Little Bones

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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