Tania Carver: Cage of Bones

Phil frowned. ‘Comics?’

‘House of Secrets and House of Mystery,’ said Mickey, not needing to look at his notes. ‘Two brothers who keep killing each other. With a graveyard between them.’

‘Right. We need… ’

Phil trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the cage. The deliberate horror transfixing him. The cage, the flowers, the symbols on the wall, the altar-like bench… Arc-lit, the cellar held a palpable sense of anticipation, a stage set waiting for actors, unaware that the performance is cancelled. His gut churned in repulsion. But there was something else, some other feeling it invoked within him. Fascination. The workmanship, the craft, the dedication… the cage was a beautiful piece of work.

He moved closer, wanting to feel the worn bone beneath his fingers. To touch it, explore it, caress it even. But to simultaneously run as far and as fast as he could from it. He kept staring, riveted, head spinning in wonder, stomach churning in revulsion. Acting on something he couldn’t explain or identify within him, he reached out a latex-gloved hand.

‘Boss?’

Phil blinked. Mickey’s voice called him back.

‘Look. You’ll want to see this.’

A uniform was pointing to a corner, shining his flashlight on it. Phil and Mickey stepped closer. Hidden behind a bunch of flowers were gardening tools. A trowel, a small hand fork and a scythe.

‘Oh God,’ said Phil.

Mickey peered in closer. ‘Have they been sharpened?’

The tools were old, well-worn. Phil checked the edges. They were silver bright. Razored sharp. They reflected the beam of the flashlight, glinting round the cellar.

‘Get Forensics to examine them,’ Phil said. ‘That brown staining? I reckon it’s blood.’

‘You think he’s done this before?’ said Mickey.

‘Looks that way,’ Phil said. He turned. Away from the tools, the flowers, the cage. ‘Right. A plan. We need a plan.’ He could still feel the cage’s presence behind him. Like a pair of unblinking eyes boring into him, giving him the mental equivalent of an itch between his shoulder blades, something he couldn’t identify and reach, couldn’t satisfy…

‘Are the Birdies here yet?’ Phil asked.

‘Should be up top,’ said Mickey.

‘Let’s go then.’

He gave one last look at the cage. Tried to see it as what it was. A hideous, horrific prison. He looked at its floor. In the corner was a bucket, the stench coming off it in waves indicating that it had been the boy’s toilet. Beside that were two old plastic bowls. Both filthy and scarred, one with the traces of something inside it, smeared round the rim. Bones sticking out of it, smaller ones than those of the cage. Food. The other contained some dark, brackish water.

Phil wished his partner were there. Marina Esposito, police psychologist. They had worked on several cases together, where their professional relationship had developed into something more intimate. But that wasn’t why he wanted her now. She would be able to help with the investigation, track down the perpetrator. Help him work out why someone had done this. And that, he hoped, would make it much easier to turn that ‘why’ into a ‘who’.

He kept staring at the cage. It stirred something within him, something he couldn’t name or identify. Like a memory remaining annoyingly out of reach. But not good. He knew that much.

He thought harder. It was coming to him, reaching through the fog of his memory like a ghost from a horror film…

Then he felt it. That familiar tightening round his chest. Like his heart was being squeezed by an iron fist. And he knew he had to get upstairs as quickly as possible.

He ran ahead of Mickey, exited the house. Out into the open air. The daylight, the sunshine he had craved. He didn’t even feel it.

Phil stood against the side of the building, waiting for the feeling to subside. Why? he thought. Why now? Nothing had happened; he hadn’t done anything to exert himself. Why here? Why now?

He took a deep breath. Waited a few seconds. His panic attacks had become much less frequent recently. He put that down to his newly settled home life with Marina and their daughter Josephina. His job hadn’t got any easier, less distressing or less involving. But now he had people he loved and who loved him. And a happy home to go to at the end of the working day. That was as much as he had ever asked for and more than he ever thought he would get.

Because Phil had never believed in long-term happiness. His own upbringing – children’s homes and foster homes, fear and violence – had put paid to that. He wasn’t taking anything for granted and didn’t know how long this would last, but he was enjoying it. Every nerve-racking second. If this was happiness, then it was the happiness of the tightrope walker managing to keep his balance.

He opened his eyes. Mickey was standing before him, concern on his features.

‘Boss? You OK?’

Phil took a deep breath, another. Waited until he trusted himself to speak.

‘I’m fine, Mickey, fine.’ He put the panic attack to the back of his mind, along with the cage and the niggling, unreachable thoughts it had triggered. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

Donna felt an insistent prodding in her shoulder. She ignored it, turned over, hoping it would stop.

It didn’t.

‘Donna… ’

The prodding again. More insistent this time, harder. The voice saying her name louder. ‘Donna… ’

Donna opened her eyes. Closed them again. ‘Just a few more minutes, Ben. Let Auntie Donna sleep.’ Christ, listen to her. Auntie Donna. Must be desperate.

She closed her eyes, hoped he would do as he was told. Knew he wouldn’t.

‘’M hungry… ’

Anger coursed through Donna Warren’s body. Her first response was to lash out with a fist, smack this kid square in the face, remind him that life wasn’t fucking fair and that just because he was hungry didn’t mean he was going to get fed. Who did he think she was? His mother, for Christ’s sake?

She closed her eyes tight, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t going to be fooled by that.

Her arm snaked slowly out from under her, patted the other side of the bed. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Donna’s voice sounded slurred, like an old-school VHS tape at the wrong speed.

But Ben understood. ‘Don’ know… Get up. ’M hungry… ’

Donna sighed. No good. She would have to get up. The anger subsided. Poor little bastard. Wasn’t his fault his mother hadn’t come home last night. No, but when she did turn up, Donna would be so fucking angry with her… Leaving her alone with her kid like that. Saying she wouldn’t be long.

She swung out of bed, planted her feet on the floor. The cold penetrated her numbness. She gave a small shiver. Her head spun. Too much booze the night before. Cider and vodka cocktails. Home-made. With blackcurrant. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with Bench and Tommer turning up, supplying the weed and the charlie. Faith should have been there. Didn’t know what she had missed. And she could have helped sort them both out, instead of getting all secretive on her and going out. As it was, Donna did the two of them herself. The drugs and booze needed paying for. Fair’s fair. She didn’t mind. Much.

She looked at Ben, standing there in his washed-out Spider-Man pyjamas, knowing he wasn’t the first kid to have worn them. ‘All right… ’ She pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I’m comin’… ’

By the time she made her way downstairs, bones creaking like a woman at least ten, if not twenty, years older than the thirty-two she was, Ben was already down there. He’d probably been through the kitchen cupboards, seen what was there, helped himself, even. And he still wanted her to cook for him. Little bastard.