The Darkness of Bones (4 page)

S
OME PEOPLE LEARN
to live with adversity—or at least to avoid compounding one problem with another. Charlie Stanton, however, was a singular failure in both regards, and tonight looked to be no different from any other unfortunate night as the wind picked up in advance of the gathering storm, and hard, dirty hail began to fall, battering the top of his balding, exposed head.

The filthy weather matched Charlie’s foul mood as he reflected on this morning’s takings—or lack of them. He hadn’t made much money, begging outside the church, putting on his saddest face to all the Sunday worshippers. Cheap fuckdog, he had whispered as each parishioner ignored his mumblings to spare a little food for a starving man. Some bastard had the fucking cheek to hand him a tin of fucking peas. Peas! Cheap fuckdog.

Charlie’s initial plan was to seek shelter in the wasteland once covered by dodgy motels, greasy cafés and iffy bars. He could remember having meals and a few drinks not too far away
from where he now stood, when times were good for everyone—especially Charlie Stanton. He could even remember visiting one of the motels—‘Alexander’s’, it was called in those days—accompanied by a lady of the night, two days after losing his job at the docks, seeking solace in sex and booze, finding only an empty pocket when he finally awoke, alone, the lady and his wallet gone, worsening an already dire situation.

Now, all of the buildings had been transformed to ruins, their naked stomachs roofed by tin-covered wrecks of concrete and decaying brick, seemingly forgotten by everyone except the homeless and avoiders of the law. Only one building remained moderately intact, untouched by property developers or nature, looming defiantly in the background, bleak and uninviting: Graham’s Orphanage.

The orphanage had been part of the town’s outer landscape for decades, and had even been used as a backdrop for a Charles Dickens film. At the height of its power, it held over two hundred children, most of whom occupied the large, eel-like dormitories. Legal wrangling over ownership had prevented much-needed restoration work from being carried out, allowing the great building to decline even further.

The cold began to nip, forcing Charlie to pick up his pace. Even as he carefully avoided the slippery patches of ice and mud, his mind was preoccupied with finding shelter quickly in the old building. The booze had narrowed his memory of the filthy wasteland, and he was finding it difficult to manoeuvre and remember in the gloved darkness. The remaining cheap wine coursing through his veins granted him some warmth, but he knew it was only a matter of time before even that deserted him, leaving him to succumb to the cold.

Walking determinedly ahead, Charlie was slightly fearful
of ending up like Ben Mullan, dead, his frost-riddled body discovered next to a rubbish skip on the outskirts of town, parts of his feet devoured by foxes and rats.

Quickly pulling the collar of his overcoat up to his ears, Charlie began to hum a little ditty, mocking the anxiety eating at his stomach: “When Jack Frost comes—oh the fun. He’ll play mischief on everyone. He’ll pinch your nose, ’cause he’s so slick, but just be careful, or he’ll bite off your dick …” Charlie grinned at the words. “Jack, you cunning bastard, you won’t get—
arghhhhhh!
” He went crashing through the dilapidated basement’s storm shutters, jagged wood shredding his face, spiking it with enormous splinters, banging his head on the way down.

Then darkness came …

How long he remained unconscious was debatable. Had he been sober, there was little doubt he would have been dead.

“Could have snapped your stupid neck,” admonished Charlie, unnerved, desperately trying to orientate himself in his surroundings as he removed a match and groped to strike it. The tiny head turned the darkness white—only for a few seconds, but enough to see a rusted sign dangling on a nail, directly above his head: “Place all dirty linen in baskets provided. Divide sheets from pillowcases. Failure to do so will mean removal of all privileges.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll sort all that out in a minute, once I have a browse. Wouldn’t want to lose privileges on my first day, sir. And you wouldn’t mind kissing my smelly arse, sir?” Charlie chuckled. “You’re one lucky bastard, Charlie Stanton, landing in a pile of shitty rags, breaking your fall.”

Teasingly allowing the match to burn his skin, Charlie struck another one as he eased himself out of the large metal,
linen basket. Old yellowed newspapers littered the floor and he quickly coned one, lighting it like a medieval torch. The air in the basement hung unnaturally, the smell reminiscent of stale tyres and cat piss. But there was another smell, a recognisable stench sitting just outside Charlie’s grasp. He tried to remember, tried to call up where he had been in contact with any part of it before, but couldn’t pull the random composition together.

Abruptly, his eyes caught a small movement, coming from the far corner. Rats. They seemed to be glaring at him, their yellow eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, their sharp teeth ready for snapping.

“Get the fuck, you dirty bastards!” He swept the torch in the rats’ direction, loving the power he had to make them disappear—if only until they regrouped, gathering up their courage to repel him. “I’ve dealt with slimier fuckers that you bastards. I’m here to stay. Now get the fuck out, and have
your
tailed arses frost-bitten!”

As he progressed onwards, fronds of filthy web brushed against his face. He set the torch on them, also, listening to their crackling, loving the power he now possessed in his new kingdom. Finally, he bent and scooped up more paper, building another, thicker torch, all the while looking about for old wooden crates—anything to start a small fire, grant some heat and protection.

Just as he bent to retrieve some kindling, he became aware of something in the far corner, jagged light encircling it. Barely hidden by the shadows, in the semi-darkness it looked like a person, genuflecting, praying.

“Who the fuck’s there?” shouted Charlie, anxious. “Come on out. Don’t try anything stupid. I’m armed with a knife, you bastard. Come on! Out fucking now!”

Standing there, Charlie looked thin and awkward as a snapped-neck chicken, barely able to refrain the shite from bursting out of his skinny arse. His hands were shaking badly; so much in fact that he thought the flaming torch would drop, leaving him in total darkness with the rats. What he wouldn’t give for some cheap wine, something to help calm his nerves, make his balls grow larger.

The figure refused to acknowledge Charlie’s command, and the old vagrant heard sounds behind him while his imagination went into overdrive. Were there two of them, waiting to ambush, kill him for his shoes? He spun round quickly. “Back you bastard!” To his relief, a group of rats ran for cover, knocking over empty tins in their wake.

Bending down slowly, Charlie picked up a brick before inching forward, cautiously. “I’ve a little drop of wine here, pal. Care to share on a cold night like this? Warm you up, good and—” He flung the brick, as hard as he could. It hit something, bouncing off with force.

Hearing bones crunch, Charlie ran forward, screaming at the top of his voice, “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” He lunged at the figure, dropping the smouldering torch in the process.

The stench oozing from the corner was horrendous. “Oh fuck …” The revelation that he was now wrestling with a badly decomposed corpse made him shiver. Yet, ever the opportunist, he felt a surge of anticipation and excitement at the thought that the corpse just might be harbouring a secret—a monetary secret, a dark face of profit, something beneficial to Charlie Stanton.

Tossed to the side of the corpse, he could make out remnants of rags that probably once covered it, devoured and moulded, replaced by battalions of webs.

The corpse was nothing more than bones and fragmented
skin, and he now discovered that the ghastly thing was completely naked, as if this was how it had been left. A small metal rod protruded from the anus area. It resembled some sort of metal dildo.

“Weird … fucking disgusting …” whispered Charlie, wondering if the metal was brass. Good money in brass.

Quickly sidestepping the corpse, he bent to search the pile of raggedy clothes huddled in the corner. Who knows? Perhaps the guy—was it a man?—had left something, other than a metal dick sticking out of his arse?

With expert fingers, Charlie kept searching, all the while making sure his eyes avoided the face of the corpse—or what would be left of it.

“You cheap bastard,” said Charlie, a few minutes later, fully believing that luck wouldn’t be in tonight. “You cheap fucking—” Only now did he have the angry courage to look at the face; only now did he see that there was no face to confront.

Buckling over, Charlie spewed out jaundice vomit that faded into pale as it hit the ground, marooning him in its island of bread-like muck.

Whatever the poor bastard did, he didn’t deserve that
, thought Charlie, quickly wiping the sour spillage from his mouth, pushing himself away from the scene, covered in his own vomit, wishing he were on the road, frost and snow on his face instead of being in the company of a decapitated corpse.

O
NE OF TWO
phones rang in Jack’s studio as he studied a file. A woman, suspecting her husband of infidelity, had asked him to investigate, get some photos of the unfaithful spouse, if possible.

The irony of it
, thought Jack.

“You lazy bastard,” accused the voice at the other end, just as the receiver touched his ear. “How long does it take you to answer the fucking phone?”

“Benson?” said Jack, smiling. “You must be in trouble. What’ve you done?”

“Fun
eee
. Not only a private dick, but a dick comedian, as well. Have you forgotten?” asked Harry Benson, Jack’s ex-partner and best friend. Getting no reply from Jack, Benson quickly cut in. “I don’t believe it. He
has
forgotten. What sacrilege! Our birthright, our annual pilgrimage, our once-in-a-year chance to get the fuck out of this smelly, godforsaken town, and he’s
forgotten?
”

“How could I forget something as important as fishing? I hate to disappoint you, Harry, but Adrian has a bad cold. He
slipped into the lake, a couple of nights ago. Could have had a bad accident.”

“Stop with the drama, Jack. We all know Adrian’s as tough as his godfather. He won’t let a little cold stop him.”

“I’ll relay your sympathy to him. But, to be honest, I’m so backlogged in cases—”

“
You’re
backlogged? Since you retired, word must have leaked out to every lowlife piece of scum in town. Violent crime has risen by five per cent. I suppose you heard about that corpse discovered in the old Graham building, over near Clifton Street?”

“The abandoned orphanage? No, I haven’t been able to catch up with any news lately. What happened?”

“Some old tramp, looking for free board and breakfast, got more than he bargained for yesterday in the shape of a decapitated corpse with a dildo shoved up its bony arse.”

“Decapitated?” Jack shook his head. The city was paying dearly for its cultivated big-city image: big-city diseases.

“Clean as a whistle, according to Shaw. That area was supposed to have been bulldozed over years ago to make way for a new ring road, but an ownership dispute put everything on hold. Now the fucking place is nothing more than a shantytown for all the dregs of society. They’re a law unto themselves, all those vagrants, and they know the law better than we do, the bastards. If you as much as sneeze at them, they scream blue bloody murder and police brutality.”

Jack could hear the disdain clearly in Benson’s voice. In his ex-partner’s world, everything was black and white, no grey. Them and us.

“I’m sure William Wilson must have been happy with that publicity.” Jack grinned, picturing the face of his ex-boss getting
redder as each TV camera was stuck into it.

“The bastard is in denial,” said Benson. “He’s cooking the books to suit his political ambitions—the fucker.”

“Now, now, now. Can’t have dissension in the ranks, Detective Benson,” laughed Jack. “Superintendent Wilson doesn’t tolerate it. And we all know that what Superintendent Courageous doesn’t tolerate, he gets rid of.”

There was silence for a few moments before Benson spoke. “We should never have allowed that cowardly bastard to force you into early retirement.”

“No one forced me into anything. I wanted out. Besides, it was the best thing that ever happened. Look at me now. My own business.”

“Yeah, I noticed you didn’t put the word ‘successful’ in front of that,” laughed Benson.

“Don’t laugh. It takes time. One day you’ll be working for me,” said Jack.

“A pity your name isn’t Hedges. Think of all that free publicity we’d get.”

They both laughed.

Jack heard Benson’s weight shift in the chair. When he spoke, his voice was conspiratorial. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that a certain ex-detective has been seen with a
well-to
-do gallery owner, quite frequently.”

“No wonder nothing gets solved any more. Headless bodies, and all you can think about is gossip.”

“And how did the likes of you manage to meet such a class bit of ass?” quizzed Benson.

“Sarah saw one of my paintings hanging in Chester’s restaurant, over on the Lisburn Road. Loved it enough to track down the handsome talent behind it,” laughed Jack.

“How is my godson taking it?”

“I haven’t mentioned anything to Adrian. It’s not serious, anyway. It’s all above board and totally professional.”

“All above bed, you mean!” snorted Benson. “Of course it’s
professional
. Keep telling yourself that; but just make sure you’re ready next Saturday. I’ll pick you and Adrian up at three in the morning. I’ve a great feeling in my piss that this is our year for catching a record number of—”

“You say that every year, and every year all you end up catching is a cold. There’s more chance of Wilson solving the mystery in the orphanage, than us catching anything.”

“Oh ye of little faith. See you next week,” said Benson, ending the conversation.

Jack went back to the file on the alleged adulterous husband. He was a week behind in forwarding some information to his client. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could think about was a headless corpse.