The Darkness of Bones (5 page)

J
EREMIAH ENTERED THE
barber’s shop, ignoring the puzzled look scribbled on his friend’s face. It was unusual for Jeremiah to be late on a Monday. In fact, Harris could not remember it ever having happened.

Jeremiah looked haggard, like battered furniture showing its age. He mumbled an incoherent apology and immediately turned to a customer.

“Next, please …”

“What happened to you, this morning?” asked Harris, closing the shop’s door for lunch. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink. Bet it’s that flu. Everyone seems to be getting it. You should look after yourself with vitamins. Can’t go wrong with vitamins.” To prove his point, Harris loaded his tongue with small, colourful pills, and then played them to his teeth, crunching on them, irritatingly loudly.

Jeremiah grimaced. “Yes … I think I am coming down with a touch of it.”

Scooping a newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat, Harris opened it and began to scan the pages. A few seconds later, he rested the newspaper on his lap, and looked directly at Jeremiah. “I was just thinking, last night, how the killer could be here, living in our town. Scary, isn’t it?”

Jeremiah sat looking vacantly into space.

“Jeremiah?”

“What?” asked Jeremiah, blinking out of the trance. “Did you say something?”

“I said it’s scary to think that the killer of that little girl is here, in the town. Perhaps only a few streets away, in that boarding house.”

“Why do you keep insisting that she’s dead? And what makes you think that it could be someone in town?”

“I was thinking last night of some of the weirdos we have staying here, since that cheap boarding house opened up. Every lowlife and shady character resides in there. No wonder the streets aren’t safe. Katrina—God rest her soul—must be spinning in her grave, seeing the town end up like this.”

Jeremiah appeared no longer to be listening as he swept nests of hair into tidy neat piles, before scooping them into the plastic bin.

“I oppose the death penalty, as you well know, Jeremiah, but I would have no qualms about hanging the bastard that murdered that child. The blood knows what it needs. Blood, being blood, doesn’t care if that need is violence.”

“Is this going to be the topic for the rest of the day?” cut in Jeremiah, his voice sounding slightly agitated.

“Do you remember that crazy-looking fellow who came in about two weeks ago?” continued Harris. “The one who barely said a word, even when I accidentally nicked the back of his
neck? No? Well, I do. He lives in that boarding house. I noticed how he couldn’t even look in the mirror when I asked him if the haircut was the way he wanted it. That’s a guilty conscience. Yes, sir.”

Jeremiah continued sweeping.

“Let’s change the conversation, Joe. I don’t like to hear stories about dead or missing children. Furthermore, I don’t understand why you would, either. Why are you so concerned?”

“Okay. Have it your way. C’mon, grumpy arse,” said Harris, patting the barber’s chair. “Sit yourself down. I’ll put you in a good mood.”

Reluctantly, Jeremiah rested the brush against the mirror, and eased himself into the chair.

On cue, Harris removed a steaming towel from its hothouse enclosure and wrapped it tightly against his partner’s face. This was a tiny ritual they performed on each other, usually at night after the last customer had been pruned. If done correctly, it was better than a massage.

“I can do it myself, Joe. I don’t want you missing your precious horses. I should have been here, this morning.”

“Give it a rest. Shut your mouth and relax. Anyway, I won’t be in tomorrow. It’s Katrina’s anniversary. I’ll be at the graveyard for most of the day, clearing up any weeds. I haven’t been to her grave lately. It must look like a jungle.”

The towel felt like heaven on Jeremiah’s skin as Joe patted it against the contours, forming a perfect cloth image of the face.

Jeremiah loved this part of the job. Truth be told, it was one of the highlights of his life. He could barely hear Joe’s muffled voice as he felt himself slowly drifting into a semi-slumber.

“When the cops come back, I’m going to tell them my suspicions about that boarding house and all those—”

“Cops? What cops?” asked Jeremiah, his voice slightly muffled against the cloth.

“Oh, cops were here this morning. Just routine. Asking
door-to
-door questions about the little girl. They said they’d be back, probably during the week, to ask if you remembered anything about her. I told them that you probably couldn’t remember much—if anything. The only thing you ever remember is when someone owes you money,” laughed Joe.

Jeremiah’s hands began to shake. He could feel the blood slipping from his skin. The face-hugging towel was suffocating him as he struggled to remove it. It felt like a snake, squeezing tightly against his neck.

J
ACK STUDIED THE
painting, delighted with the progress he was making on it. Each stroke of the brush brought the mosaic tapestry to life, revealing an exotic nude comprising numerous animal and insect parts. The nude’s butterfly-shaped ears protruded from black, cascading hair; the nose was a tiny field mouse twitching with delight. Even the breasts were capped with elegiac, puppy-dog eyes.

This painting was going to be special. He could see that now. Even though it was a long way from being finished, this was his best work to date.

The doorbell buzzed, interrupting his thoughts.

“Sarah?” he said, opening the front door. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t wet yourself, Jack. The look on your face isn’t exactly welcoming. I came by to let you know that I’ll be out of town for at least a week. Going down to Galway then Dublin to exhibit some paintings from an up-and-coming artist. Oh, and a couple from an ungrateful bastard.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, he said, “You should have phoned, saved yourself the journey, all the way over here.”

“You mean, in case Adrian saw me, the woman with horns in her head?” Sarah glared.

“No. Of course not,” he lied.

“Liar. Anyway, you have the phone number for both hotels. I’m sure you still remember them? If you want to talk, just pick up the phone.” She turned to leave.

“Sarah, wait.” Grabbing her arm, Jack mumbled, “Come in. I’ll make some coffee.”

She stared at his hand, then his face, before smiling. “Sure you want me to sully your home?”

Jack nodded. “That so-called smile on your face could cut glass. You’d be good in the interrogation room.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said, handing him her coat.

As he fumbled with the coffee-maker, Jack was conscious of Adrian upstairs in his room, making him feel like a burglar in his own house.

“Oh, Jack … this is beautiful,” whispered Sarah, staring at the unfinished painting. “It’s amazing.”

“You think so?” asked Jack.

“Think? Know. It’s horrible, but beautiful.”

“I guess that means you hate
and
love it?” said Jack.

“It’s shocking … almost perverted … I
love
it, darling … God! Wait until they feast their eyes on this, down at the gallery. It’s absolutely brilliant.”

“I don’t know about that. The greatness of any painting is measured by its ability to keep surprising, revealing something new every time we go back to look at it,” said Jack, chuffed, a smile appearing on his relieved face. “Time will tell if this has any surprises or revelation for—”

“I lied to you,” said Sarah.

“What?” Jack looked puzzled.

“On Saturday, I told you that if our relationship was making you unhappy, then I wouldn’t cause a scene. These last three days, not seeing you, have been like three weeks.” Kissing him hard on the lips, she frantically worked the buttons on his shirt, popping the reluctant ones with force.

“I just bought that shirt,” he laughed, watching her frustration tear the material. A few seconds later, she worked on his belt, cursing the damn thing’s awkwardness.

“Dad, I need some money for …” Adrian stood at the door, startling Jack.

“You know better than to barge in when the red light is on!” shouted Jack, desperately trying to regain his composure.

Adrian stared at his father, and then at Sarah.

“The red light wasn’t on!” screamed Adrian, turning and slamming the door behind him.

J
EREMIAH TRIED TO
sleep, but the sounds of anguished moaning disturbed him deeply. Easing himself from his bed, he cautiously made his way along the hallway, turning left at Judith’s bedroom.

His heart was thumping in his chest. Should she see him standing there, ‘spying on her’, there would be hell to pay. He still retained the scar of a night-time encounter when she had accused him of spying, not too long ago.

Judith shifted in the bed, tossing, mumbling incoherently. Her face was bathed in beads of sweat.

Despite his fear and weariness, Jeremiah felt his hands move towards her, desperately wanting to rouse her, free her from the nightmares he knew she was enduring.

Judith’s nightmare is always the same: eyes, hundreds of them, laughing, watching, hiding the faces of their owners. She always hears a voice, telling her that tonight will be her best performance yet. The audience is full of expectations.

We do not disappoint the audience, do we?

No … no, sir …

Ever?

No …

Good. Time then! Let this be the performance of your life. And for your own sake, make sure it outshines last night’s. Otherwise …

He reaches for the metal rod.

No! Please, don’t … I was feeling sick, last night. I
will
be a star, tonight—every night. I promise …

Good, and we always keep our promises, don’t we?

Yes … yes, always …

Good, he says again, swiftly bringing the rod down upon her head, smashing it like a bad tomato.

Judith jerked suddenly from her sleep, her breathing heavy, almost as if someone had placed an anvil on her chest. Her eyes darted about in the darkness, searching.

Gradually, relief seeped back on to her face. The nightmare was over for now. She lay listening to the outside noises, her nostrils capturing the residue of Jeremiah’s smell. He had been in here, again, spying.

“Jeremiah?” she asked, easing from the bed.

Outside the room, Jeremiah listened to his heart thumping in his head. Would she hear him, sneaking off down the hallway, if he tried to escape?

“
Jeremiah
?” hissed Judith, impatiently. “I know you’re out there, listening. Your stench has filled my room. Go and
shower
.
Now
.”

Obediently stepping into the shower a minute later,
Jeremiah
was initially shocked by the coldness. His breathing became jagged while he gritted his teeth, steeling himself as the cold water hit him square in the face and concave chest, pooling between his toes. “
Hhhhhssssssss
.” He sucked in the tight air,
feeling
numbness spread throughout his body. Biting down on his
lower lip, he tried to prevent his teeth from chattering.

“Cold is good,” said Judith, pulling the shower curtains back, making them snap like a whip. “Kills all the germs and dirty things. Isn’t that right?” In her hand was a broom, the large coarse type favoured by street cleaners, its twigs protruding like lethal porcupine quills.

“
Yeessss
…” His teeth were chattering loudly now,
uncontrollably
.

“Turn your face to the wall. I don’t want to look at your pathetic sneaky features.”

Submissively, Jeremiah turned to his left, staring at the whiteness of the tiles. They made him think of snow. They made him think of bones.

Gently—almost motherly—Judith rested the brush’s quills against his neck, adding just the right amount of pressure to pockmark the skin slightly.

Jeremiah softly shuddered with anticipation, dreading but welcoming what was coming next.

“You …” With slow, deliberate force, Judith scraped the brush down his back, over his buttocks, never stopping until it reached his ankles. “… deserve …” Her teeth gritted as she returned the brush to its original position, on his skinny neck. “… every …” Once again, the brush commenced its bloody journey, flaying the skin, peeling thin strips in its wake. “… stroke …”

Feeling his knees begin to wobble, Jeremiah willed them to resist. His fingernails dug into the grout between the tiles,
trembling
for balance. Whirls of blood stained the horrible whiteness of the shower’s enclosure.

The scrubbing concluded five minutes later, leaving
Jeremiah’s
back a gouache covered in evil-looking whiplash marks.

“Look at you,” hissed Judith. “Standing there in muted acceptance, like some wretched monk offering up his sins to a deaf god.” She held the broom in her hand like a spear. It was speckled with blood, sweat, and particles of skin. “You are always paying attention but never remembering; always hearing, but never listening. I don’t want you reading any more trash. Is that understood?”

Shakily, Jeremiah nodded. He was on the verge of
collapsing
.

“And never—
ever
—come into my room. Understand?” She placed the shaft of the broom between his sagging buttocks, allowing the wood to part the fissure of his arse slightly.

“Yes … yes; I understand … fully …”

Judith removed the broom, turned and left.

Easing his back against the freezing water, Jeremiah allowed it to wash away the blood. It stung like wasps and scorpions, but as his hand went to his doughy penis—to his surprise and delight … it was rising, just like the homemade bread his
mother
always made on his return home from school. Seconds later, he ejaculated, mixing his cum with his blood, watching it melt away, down into the drain, wishing his sins were so easily
disposed
of.