Thought Tracy was in today,’ she says.

‘Me too,’ I reply and carry on walking to the staff room to hang up my coat and stow my bag. I hope Shania wanders off early in the shift; perhaps to stock the cheeses. She’s bound to want to talk about Saturday night, and I’m not sure I can take another discussion about Mariah’s night of doom and gloom. I still have a tangled garden of thoughts to weed through, and I always do my best thinking when I’m cutting meat alone.

I wrap my clean apron around my waist and, as I reach into the pocket to retrieve my nametag, see an errant spot of blood on the material. Sometimes the aprons are hard to clean, especially as Mr Dawson only puts them through a domestic washing machine. It’s just a small drop of red, but I still don’t feel comfortable. Dad was always so clean in the studio. Any stray drops of red were instantly cleaned up; clothes and aprons taken outside and burnt. I open Tracy’s locker and quickly swap it out for one of her clean ones.

Shania forces a smile at me as I approach.

‘So what did you think about Saturday night?’ she asks.

Feeling my shoulders sag, I look around us. Annoyingly, the shop is lacking in customers, again. I can’t feign helping someone, so I’m stuck regurgitating Saturday night with one of my least favourite people.

‘Mariah used our health and safety forms for information,’ I say, air quoting health and safety.

‘Yeah, I figured. Shame, I needed to hear some good news.’ Shania stares at her feet.

‘So, she only gave Gurpreet a good reading, eh?’

‘Well, if you call getting married a good thing.’ Shania laughs.

Nodding, I peek out backstage to see if the deliveries have arrived. No such luck.

‘How are you and Leo getting on?’

I’m not friends with Shania, but we’re not strangers either. We know basic information about each other’s lives. She’s a single mum with a son about Robin’s age, and she has a reputation as a boyfriend-stealer. She knows I’m with my son’s father, and that we’re not married. She’s seen Leo around a few times. I suspect she fancies him.

‘Pretty good. Leo is still building that damn extension, though.’ I give her this much, any more and I’d feel too exposed.

‘Yeah, I hear he’s pretty handy. When is it going to be ready? Any chance of a party?’

‘Sure,’ I say, and realise I now have to invite her.

‘Cool. Us Creekers need to stick together.’ Shania bumps my shoulder with hers.

‘Is Gurpreet in today?’

‘Only till eleven – she’s on the till. I’m taking over from her when she goes.’

‘I’m on my own here?’ That’s odd. Usually, there’s at least two of us on the deli counter.

‘Yeah, Mr Dawson is cutting shifts.’ Shania then whispers, ‘Is it true?’

What is she talking about? Could she be one of the 221 people who now know who I am? Is my new life at an end?

‘Is what true?’

‘Dawson’s is closing. How much redundancy pay would we get when it does?’

I almost breathe a sigh of relief that Shania’s not talking about that bloody podcast, until I realise she’s just said I’ll soon be unemployed. Tracy said something similar on Saturday night.

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I saw Mr Dawson’s diary. He has the accountants coming in twice this week. That never happens, and we’ve been thin on the ground lately. Not too many deliveries either. It doesn’t take a genius to add it all up.’

‘You shouldn’t say stuff like that. Rumours have a habit of becoming self-fulfilling prophecies. What if the customers hear you and decide to shop somewhere else?’

‘What customers?’ Shania raises her voice and spreads her arms wide.

She’s right. It’s dead. Usually, there’s a few mothers shopping after the school run, or at least a bunch of elderly people who wander around for hours, then only buy sweets, yet today there’s no one.

‘The delivery will be here soon. Why don’t you have a tea break before you go on the till?’ I suggest.

‘Sure, I’ll prepare myself to get rushed off my feet,’ Shania replies with a smirk.

I busy myself with cutting ham; all the while, the podcast weaves between my thoughts. If everyone discovers my past, there will be a synchronised shunning. It’ll be as if I’m wearing my dad’s bloody deeds strapped to my chest; like a character in Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter. I’m not melodramatic; growing up it happened too many times to Leigh-Ann. People look at you differently when they assume they know what you are capable of doing.

Two hours of serving the odd customer, and wrestling tortured thoughts later, the delivery of fresh meat arrives. The driver is an unfamiliar face; I’ve barely seen the same one twice. He helps me move the meat towards the counter. That way, I can unpack it, yet keep an eye out for customers at the same time.

I’m too busy deciding if I will buy a chicken for tonight to notice the man by my counter straight away. He’s only the fifth customer of the day, and it is past 4 p.m.

When I do clock him, I see he’s in his late fifties, tall and handsome. Typically, customers barely look up to acknowledge me. They are too busy drinking in the meat, picking their choice cuts, yet this guy is looking straight at me. Not smiling. Not talking. Just staring.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask him.

‘Two pork chops, please.’

I reach down to fetch the meat. I’m supposed to give customers the older cuts, but instead give him the fresh ones delivered today.

‘These are good for at least four days. It’ll be £3.30. Is that okay?’

‘That’s fine, thanks, Cherrie.’

‘Hey, how do you know my name?’ I ask.

‘You’re wearing a nametag,’ he replies.

As I wrap the chops, I watch him. His expression is the same; it hasn’t changed throughout our entire interaction.

‘Oh, sorry. It’s just weird hearing a new customer say my name.’ I give him the pork chops. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Thank you, Cherrie,’ he mutters, and then saunters towards the cheese counter to stare at some prewrapped Stilton.

‘You okay?’ asks a familiar voice.

I focus to see Kylie at the counter, her baby bump straining out of her shoplifter’s massive coat.

‘Yeah, I’m all right.’

‘You don’t look all right. You look pale.’

‘The guy over there.’ As she turns her head, I quickly whisper, ‘Don’t look.’

Casually, Kylie looks down at the meat, then slides a glance towards the man. ‘What about him?’

‘I’m not sure, he’s just weird. He called me Cherrie.’

‘That is weird. Although, that is your name.’

‘Yeah, but my nametag doesn’t get used much. I mean you didn’t notice it, right?’

Kylie narrows her eyes at me. ‘No, and I’m still not noticing it. You’re not wearing a nametag.’

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