My Sister's Bones(11)

‘I don’t take any other medication.’

Shaw clears her throat.

‘So you’ve never been prescribed anything to deal with hallucinations? No antipsychotics for instance?’

I turn round and see that she is reading from a sheet of headed notepaper.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, a feeling of dread creeping through my bones.

‘Antipsychotics?’ she says, looking up. ‘They are a type of drug used to treat a range of conditions. Mainly schizophrenia but also bipolar, depression . . .’

‘No, I know what they are,’ I say as I come back to the chair. ‘I’m talking about the paper in your hand. Where did you get it from?’

Shaw tucks the document back into the blue file and folds her arms.

‘Kate. I will ask again,’ she says firmly. ‘Are you taking any other medication besides sleeping pills?’

I look at her; try to read her face. Does she, like me, just want this all to be over? Does she just want to get home in time for tea with her husband and kids, put her feet up, watch the telly? Of course she does. I decide to come clean. Anything to hasten my release from this place.

‘I was prescribed something a few months ago,’ I tell her. ‘Though it seems you know that already.’

‘Right,’ says Shaw. ‘And are you still taking them?’

‘Yes,’ I lie.

‘Do they help?’

I flinch as I remember hitting the pavement, the taste of blood in my mouth and the feeling that my head was on fire. I see the frazzled doctor at A&E handing me a box of pills as though they were sweets and the weird sense of weightlessness as I lay on my bed waiting for them to kick in. The side effects of those drugs were worse than any hallucination, any nightmare. I couldn’t think straight, could barely construct a sentence, let alone write a report or conduct an interview. In the course of a couple of weeks I was reduced to a marshmallow. All I wanted to do was sleep and eat and not think. Eventually, I flushed the pack down the loo. The voices came back the next day but after weeks of nothingness they were like a welcome friend.

‘Oh yeah, they help,’ I tell Shaw.

‘And the hallucinations? Have they lessened since you started taking the medication?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Completely. Though I took the pills more for anxiety than anything else.’

As if to taunt me, the old woman chooses this moment to scream and I jerk forward in my chair. The room falls silent. Did Shaw notice? She stares at me blankly as she delivers her next question.

‘Would you say that your job and the things you’ve seen have, perhaps, contributed to that anxiety?’

‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘I’m not a robot. I couldn’t do my job if I wasn’t moved, wasn’t affected by the things I’ve seen.’ Show you have feelings, that you’re human . . .

Shaw nods her head. I stare at her, trying to read her expression, but she is giving nothing away.

‘Now,’ she continues, looking down at her notes again. ‘You’ve been back and forth to Syria how many times in the last two years?’

‘Oh God, I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Eight or nine times.’

‘Eight or nine times,’ says Shaw. ‘And while there you have witnessed some extremely distressing things, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘But so have all the other reporters and the aid workers and the people living there. My experience is not unique.’

‘No, but it’s pretty extreme,’ she says. ‘Going in and out of conflict zones with such frequency must take its toll on your mental health. I’m sure it would affect me if I had to work like that.’

‘Maybe I’m tougher than you,’ I spit. Her tone is beginning to annoy me.

‘These assignments,’ says Shaw, ignoring my comment. ‘How long on average do they last?’

‘It depends,’ I say. ‘No assignment is the same.’

‘Well, for instance, your last assignment in Aleppo. How long were you there for?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘And you stayed with a family there?’

I nod my head.

‘Three weeks in the same place,’ says Shaw. ‘Under extreme conditions. Long enough to build up a connection, a strong bond with the people you were staying with. Would you agree?’

I know now where this is heading and I can’t bear it. I shake my head, but she continues.

‘In your last report you spoke of a young boy,’ says Shaw. ‘What happened with him in Aleppo affected you deeply, didn’t it, Kate?’

The blood drains from my body. Why this? Why can’t we just go back to the cuts? They are easier to explain. I look at the door and see the shadow of a policeman on the other side. I have no choice; I’m trapped.

‘Kate. Could you tell me about him? His name was Nidal, wasn’t it?’

She leans forward in her chair and I catch the scent of her perfume; something sugary and cheap, like everything in this town. It sticks in my throat and I can’t breathe.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing up. ‘This is getting silly. My head is throbbing and I need to get home.’

‘Kate, as I told you when we began, you’ve been detained under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act. We’re allowed to keep you here for up to seventy-two hours until we reach a decision on your mental state.’