Little Bones by N V Peacock

Author:N V Peacock [N V Peacock]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Exhausted and covered in dust and muck, I sit down at the dining room table and stare at my phone. Two hours tick by. I get up to pee, but take the phone with me. I feel like a desperate single woman waiting for a date to call.

I should contact Leo. I’m not heartless, even though my heart isn’t in my chest anymore. However, I have to remind myself that he’s being comforted by Mrs Duffill; all the while, my monster-in-law will be drip-feeding him poison. If Cherrie Forrester wasn’t good enough for her son, you could be damn sure Little Bones isn’t. Shaking off my emotional instincts to call my boyfriend, I make a cup of tea, and resign myself to stare at my phone.

As night draws in, I fetch Robin’s duvet, so I can curl up with it on the couch. It smells like him, like his hair and his skin; how long will that last? It’s late and I need to rest. Exhaustion doesn’t help when you’re hunting a paedophile who has abducted your son.

It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re fully clothed. Every time I turn around, my shirt catches under my body, tugging at my torso, but I refuse to undress. At any moment, Gemma could text me; I need to be ready. I toy with the idea of just going over to Oscar Greer’s house to try some stalking myself, yet my eyelids are heavy and the duvet is warm. Soon, I find myself drifting into an uneasy sleep. Quickly, I jerk awake again. Sleeping is a bad move. Waking to remember Robin is missing is like losing him all over again.

I hate feeling weak; like life is a game and my body is letting me down by succumbing to sleep. I remember when I was little and Dad used to play snakes and ladders with me. We played for hours until I’d win a game. He was so patient. I guess you have to be patient to be a serial killer.

I make a coffee and then sit back down on the sofa.

A vibration from my mobile startles me. I scramble to answer it without checking the caller ID.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Is anyone there? Is that you, Gemma?’

Nothing.

‘Robin?’

Laughter, low and grumbling, like a villain from an old film.

‘Who is this?’

‘You don’t deserve a son. You should be in prison like your sick dad.’

I want my voice to rise up, to be hard enough to protect me from this crazy caller, but it doesn’t; instead, it sinks to a whisper. This could be the person who has Robin. If I’m not careful, my temper could kill my son.

‘Do you have my son?’

‘You don’t know me.’

‘Do you have Robin?’

Silence.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘Pay attention, I said you don’t know me.’

Something snaps deep in my brain. I say, ‘I may not know you, but the police will. They’re tracing this call.’

The line goes dead.

I scroll through my latest calls. They withheld their number. Fuck.

Quickly, I grab the house phone and call Patricia.

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