Have you cleaned your bones recently?

It was only five thirty in the afternoon and the world had already descended into darkness. Tarry's part of the world, anyway.
"I told you, at least a thousand times, there's nothing wrong with those pants," Hanan growled, sort of like a hungry bear.
Tarry hiccoughed. She pinched the tight denim fabric of her jeans and wondered how on earth she had squeezed herself into them. "I know," she replied sulkily, "But they're in fashion and Sherridan said they were half price-"
"But they weren't," Hanan supplied this information for no reason.
"No, no they weren't," Tarry said quickly, picking up her pace to match him, "but they were sitting on the table out the front, and the ones next to them had oranges as the pattern-"
"For sure and certain," Hanan said, like he always did when he couldn't care less about whatever was being discussed, and he stopped walking so Tarry had to stop as well. "Listen, it's not far, ok?"
Tarry nodded.
"So let's keep on at it, alright? No more talking about oranges or tight jeans."
Tarry watched her breath rise into the cold air and she focused on Hanans heart-shaped face. He was always so pale and thin, like the ghost of a skeleton, and she rather liked the way his caramel-coloured curls flopped around his forehead and his bright, golden eyes gleamed amongst the dim streetlights. He looked as though he should be standing on the sidewalk selling play-chalk and wooden shoes.
She straightened her posture, "Ok."
When they started walking again, Tarry asked in a deathly quiet whisper: "Where are we going again?"
"Bourghan's," Hanan said loudly.
"I didn't think mummy liked Bourghan's," she said, pinching at her jeans again.
Hanan sighed, "Your mother doesn't like Mr Borkgam," and Tarry said: "Oh, that's right."
Then the tone of Hanan's voice changed and he said softly, "It's your birthday in four days."
A bird hooted. Tarry glanced to her left and stopped abruptly, "Is this the Bourghan's?"
Hanan said, "Yes," and stopped as well.
It was a cemetery, named after William Bourghan, who had tripped over the pavement while playing hopscotch, hit his head on a wooden bench and died at the age of seventy-two.
"There's an old rumour that went around about Will Bourghan," Hanan told her as they stood and stared at the rows and rows of headstones through the impressive iron gates, "They say that he tripped on a Tropical Palm, you know, those little gum lollies that take forever to lose their flavour?"
"Oh! I love those," Tarry exclaimed. She wished she could take off her shoe right that minute and discover a Tropical Palm rattling inside, waiting to be devoured.
"He tripped on it," Hanan repeated, "and that was the end."
"If only he'd just bent over, picked it up, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth," Tarry stated wistfully, "He would never have had to stop playing."
"You always have to stop playing," Hanan corrected her, and he took her hand, quite forcefully Tarry thought, and pulled her into the cemetery.
"It's your birthday in four days," Hanan said again and Tarry clenched her jaw tersely.
"I know," she said, "I know and it's just-"
"You'll be twenty-two."
She was aware of his hand still clutching hers and she tried to gently tug it free. Hanan's grip was either absurdly strong or he was planning a dark affair, and Tarry felt something extremely close to fear rise up in her stomach.
"So, I think- I think it's imaginable..." the toe of her shoes hit little grass mounds as she tripped along behind him and she stumbled while Hanan marched purposefully ahead. She continued bravely: "...and that, being imaginable, that we could- could t-take a break."
They suddenly stopped. Tarry walked into his arm.
"Oh! S-"
"Tarry," Hanan breathed in a tone of desire one would expect to hear from a lover. He was gazing at a large, square headstone with the name Ezli J. Whelnhemsky engraved at the top. "His name was Ezlian Johan, but no one called him that."
"Oh..."
"It was only a brief thing," he muttered, as though he were justifying something.
Tarry tried once again to pull her hand out of the vice clamp that was Hanan's, and failed. She shivered. "Hanan? How long are we going to stay here?"
Hanan smiled at the headstone, "That's right. Twenty-two." He suddenly dragged her around and pushed her against the rough stone front.
"Hanan!" Tarry felt a sharp pain spread across her shoulder-blades and an ache in her left ankle, "Hanan..."
He looked mad.
His curls sprang out from his head and his wide eyes danced as they focused on her face, like a puppet without a master, like a deranged clown holding a knife instead of smiley-faced balloons, and when Tarry tried to move she realised he had both hands at her shoulders.
"What are you doing?!"
Hanan ignored her feeble attempts at scratching and kicking. He seemed possessed.
Tarry whimpered as he suddenly moved closer.
"Be sure to keep still."
She stared in horror at the blank expression on his face.
"Please..."
But he didn't seem to hear. She squeezed her eyes shut and started counting as he leaned in and sank his teeth into her throat.