The Darkness of Bones (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

“Adrian?”

“Right! Yes, come in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adrian nodded, reluctantly. “I suppose.”

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

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

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

Adrian’s face tightened.

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

The words brought a smile to Adrian’s face.

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

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

Fortunately, Jack stood and then walked towards the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Every one has a story to tell.”

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

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

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

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

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

“
E
EXPRESSIONS
G
ALLERY”, READ
the sign above the door. “Owner: Sarah Bryant. Auctions and viewing held daily. Original art paintings bought and sold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?” Sarah frowned. “May I ask why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like it.”

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

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

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

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

Sarah blew him a kiss, in return.

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

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

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

No. It was clothed in rotten flesh …

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

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

What was that?
He craned his neck slowly, feeling something touch the back of his skull. The whisper carried upon a breeze and brushed along his senses, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Shivering, he accidentally dropped the pilfered cigarette into the snow. The snowy ground quickly devoured it.

Stillness. The whisper was gone, replaced by a stretching silence. Adrian became motionless, listening intently, but all that could be heard was the wind skimming over the hardened surface, its soft groans hissing like punctured tires.

The wind. That’s all it was. Not his mother’s voice asking him what on earth he was doing with a cigarette—and stolen from his father, into the bargain. Just the wind playing games, spooking him.

The night sky was surprisingly pale, and although it was semi-dark, there was a yellowish glow to it. He wished the sky was clear so that he could see the stars, the stars that had stopped his mother with a sharp intake of breath on a frosty night and left her motionless, speechless, and utterly still on their way to church, one Sunday.

He remembered how she had stood in the street, her mouth agape with awe and wonder, as if she had seen a UFO. “What is
it, Mum?” he had asked, feeling uncomfortable as people walked by, looking at her—at him.

“God,” she had said. Then almost prophetically: “
When you think things have become too dark in your life, Adrian, always remember that only when it is dark enough do we get to see the stars.
”

Snow began falling in fat flakes and the woods around the lake became silent. A breeze turned the resting snow into quivering white sails, like invisible mice running over it. Every once in a while, Adrian could hear a branch of a tree groaning under the strain of so much snow, and the thud of snow falling to the ground from up high in the trees. Only now, at this particular time of night, could he appreciate the bleak complexity of the tree branches besieged with ice—even if they looked like an elevated bone yard to his now galvanised imagination.

Resigned to not finding the place, he backtracked over the eastern part of the wood and emerged, just where the lake began, over near Fulton’s Bend. He could see a cropped-out slice of the lake, frozen, some thirty yards off in the distance, framed by withered trees bent by nature and age. His icy breath streamed each time he opened his mouth, and then paddled right back, as if seeking shelter from where it had just been evicted.

“What on earth …?” Stopping suddenly, Adrian thought he could see something stuck in the centre of the ice.

From the safety of the lake’s lip, he stared, squinting his eyes as the full moon pushed through the night and reflected blindingly across the hardened surface.
What is it?
he wondered, squinting his eyes at the object.
A bird? A carcass of a seagull, trapped by the ice and wind?

Probably one of the swans, though he hoped it wasn’t. He didn’t like to see any bird hurt, but if it came to a toss-up
between gull and swan, well, he would have to vote for the swan. He still held the memory of the crow fresh in his head, the taste of its blood on his tongue.

Scurrying as close as possible, he wished he had brought his father’s binoculars for a clearer view, even if they would probably afford him little at this time of night. The mist was less heavy out from under the trees, so he could see just a little bit more. Standing perfectly still, he was absorbed by the flat expanse of the lake’s glassy surface. It was a clean freeze. No ripple lines scarring the surface.

“A bird. Got to be some sort of creature. What else can it be?” He was having a conversation with himself as he needled his eyes along the surface, trying to gauge its thickness.

Don’t do it
, a balanced voice of sanity advised him, knowing he wouldn’t listen. Anyway, he hadn’t come this far to be put off by common sense, as curiosity soon won over apprehension.

Cautiously, he placed his right boot on the ice, springing his knee slightly, testing the resistance. It seemed okay. Pretty solid.

Delicately standing with one half of his bodyweight resting atop the icy surface, Adrian brought the rest of his body on board and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t go crashing through, plunging into the darkness of murky cold water beneath.

Okay. You’ve proven your point. If you really wanted to walk across the lake, you could. But you’re too smart for that, aren’t you?

Sucking in his breath, he brought his right boot forward, followed slowly by the left. He tested the ice again, slightly forcing his weight. If he fell through at this stage, it wouldn’t be too bad. The water would barely reach his chest.

Easy
…
easy
… He moved slightly, with each step gaining confidence, momentum. He wanted to giggle. Something was
tickling his stomach. Adrenaline coupled with nerves.

Creeping closer, he realised it wasn’t a bird. Wrong shape. Wrong everything.

Something told him to backtrack as his eyes played tricks, making the middle of the lake wobble and warp.

Steady
, he encouraged, inching his way, closer and closer.
Don’t be a chicken
…
don’t look back.

Cramps were beginning to plant themselves in the calves of his legs. Coupled with the cold, they made him feel as if he was walking in slow motion. But he willed himself on, knowing that shortly he would be within touching length of the object.

“Fuck the night!” He almost fell backwards, slipping on his arse. A tiny arm, protruding from the ice like a macabre handshake, invited a touch. But it was the eyes he focused on. Blue. They looked like bluebottle flies, fat and greasy, staring up at him, ready to feast on his face. He stood still, hardly daring to breathe. Then the revelation struck. “A doll? I risked my life for a stupid doll …”

The doll was caked in the ice like a display at a fishmonger’s window. Its features were eerily human with a pallor that made him think of his mother’s powdered face in the coffin.

Regaining his composure, Adrian quickly reached down, feeling the tiny hand with his fingers, the plastic round and worn smooth by the elements. He kept feeling the hand until his own fingers went numb, losing all sensation.

Without warning, the ice made a sound, a whisper. There was a movement beneath his feet as tiny fissures began to emerge, webbing out in competing directions. A sickening feeling was quickly entering his gut.

“Oh
…
no
…
”

Instinctively, he stepped back, but not before reaching for
the arm, pulling on it forcefully as if to keep his balance.

The whooshing sound reminded him of dirty dishwater being sucked down the kitchen sink, as the doll ascended Lazarus-like from the icy enclosure, journeying with him backwards as he skidded, slip-sliding like a drunk or a clown hoping for laughs.

But there was nothing funny about landing with a thud on his arse, his unmanageable body crashing downwards on the icy surface, opening a new, gaping wound—a wound large enough to pull him in and under, startling him with its freezing touch. Within seconds, he was under the ice, and the freezing water assaulted his ears and mouth. It tasted brackish and vile.

Submerged and disorientated by the mass of filthy water, he pushed frantically at the iced ceiling, trying to get his bearings, groping in the darkness for the entrance wound, finding nothing but resistance.

Don’t panic. There has to be a way out.

But his burning lungs were not part of the positive thinking as they inflated, ready to explode, contradicting his false hope.

Think, you stupid bastard!

The water came rushing up his nostrils, flooding his head. A dull drumming sound was echoing in his brain, counting down from five, mocking him.

Five …

Think!

Four
…

Shut up!

Three …

It’s over. No point in struggling. Open your mouth and let the water take you
… He felt his body being jolted slightly by the water’s undulation.

Two …

Directly to his left, a new colour caught his eye. It was bright, like a lamp shining through the ice, drawing him to it like a moth to a flame.

The doll floated serenely above him, like a buoy, its plastic skin aglow from the moonlight, guiding him to the blowhole. It was the spot where he had fallen through, and if not for the fact that he was so drained—physically as well as mentally—he would have laughed at the irony of it: being saved by a doll after he had tried to rescue
it
.

With a tormented howl, he emerged through the gaping hole, his mouth sucking the beautiful icy air,
suck suck sucking
, drinking the air too quickly, making his throat gag and choke.

Possessing little strength, Adrian pulled his exhausted body to the icy surface, managing to snail gingerly along the cracked lake, stopping only when solid, snowy ground was reached.

“Alive! I’m alive!”

He lay on his stomach, impervious to the cold, breathing in large pockets of air. They tasted better than any meal he had ever sampled.

Adrian knew that he had to move quickly, get home and into dry clothes, if he wanted to avoid sickness, but his eyes remained focused on an eerie figure obscured in the thickness of trees. It was a woman—of that he was almost certain—ghostly white, studying him.

He moved quickly, running as fast as he could from the cold; running from the woman in the woods.