My Sister's Bones(18)

The moans grow louder, obliterating my words. I put my hands to my ears, try to block them out, but they seem to multiply.

‘Kate.’

Shaw’s voice is muffled against the din.

‘Please stop,’ I shout to the voices. ‘Please just stop.’

I feel Shaw’s hand on my shoulder and I look up.

‘What is it, Kate?’ she says gently. ‘Tell me.’

I shake my head. She can’t find out.

‘Are you okay?’ she presses.

‘I just . . .’ I say, my hands trembling. ‘I just need a break. Can we please have a break?’

‘Of course,’ says Shaw. ‘We can take five minutes.’

She returns to her seat, collects her things and leaves the room. A moment later a stocky police officer enters to take her place. He stands by the door, frowning at me.

Meanwhile the moans grow louder and louder and as I sit under the policeman’s gaze I am as helpless as little Layla, wondering where her legs have gone.





10


Wednesday 15 April 2015

No more voices last night. I suppose that is a good thing, but they have become such an integral part of me I’ve become strangely used to them. My sleep wasn’t altogether restful though. I dreamt of Aleppo and it was the clearest of all the dreams I have had so far. So vivid that even now as I sit cradling a cup of coffee and looking out on to the damp expanse of my mother’s suburban garden I still feel shaken. And as I close my eyes I can smell the mustiness of the bedroom and hear the gentle tap, tap, as a small boy drives his toy car up and down the corridor.

Nidal is in the corridor playing. As I step over him, he bombards me with questions.

‘What is England like, Kate? What are the people like?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Some are nice, some are a bit grumpy.’

‘What is grumpy?’

I make a face and purse my lips. ‘It’s like this,’ I tell him. ‘Never with a smile.’

‘Oh, unhappy,’ he says, his face falling. ‘Why are they unhappy?’

‘Well, in England, people complain a lot. Often about things that aren’t really important.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, like trains running late and poor service in restaurants, oh, and the weather, everyone in England complains about the weather.’

‘Is it cold in England?’

‘Sometimes. Though we complain when it’s too hot as well as when it’s too cold.’

‘English people sound funny,’ he says and his face breaks into a smile.

‘Yes, they are. But you’ll see it for yourself one day. You can visit me.’

‘Maybe,’ says Nidal. He shrugs his shoulders and turns away.

‘What is it, Nidal? Tell me.’

I kneel down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder.

He turns round and his face is stained with tears.

‘It is this,’ he yells, gesturing to the dank hallway. ‘I used to go to school. I used to play football and go on school trips. I did real things, fun things. Now I am trapped in here with this.’

He grabs his toy car and hurls it at the wall.

‘I don’t want to do pretend things, I want to do real things again. I don’t want to be locked up inside like a prisoner.’

I take his hand. It is shaking.

‘Nidal, I know you are scared but this won’t last for ever.’

He bats my hand away.

‘My aunt, she wants us to go with her to Turkey,’ he says. ‘She knows a man who can get us there but Papa, he says we can’t. He says we stay here until all this is over; that he won’t become refugee.’

Khaled is a proud man, I think to myself, though I wish with all my heart that he would follow the aunt’s advice and head for Turkey.

‘Mama says we should go,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘She says that we’ll be safe there and I can play football again.’

As I look at him, his eyes wide with hope, I remember the refugee camp I visited on the Turkish border six months ago. It was chaotic and disease-ridden and rammed full of desperate people whose dead eyes told me they had seen things that I could never imagine. It is not the paradise Nidal is imagining, but it would offer safety and shelter and a chance for Khaled and Zaynah to set about rebuilding their lives. But I know Khaled’s mind is made up.

‘Your father knows what’s best for you,’ I say to Nidal, trying to reassure him.

‘You think this is best?’ he cries, gesturing to the dank hallway. ‘I can’t stand it. I want to get out.’

‘You will get out,’ I say softly. ‘And when you do you can come visit me in England and meet all the grumpy people I’ve been telling you about.’

He looks up at me. His face is swollen with tears.

‘No,’ he cries. ‘Stop saying that. Stop saying they are not happy. They have to be happy. They live in England.’

‘Nidal, sweetheart,’ I say, putting my arm round his shoulders. ‘Please don’t get upset.’

But he can’t hear me. His hands cover his ears and he shakes his head furiously.

‘I don’t want to talk to you any more,’ he says. ‘You say silly things. Just go away. Leave me alone.’