BONE BABY: chilling emotional suspense with a killer ending Read online

  BONE BABY

  DIANE DICKSON

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2017

  © Diane M. Dickson

  More novels by Diane Dickson published by The Book Folks:

  LEAVING GEORGE

  WHO FOLLOWS

  LAYERS OF LIES

  PICTURES OF YOU

  YOU’RE DEAD

  THE GRAVE

  DEPTHS OF DECEPTION

  SINGLE TO EDINBURGH

  TWIST OF TRUTH

  TANGLED TRUTH

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

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  Chapter 1

  It rained on the day of the funeral, which was right. Sun on a funeral is an abomination. The heavens should weep grey tears and mourners must turn their eyes downward in defence against the deluge. And so it was as they carried Charlotte Mary into the chapel and afterwards left her there in the silence, waiting to slide out of existence.

  There were sandwiches in the pub later, drinks, and more tears and some thin laughter. It was all as it should have been.

  When the small group had left, with hugs and sad smiles and shaking of heads, Lily sat in the darkened house and watched cars on the road outside throw shadows across the curtains.

  At first, as she had died, in parts and pieces, starting with her physical strength and ending with the downward spiral into still breathing oblivion, the absence of Charlotte Mary hadn’t really made much difference. Life had been filled with the bother of it all. The dashing back and forth, the organising and constant waiting for the phone to ring.

  She had been in the hospice for weeks by then, and unreachable for days. Now though, when even the flesh and blood part of her was untouchable, there had opened a hole: a quiet, dark space. Lily sat in her own chair beside the fire. She reached over and pulled the plaid blanket from the arm of the couch, and laid it across her knees. Her eyes were fixed on the other chair, the emptiness in it.

  She pushed at things circling on the edges of her mind. Things that had grown as Charlotte Mary had shrunk in her illness and Lily had begun to imagine a life on her own. There was a duty that loomed.

  Very, very late in the night when even the quiet hum from the distant motorway was barely perceptible, Lily pushed the blanket to the floor, and walked through to the kitchen. She took the big old key from the top of the cupboard and fitted it into the hole in the cellar door. It turned easily. That surprised her; she expected some resistance after all this time. She curled a hand around the doorframe and groped with her finger for the switch. The noise of it was loud in her night-deadened ears, she was surprised by the brightness, had thought that the bulb would have long since ceased to function.

  The smell was a familiar memory, something from the past, like laundry, like boiled onions, an old smell of damp and dirt, and stale air. As she took the first deep step, the wood creaked and she hesitated. It may be dangerous, the damp would surely have rotted the old timber, age may have wreaked havoc on the joints. If she were to tumble, head over heels down into the noisome dimness, then the problem would be solved. Maybe she would die, the end would be sudden and sharp and welcome. No-one would come for days, she could lie in the cellar and die, and wouldn’t need to think anymore. She wouldn’t need to act, she could avoid it all.

  Fate was cruel; she reached the bottom of the stairs safely, and her feet made gentle thuds on the earth floor as she moved into the room.

  At first, she had come down here often, quietly, in secret, just to be here and to take away the empty feeling. She had crept down when Charlotte Mary had been at work, or the shops, or out at another party. She had perched on the little ledge over some pipes, and sat and cried. Sometimes she had sung softly, or hummed, and always she had rocked. At first, she didn’t notice the rocking but then, when the slight movement became habitual, she had let it be and swayed gently with the murmur of the song, and the distant sigh of the trees in the garden outside, above the level of this space.

  She sank down onto the ledge tonight, though it was cold and damp and the chill seeped quickly through her thin funeral skirt, and brought out gooseflesh on her legs.

  It was darker but she could see a little. She knew the space, had always been able to conjure it up in her mind’s eye in an instant. The narrow, grimy window smeared a pale moonlit patch on the dirt. She had argued with Charlotte Mary about that space, said that the small warmth and the little light would be a benediction, but had been overruled and the earth there was old and compacted, undisturbed.

  When the tears came, as she had known they would, she let them flow, and only when they became an irritation dripping across her cheeks, did she raise her arm and brush away the moisture with the cuff of her cardigan sleeve.

  After many minutes, Lily rose stiffly and walked forwards. When she found the spot where the earth had been disturbed, she bent her legs and knelt on the cold ground. She laid a hand on the surface.

  She hadn’t intended to speak but in the event the words would have their way and assaulted the silence in a shushing whisper. “I’m sorry. I hope it’s not too late. I’m so very sorry.” She bent her head, closed her eyes and folded her hands in the front of her, like a Sunday School child. She murmured the Lord’s Prayer, the only thing she could remember after years of denial and rejection of anything from the church of her youth.

  It didn’t seem enough, there must be more she could do. She turned her head back and forth.

  Upstairs was a picture of Charlotte Mary which she had placed centrally on the sideboard. There was a small arrangement of flowers in front of it, a candle, the sort that was in a small glass for safety. They would do, yes, they would do very well.

  Using both
of her arms she pushed herself upwards and went back to the relative warmth of the kitchen and through to the living room. They hadn’t even lit the candle, it had seemed too theatrical. The flowers wouldn’t miss the light, they were already dying after all. She didn’t like cut flowers, why would you choose to bring dying things into the house? But these had been a gift, thoughtful and given in kindness. Perfect.

  Chapter 2

  It was even colder now, back upstairs. Lily dragged an old jacket over her clothes and sat before her computer. For the last few days she hadn’t had a chance to use the machine, and she had missed it. Though Charlotte Mary had been mocking of the hours that she spent in front of the glowing screen, it had been, for her, a thin line thrown out into the wide, virtual world. She had taken a class at the library and had loved everything about it from the start.

  While Charlotte Mary had been in the hospital, over and over in the desperate battle against the various assaults of her illness, Lily had used the time alone in the house to sail around the multiple worlds that the internet had given her. She hadn’t talked to many people. One or two old friends from boarding school had found her, and she had read their posts and clicked the thumbs up button under pictures of weddings, birthdays, the birth of grandchildren. Once she had sat late into the night typing tiny messages back and forth with Sophie, whose silly old husband had run away with his secretary.

  She had longed to share the news with Charlotte Mary but it wasn’t possible. She would have been appalled at the back and forth of personal details that Lily had been a party to. When Lily had told Sophie about Charlotte Mary’s death she had offered to come to the funeral, but in the event, it hadn’t worked out and really it was a relief. She wasn’t strong enough to meet anyone from back then.

  Now though, if she decided to sit for hours in front of the screen, sharing the little dramas that happened in the lives of ghosts from the past, then she could do so. She would never want to share her own history though, and indeed even if she did, who would believe it?

  Her fingers were cramping now in the chill and she cupped her hands in front of her mouth and blew into the little fleshy hollow they made. The next moment was an epiphany of sorts. She heard the click of a radiator as it cooled against the wall, and with a moment of sudden brightness she realised that she could push the override button and turn on the heating with no reference to anyone else. She was totally in charge of her own existence. She laughed aloud into the night and then bit back the momentary mirth, it was unbecoming today of all days. Again, she stopped mid-thought. She turned and looked at the clock. It was just after three in the morning. The funeral was yesterday. It was in the past. Charlotte Mary was in the past.

  Tears threatened, after so many years together it was as if a part of her own being had been left there in the crematorium, and yet… and yet. She was still here. She was alive. She was free – the final thought caused her to gulp. It had hovered just out of reach. Once they had known the terminal prognosis, it had implanted in her brain, but she had wrapped and rolled it in guilt and never acknowledged it until now.

  She stood with her behind against the warming radiator and ran her hands back and forth along the ridged top, until it became too hot, and then she moved away.

  She made tea and cut a thick slice of white bread for toast. She added a hunk of cheese to the plate and placed the snack on the dining table. This room, of all of them, felt empty and unwelcoming, the dark furniture glowering at her from corners. Sitting at her usual place, next to five empty chairs, was a lonely feeling. She put it all on a plastic tray from the kitchen and went back to her desk. She pushed aside her pens and notebook and then sat in her swivel chair. It felt silly to drape a napkin across her lap, but to eat without one, even now in this new world, was a step too far.

  She had thought about this moment often during the last few weeks. She had held back from the final betrayal and now, when it was time, she was beset by doubt. She turned to the sideboard, hidden in a darker corner, and all that was visible of the portrait was a glint from the glass in the brown wooden frame. Nevertheless, she moved across the room and laid the picture face down.

  She had few details to go on. She knew the aftermath. The final days were seared into her brain, a brand that she would carry with her to the grave. But of the beginnings, she had little really to work with.

  She closed her eyes and played it over in her head. The first day: frantic arguments, pleading, desperate fear. There was the joy as well, and she wouldn’t deny it, there was the wonder of it, but even through the awe, she had known it was wicked. It was as wrong as anything could be and now, all too late to be sure, she would see what she could do to make some sort of recompense for Charlotte Mary’s great sin. Yes, and her own part in it, which was surely just as bad.

  She knew the date and probable location from the timings that she had already worked out.

  She took a sip of her tea, flexed her fingers, and began.

  For a while, she looked at hospital sites and the records of births and deaths for Hampshire but without paying she couldn’t get very far, and she couldn’t pay until she knew just where to look. She had thought that she was adept at all this but was now overcome with the enormity of it, and her own inadequacy. She felt a moment of doubt and pushed it away. She was tired, that was all. She would look again tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte Mary had always been the driver. Lily had never learned, and the car that they had bought only two years ago would have to be sold. It might have been fun to learn but at this stage she must be realistic; though her mind was clear, her body might well let her down. She had been coping after all for the last months. She needed to organise transport for tomorrow to take her to see Mr Barnstaple, the solicitor.

  The will.

  She didn’t want to do it but it was unavoidable. They had money in a joint account for general housekeeping, quite apart from her own funds. The house had always been in both their names, if there was anything else then it wasn’t important. She had more than enough to live on, and savings which would pay for extras.

  Nevertheless, it had to be faced, there may be things she would need to do. Charlotte Mary had outlived her brother and parents. There were hardly any relatives and the few friends that they had would surely not be mentioned. No, it would be a formality. If there were bills and costs, then the life insurance would cover that. Ah well, better to get it done now.

  She was overcome by weariness. Her head was swimming with lack of sleep and she caught herself sitting motionless for minutes at a time, fingers frozen on the keys, her mind elsewhere.

  Snippets and snaps of memory buzzed in and out of her thoughts: the day they had met, the first day of the upper sixth year. Charlotte Mary, a new girl at this most unlikely time in her school career. Brash and confident, and stunningly beautiful. Her long hair a great dark wave across slender shoulders and down her back, all the way to her tiny waist. Her brown eyes filled with laughter as they all turned to watch her swing across the quad, suitcase in hand, a bright canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  Lily had been smitten from that moment and when the new goddess had deigned to allow at first a friendship, and then so much more, she had convinced herself that her life was complete. At last she didn’t need to hide who she was, what she felt, because, wonder of wonders, the new queen of the upper sixth was a sister in the flesh.

  Her parents had been shocked when, at what seemed like the last minute, she had changed her university choices. But they went along with the changed plans, and helped with rent for the small flat the girls wanted to share. If they had misgivings about the relationship they kept it to themselves, and until they died never referred to Charlotte Mary as anything other than ‘Lily’s best friend’.

  Yes, all had seemed golden, had been golden for a while. They had shocked some of their contemporaries, but they didn’t care. They had hidden what needed to be hidden, when it was unavoidable – dangerous even – but then, a
s Charlotte Mary had always insisted, they should have what they wanted, do what they wanted, and it was no-one’s business but their own.

  She had been so brave and unconcerned about the approval of others, and Lily had grabbed onto her wonderful coat-tails and enjoyed the ride. How thrilling it had been, until in the end it became an obsession and very nearly their downfall.

  It was later that their relationship had turned to – well, to what? To something else. Lily knew she had allowed herself to become secondary. It had begun just a couple of years after they graduated when Charlotte Mary had an affair with a woman from the publishing firm they both worked for. Lily thought her heart was truly broken. She hated the way she slid into the lesser role. At times desperate to escape what her life was becoming, but unable to face even one day without her partner. And yet, here it was. She was alone at last, and despite the memories and the quiver of unease at being fully in control of her own life for the first time since sixth form, she felt relieved. Relieved and released. Something stirred deep inside, a re-awakening of the person she once was.

  She would be able to do this thing that she had craved for years. Her time working in the publishing industry would stand her in good stead, and with the miracle of the internet putting the whole world here in this Victorian terrace in Southsea, then she would succeed.

  She climbed upstairs and paused at the door to the big double room at the front of the house. When the illness had become so advanced that sleeping together was impossible, she had moved out and into the back. Now there was no longer any need, it was time to move back.

  Chapter 4

  “Ms Bowers. Please come in. I hope everything went well yesterday. As well as these things can, at any rate.” The solicitor was younger than Lily and it seemed wrong. For this she wanted an old man, one with thin, grey hair and cigar ash on his collar. But he was gone, along with so many others. Mr Turnbull had dealt with their affairs for a long time. He had always known exactly what their relationship was and they had felt his unexpressed disapproval. He would have preferred to pass them to one of the other partners. But he had acted for Lily’s parents for years. He put money and business before any personal thoughts about their chosen way of life, held his tongue and stuck to polite but cool interaction with them. Charlotte Mary derived a cynical satisfaction from his situation and they had laughed at his discomfort, and tormented him with their presence.