Resurrection Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 6), page 1
RESURRECTION BONES
© 2023 NC LEWIS
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Shirley Bickham woke from a terrifying dream and knew the day would be hell. She stared at the water-stained ceiling, blinking away the night terrors. Today was the day she prayed would never come.
"To hell with it," she said to the dark bedroom, then slid from the bed and padded barefoot and nude to the window.
She gazed at the thick curtains, sewn from scraps of cloth by her mam and hung on giant brass rods by her dad. A patchwork of greens and browns with reds and purples thrown in. Drawn tight, they blocked the faintest trace of light. Just as Shirley liked it.
A dizzying jolt of pain pounded behind her eyes. How much did she drink last night? She recalled the first shot of gin, but after that it was a blur. She half turned to glance at her naked body in the dressing table mirror, eyes lingering on her face. Like a plum turned into a prune, she'd not aged well. Sunken cheeks and swollen eyes and loose skin which collapsed in deep hollows. The years had pockmarked her body with the vigour of a garden mole.
Another shard of pain twisted in her skull, and a slow creep of shame crawled along her neck. What did she say last night? What did she do?
"To hell with it all."
She yanked the curtains wide and squinted. The afternoon sun glared through the glass. She swore the bleedin' thing got brighter every day. Something to do with global warming. Well, this was England not the Costa Brava, the bugger could go back behind the clouds where it belonged and leave her eyes in peace.
"Shirley, you awake yet?"
Shirley turned to face the door, did not answer, and staggered back to the bed. As she sank beneath the bedsheets, the bedroom door swung open.
"Today's the big one," her mam said, skipping into the room. "Forty years today. Happy birthday, darling. My, how the time flies."
Shirley's mam, Ida Bickham, was short and slender with narrow shoulders under a frizzy black wig, pale grey eyes and a broad smile that, despite the chemotherapy, never slipped from her face.
Too upbeat for Shirley first thing in the afternoon. Too cheerful for a freshly minted forty-year-old still living at home. Too optimistic for a single mum with a twenty-one-year-old daughter in tow. Forty years with nothing to show. Shirley felt acid churning in her stomach.
"Party, party, party," Ida said, waving her arms in the air. "Come honey, get your glad rags on. We're having your birthday do downstairs in ten minutes."
It was a simple homemade cake with icing whipped and dolloped in sweet peaks on a firm brown crust. Four pink candles clustered in the centre. Three generations of Bickham women sat around the scrubbed pine table in the kitchen, eyeing the cake. Ida, Shirley, and Shirley's daughter, Ginger.
It was a crowded kitchen with hard tile floors and cream walls. Pots and pans hung from giant hooks. Photos and notes were stuck on the fridge door. It hummed. A battered iron kettle hissed on the stove. Shoes by the door. A cricket bat leaned on the wall next to a vegetable rack. A stone jar used for fermenting beer stood disused in the corner. A broom, dustpan, brush, mop and bucket leaned in the other corner. The kitchen window, heavy with net curtains, looked out onto the back garden, wild with foliage in bloom.
"One candle for each decade of your beautiful life," Shirley's mam said, smile a mile wide.
She did not mention Shirley's lack of friends or trouble keeping a job or the gin. Mam always stayed on the positive side, always hoped for better to come. No matter how bad things got.
"I'll kill myself when I get to thirty-nine," Ginger said, picking a speck from her tight black t-shirt.
Shirley's jaw tightened. Why was Ginger so difficult? Her daughter might have long legs, a thin waist, big breasts and swirls of wavy black hair, but she was still a child.
"Forty is ancient," Ginger said, fixing her mam with a sour look. "An antique, really. Like those old mobile phones that looked like bricks. No longer of much use. Old. Past it. Best tossed on the scrap heap and left to rot."
Shirley said nothing. She wouldn’t let her daughter needle her. Not today.
"Most drunks have at least one friend," Ginger said, watching her mam for a reaction. "We would have invited them for a slice of cake if they existed. Mam, you need to up your game."
Shirley didn't want to argue. Not with her head still thudding from last night's gin and God knew what else. There was her birthday party to endure and she did not want her mam to get upset. She kept her gaze on the candles, quietly seething.
Ginger scrunched up her face. "Mam, did you know most drunks don't live past fifty?"
"Let's not spoil your mam's big day," Ida said, her voice soft. "Forty is a slip of a lass. Wait until you get to my age. Now, one, two, three…"
They sang the birthday song with Ida's deep voice keeping the harmony.
"Blow out the candles and make a wish," Ida said in an excited sing-song tone.
Shirley blew and made her birthday wish. The same wish she made every year. For money.
As they were eating the cake and proclaiming how moist and sweet it tasted, Ginger rose to her feet, her t-shirt rising and exposing her belly. "I know it is my mam's birthday and I don't want to spoil it but I've got an announcement."
"Here we go," Shirley said, pushing her plate away. "Little Miss Centre Stage wants to share a secret."
"Tell her to stop with the spite, Gran," Ginger said, pulling her t-shirt a touch higher so her full belly was exposed.
Ida sighed, placing her hand together as if in prayer. "Let's all be thankful that we are alive and well, eh?"
"She started it," Ginger replied, lips twisting into a pout.
Shirley took a steadying breath. She didn't want another blowout argument with her daughter. "Why can't your drama queen act wait until we've finished the cake? Better yet, tell us tomorrow, we'll be all ears."
Ginger dashed to the sink, sobbing into her hands. "Mam, why don't you ever listen to me?"
Shirley rolled her eyes. "Here we go again."
"What is it, darling?" Ida said, following her granddaughter to the sink and placing her arms around her.
"I wish Grandad was here," Ginger said, clinging to her gran.
"We all wish it was different," Ida replied, and kissed her on the forehead.
"Gran, he needs to know too."
"Know what, honey?"
"I'm three months pregnant. I'm going to have a baby."
Shirley was on her feet, shouting. "You are twenty-one. What about college and your exams?"
"Oh come off it, I don't care about college," Ginger replied, eyes blazing. "I'll get a job."
"I want the name of the lad," Shirley said, screaming. "I'll tear a strip out of his hide."
"Mam, grow up." Ginger eased from the grip of her gran. "Anyway, his name is none of your business."
Shirley raced across the kitchen, was at the sink with her hands around Ginger's shoulders, shaking the child. "You will tell me his name."
Ida raised both hands, palms out. "Leave her be. Have you forgotten how the hormones made you feel? She'll tell us in her own sweet time. Just like you told me when you were carrying Ginger."
Shirley's hands dropped to her side. "But—"
"It was all hush-hush with you," Ida said with a hint of disappointment. "I wasn't even there for Ginger's birth. You didn’t tell me which hospital you were having her in, so give her a break."
Shirley felt pathetic and powerless and angry, but managed a weak smile. "I want to help you, Ginger."
Ginger glared. It was the look she always gave Shirley when she wanted her to bugger off so she could natter in peace with her gran. The defiant look of a young woman who had outgrown her mam's power.
"I want to help," Shirley repeated. "I'm your mam. I'm here for you."
"Yeah, and a monkey will fly out of my butt," Ginger hissed. "Mam, you stink of booze. I can't talk with you here. Sling your hook."
"Now, Ginger, don't be mean." Ida glanced at Shirley and flashed her mile wide smile. "Shirl, why don't you take your dad a slice of cake? He'll want to wish you a happy birthday and hug you. The landlady turfs them out in the day so he will be at the allotment working his turnips."
Chapter 2
Shirley Bickham's day lurched in a sickening downward spiral as she trudged down a narrow lane boarded on one side by a dry-stone wall and hedgerows on the other. Seaview Allotments were on the edge of town. She shuffled along the sodden path, slick from morning rain with a cloth bag in her left hand. It contained a carton with a slice of cake for her dad.
The sun radiated from a cloudless sky. Wild honeysuckle twisted around the trees, plunging from branches in spidery fingers. The air smelled of damp grass. Rain all morning. Sun after noon. Fog at night. Typical o f Cumbria in late May. A normal day. Except for the strange sensation that overcame Shirley. A sense of inevitable doom.
With every step, Shirley's heart screamed. Was it normal for a mother and her teenage daughter to fight? The rift with Ginger had plunged them into a bottomless void. Why didn’t Ginger talk to her? Shirley brooded over the question. She needed a drink, would stop by the pub on her way home. Only one shot of gin with a large splash of soda water to weaken its strength. Promise. She crossed her heart as though it were her last day on Earth.
The trail swung uphill. At a turn in the lane, the view opened across the valley. Green fields dotted with sheep and hedgerows and trees in full bloom. In the distance, the pier and, at the end, the abandoned lighthouse. It had protected the Port St Giles shore for hundreds of years. A scene from a postcard. Shirley paused to take in the view and listen to the growl of the sea. If she had her phone, she would have taken a picture, but she left the house in such a hurry she forgot it.
Over the hilltops, a pair of crows uttered a raucous scream. They wheeled and tumbled, mercilessly mobbing a buzzard. Below in the fields, sheep bleated, their fleeces a dirt stained grey. Shirley watched without seeing. She wanted to know the name of the lad who got her daughter pregnant. They would be nattering now. Ginger and her mam. Sharing secrets. Not much good for Shirley, though. Her mam kept Ginger's secrets, would take them to her grave. Shirley's jaw stiffened.
"To hell with it."
She glared at the grime-stained sheep and the distant lighthouse and the crows mobbing the buzzard. Once she got a sniff of the lad's name, she'd teach Pretty Boy a lesson. With a cricket bat.
She felt her lips twitch into a smile. What would the lad say when she cornered him? She pictured herself screaming at Pretty Boy—and then she pictured her hands around the neck of the cricket bat that leaned by the kitchen door. Swinging it. Again and again. Until Pretty Boy's face squelched like mush and his frightened eyes went blank. She jerked alert when she realised she was swinging the cloth bag like a bat.
The crows continued to mob the buzzard, screaming their warning cry, beaks stretched wide. Shirley was about to hurry on when ice crept along her neck. She was being watched. Someone had their eyes on her.
She tightened her grip on the cloth bag and turned to look back along the path. Ash and hawthorn and gnarled oak. Hedgerows and sheep. Pier and lighthouse and groan of the sea. She turned back to face the allotments. They were at the end of the dead-end lane. Half a mile at most.
"Hello, is anyone there?"
Furtive movements came from the bushes. Something rocketed from the hedgerow, hissing and screaming. It moved fast. Arrow fired from a bow fast. Blink and you missed it fast. Straight at Shirley's pockmarked face. A black dart aimed at her eyes. She blinked, ducked and spun as it scraped past her ear.
A blackbird.
Shirley stumbled back three steps, then staggered back four more. What was it her dad said about blackbirds? Something to do with seeing three of them and death.
Another bird hissed from the bushes. A high-pitched, unsettling, warning squawk.
What the hell was she doing in this Godforsaken place on her birthday? She picked up the pace, breaking out into a shambling trot. Ten yards on she stopped, doubled over, catching her breath, gazing behind, watching for the birds. A third bird hopped onto the ground, its black eyes watching her. Christ, she really needed a drink now.
She started along the trail. The quicker she moved, the sooner she'd be chatting with her dad. He'd be up for a festive drink down the pub. She peered at her pockmarked hands, gazed at the cloth bag, and sighed. At least her dad would get a birthday surprise. He would insist on filling the bag with turnips for her to take home and cook with her dinner. Recycling. He was big into saving the Earth.
As she crossed a disused tramline which snaked to a defunct quarry, a man's voice called out.
"How do, lucky lady."
A wizened figure scrambled from the bushes. He had thick sideburns and wore a flat cap tilted so it shaded his face and a rumpled brown short-sleeve shirt. His leathered face was all hard angles and a sharp gleam shone in his deep-set eyes.
Shirley stumbled back three paces. "Where the hell did you spring from?"
"That is no way to talk to a war veteran," he replied, rubbing his left elbow.
"Didn't they teach you not to jump out on ladies?"
"Aye, they did, but I'd hardly put you in that class, Shirley."
"Cheeky sod."
"That's what the ladies like about me, darling," he said, right hand still rubbing his elbow. "That and the size of me turnips."
George Rouge sold award winning vegetables from his stall in the town market. Shirley's mam shopped at the stall. He had a habit of lurking in the shadows and seemed to enjoy leaping from nowhere to frighten folks.
Shirley studied him. He was slightly winded, with a sheen of sweat on his face. "Have you seen my dad on your travels?"
His face reddened, eyes shafts of dark. "Why would I be looking for your old man?"
Shirley did not want to set him off. He had a temper on him. Everyone knew the man suffered from rage. A sort of madness brought on by too much contact with the chemicals used to work the soil, Shirley thought. She changed the subject. "What is that rash on your arm?"
"It's nowt."
"It looks nasty."
"I said it is nowt."
Shirley didn’t like the look of the red splotches bubbling and spreading from his elbow. Was it contagious?
She took a step back. "You need to see a doctor."
"I'd rather see a nurse."
"Randy sod." She looked at him, smiling. "I'm forty today. Wish me a happy birthday."
"Well done, lass. I remember when I was that age. I thought my life was over. Downhill is what they say."
"Sounds like me right now," Shirley admitted. "I'm so far past it my daughter treats me like I'm already dead."
He laughed with a donkey's bray, exposing crooked yellow teeth with wide gaps and black gums. "Not to worry, lass. My life wasn't over at your age. Not when I found out the ladies still fancied me turnips."
Shirley grinned. "We've got to watch you. Thought you'd be at your market stall today."
"Me boys run the stall on Saturdays. I retired from that lark five years back, but I still like to keep my hand at the allotment." He rubbed his left elbow. "Me work is done here. Time to sink a pint. Want to get in early, fog tonight."
Again he laughed with a donkey's bray. He shuffled away with surprisingly quick bandy steps.
"Watch out for the blackbirds," Shirley called after him. "They go for the eyes."
She didn't think he heard until his reply drifted back on the breeze.
"Keeping us safe, eh? I like that."
Chapter 3
Shirley waited until George Rouge disappeared around a bend, then walked on, cloth bag swinging. The lane narrowed into a single dirt track. The trees formed a canopy of shade. They called this part Dead Man's Walk. Shirley didn't know why. She stopped.
Although she had visited the allotments before, the stillness made her uneasy. Was someone following her? She watched to see if anyone was there. As she scanned the darkness ahead, the donkey bray laugh of George Rouge rattled in her head. Keeping us safe, eh? I like that. She took a step, once again stopped and peered into the gloom.
"Who's there?"
The wind carried with it the rustle of leaves and bleats of sheep. A soft scurrying noise came from the bushes.
"George, is that you?"
George Rouge had a habit of lurking in the shadows and leaping from nowhere to frighten folks, and she swore she heard sinister laughter carried on the stiff breeze. Might have been the call of a crow or a blackbird or the bleat of a lost lamb. Might have been gin playing tricks on her mind from the night before. Might have come from a man hiding deep in the bushes. Might be George Rouge. Might not.
She listened.
Heard nothing.
"I know you are there."
No answer.
She waited a full minute.
Nothing but the wail of the breeze.
With growing trepidation, Shirley started down Dead Man's Walk. A gull screamed from somewhere unseen. Her walk became a trot.
