Little Bones

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.