Dreaming Of The Bones

Kit shrugged. “I suppose. They’re all in the bathroom.”

He’d need things to wear to the funeral, Kincaid realized, but he also needed a few days before he even had to think of it. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go and get them, and I’ll throw somethings in the bag for you?”

“All right,” Kit agreed, and when he’d gone, Kincaid went quickly to the closet. A school blazer, a tie, some dark trousers, a white shirt. They would have to do. He found some black lace-up shoes and those went in first, in the bottom of the bag. Then the other things, neatly folded, and on top of them the jeans and jersey. Next he added socks and underpants from the bureau drawers, then a Cambridge sweatshirt. Sitting back on his heels to survey the room for last-minute necessities, he spied a worn teddy bear on the shelf above Kit’s bed, and that he tucked in last.

Kit came in with a bundle of night things, and when Kincaid took them to fold he discovered the purple tunic Vic had worn on Sunday among the folds of the dressing gown. It smelled of her perfume and, very faintly, of her skin.

Their eyes met as they knelt either side of the bag, and after a moment Kincaid folded the tunic and packed it without a word.

Kit’s room was on the front of the house, and as they zipped his bag they heard the sound of car tires on gravel, then the slam of a car door.

“Just in time, eh?” said Kincaid, attempting a casual tone.

“No.” Kit sat back on his heels, almost quivering with distress.

The boy looked like a frightened rabbit ready to bolt, and Kincaid knew he mustn’t let him lose control now. “Come on, mate,” he said, standing and lifting the bag. “I’m right behind you. We’ll do this together.”

“No, wait, I forgot Nathan’s books. I can’t go without Nathan’s books.” Kit swept a pile of books from his bedside table and they stuffed them in the already bulging bag, then Kincaid guided him down the stairs with a hand on his shoulder.

Kincaid had not seen Vic’s parents since the Christmas before she left him, and he doubted whether time or circumstance would have altered their mutual dislike. He and Kit met them at the door, and he, at least, had the advantage of foreknowledge.

Eugenia Potts’s face, already red and puffy with weeping, went slack with shock at the sight of him. An expression of mild surprise furrowed Bob Potts’s bland face, and Kincaid wondered if, even now, the man felt anything at all.

“Hullo, Bob. Mrs. Potts.” He had never been able to bring himself to call her Eugenia, and Mum had been unthinkable.

“You!” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

Her tone was accusing, but he answered as mildly as he could. “They rang me, I’m afraid. Look, you’d better come in.”

“You! What right have you to invite us into our daughter’s house?” Pushing past him as he stepped back, she continued, her voice rising, “You don’t belong here, and I’ll thank you to get—” She saw Kit then, for he’d been using Kincaid’s body as a shield. Changing gears in mid-tirade, she shrieked, “Christopher, oh, my poor darling,” while grabbing him to her and pressing his blond head against the bosom of her tweedy coat.

Kincaid saw Kit stiffen, then struggle to extricate himself. A touch on his arm reminded him that he had, as usual, forgotten Bob Potts.

“Duncan, thank you for coming,” Potts said with quiet courtesy. “But there’s no need now for you to stay Is there anything … I mean, should we …”

Feeling that perhaps he’d misjudged the man, Kincaid said softly, “No, there’s nothing you can do. Not until tomorrow, at least, and I’m sure someone will be ringing you. The police are very anxious to contact Kit’s father, however. Have you any idea—”

“That man,” hissed Eugenia, for having finished throttling Kit, she’d caught the tail end of their conversation. “I blame him for this. If he hadn’t abandoned her, none of this would have happened. My baby would be alive—”

Kit’s face lost all color, then he turned and ran from the room.

Kincaid rounded on Mrs. Potts with a shout of anger. “Enough! Keep your useless speculations to yourself, you silly woman, where they won’t do any more damage.” He left her standing open-mouthed, and ran after Kit.

He found him in the sitting room, crouched on the floor over the wreckage of the Monopoly game. “I kicked it,” Kit said, looking up at Kincaid. Tears streamed down his face. “I shouldn’t have, but I was so angry. And now I can’t… I can’t put it back…”

Kneeling beside him, Kincaid said, “I’ll help you,” and began sorting the paper money into its slots. “Kit, don’t pay any attention to what your grandmother said. She’s just upset. You did absolutely the right things this afternoon, and no one could have done better.”

“Why does she have to be so beastly?” Kit said, hiccuping. “Why did she have to be so beastly to you?”

Kincaid sighed. He felt suddenly too exhausted to think, much, less talk, but he made an effort. “She doesn’t mean to be cruel, Kit. She just doesn’t think. Some people are like loose cannons—they go off all the time at the nearest target, and it makes them feel better. And I’m afraid the more your grandmother hurts inside, the worse she’s going to be, so try to be patient with her.”

“You weren’t,” said Kit. “I heard you shouting.”

“No, I wasn’t, was I?” Kincaid admitted, grinning at him. “So don’t take me as an example.” He’d been half listening to the murmur of voices from the hall, hers rising in protest, her husband’s coaxing, and now he heard the front door close softly. “They’ve gone to the car, I think,” he said, fitting the board into the top of the box and closing the lid. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

When they reached the porch, Potts climbed out of the car and came over to them. “So sorry about all that,” he said. Light from the porch lamp glinted from his spectacles, so that Kincaid couldn’t see his eyes. “A sedative, and