Necklace.

Rathbone reached in, past his collar and into his shirt, fingered something that clacked softly.

“Your mother?” asked his father, a leery grin spreading across his greasy chops.

Rathbone looked down, holding whatever he had round his neck. The clacking stopped.
“What’s the matter boy? Gone all shy? I have fond memories of your mother. Remember how we all used to play?” He stepped close to his son, breathing heavier, excited.
“Remember that last game?” His voice was quiet. Not soft; it was oily, and sickly, and his breath stunk of bad wine and decay.

Another step, and he was pushing himself up against his son, swaying slightly.
He shut his eyes, and slid his hands up Rathbone’s body.
“Let me have a feel.”
Rathbone started, but his father had him in a hug, and roared into his face: “Your mother, boy! Let me feel your mother!”

Despite the weight of fear-drenched memories, the terrors laid one upon the other carefully, precisely over time, by the fat Rathbone senior and his cohorts, Rathbone still tried to pull away
His father held on, rubbing grease from his waistcoat up Rathbone’s fine velvet dress jacket.
Fat Rathbone pulled him in further, put his fat lips to his son’s ear, panted onto him, wet, hot.
He spoke quietly again, the sound that skipped past the consciousness and spoke to the jagged still-hurting memories, the seething damage.
“I just want to touch her, and then we can rest. You will let me, or I will force it. And then I will force other things upon you which not even you can imagine.”
Then, as a last thought, “My son.”

Rathbone senior released his grip, but stayed pushed up close, and his son, keeping his face expressionless, reached in again into his collar, and pulled out the necklace.

His father smiled again, a stomach churning sight.
As Rathbone younger kept his face turned away, his father raised a pudgy blotched hand, and let his chubby fingers stroke the necklace, run his fingers over the small bones, take them in his hands, close his fist round them and grind them together.

“Back in my grasp again, my love,” he said, keeping his eyes on young Rathbone, looking for a reaction, a flinch, a weakness.
He opened his hand, spat on the bones, then shoved them back down his son’s shirt.
“Just look what you shat out, you whore,” he snarled, looking his son up and down.