My Sister's Bones(2)

‘I’ve had the odd bad dream,’ I reply, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Who wouldn’t? It’s been a rough few weeks.’

As Shaw continues to write I stare at my feet and for a second I see body parts congealed in mud, like some macabre jigsaw puzzle. She asked me about nightmares but where do I start? Do I tell her how I’ve stood in shallow graves and felt my feet sinking into the earth, my toes drenched in body fluids? Do I tell her about those endless black nights when I have woken up begging for noise, for chatter, for anything but the incessant silence of the dead? No, because if I do I will only confirm her suspicions. I have to stay focused and stay one step ahead of her or it’s all over. I rub the peridot for protection as Shaw stops writing and looks up.

‘And would you say these bad dreams have got worse since you’ve returned to Herne Bay?’

I put the beaker back on to the table and sit up in my chair. I have to stop letting my mind wander; I have to be alert, careful. Every word I say here can be used against me.

‘No, they haven’t got worse,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘They’ve just become real.’





2


Sunday 12 April 2015

One week earlier

I shiver as I step off the train and stand on the deserted platform. The sea air whips angrily around my face as I pull my bulky rucksack on to my back and make my way towards the exit. The station clock reads 11.59. I feel uneasy as I walk through the blistering silence. Have I made the right decision? I pause, and contemplate climbing back on to the train, but the engine has stopped and a guard in a fluorescent waistcoat is opening the doors to let the cleaners do their work. This is the last stop, the end of the line.

I pull my thin jacket tighter, chastising myself for leaving my heavier coat packed at the bottom of my bag. I’d forgotten how cold Herne Bay can get at night, even in April. My mother used to call it bone-chilling weather.

As I walk towards the steps I look around for any sign of life but there is nothing. I am the only person here. I hope he got my message. Of all the terrifying situations I have found myself in over the years, none has made me feel as uncomfortable as this. Herne Bay. Where darkness comes early and life is as predictable as the tides. It will take all the strength I have left to get through these next few days.

As I step into the half-lit ticket hall my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pause by the red glow of a vending machine to answer it.

‘Hello. Oh, that’s okay. I’ll be right there.’

A light rain begins to fall as I step out of the station and spot the silver saloon car parked in the empty taxi rank. I wave to the man sitting in the driver’s seat as I stride towards the car, my heavy rucksack digging into my collarbone. My brother-in-law waves back but doesn’t smile. He knows that my presence in Herne Bay will cause trouble. Still, I’m grateful that he came to collect me. He’s the only member of my family who still wants to speak to me.

‘Hi, Paul,’ I sigh as I open the door. ‘Thanks for coming out at this hour, I really appreciate it.’

‘No problem,’ he replies. ‘Stick your bag on the back seat. There’s more room.’

I want to stick myself on the back seat as well, and pretend I’m in London in some anonymous taxi, going home to my own bed. Still, the drive from the station to my mother’s house is a short one, I tell myself, as I toss my rucksack into the back and climb into the passenger seat. Clicking the seat belt, I lean back and close my eyes. I am home, whatever that means.

‘Are you sure you want to stay at your mother’s?’ asks Paul as we pull out of the car park. ‘I mean, you’re more than welcome to bunk at ours for the week.’

‘Thanks, Paul,’ I reply as familiar landmarks pass by the window. ‘But I really don’t want to put you out.’

‘You wouldn’t be putting us out,’ he says. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘I doubt it would be a pleasure for Sally. I can just imagine her face if I rock up at the door.’

‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘What about a hotel then? There’s a new one opened up on the seafront, nice and plush, you’d like it.’

‘Honestly, Mum’s house will be fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m only here for a few days and, anyway, after everything that’s happened it’ll be good to spend some time there; give me the chance to take it all in.’

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But the offer’s there if you change your mind.’

‘Thanks, Paul.’

He is silent for the rest of the journey and I look out as we drive through indistinct residential streets, the names of which blur in front of my eyes like ink dissolving in water. My stomach growls and I suddenly feel light-headed. This always happens when I come back here. It’s like I’m allergic to the place.

‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ I ask Paul, praying I don’t throw up over his immaculate dashboard.

‘Go ahead,’ he says, gesturing to the button by the door handle.

‘That’s better,’ I sigh as a flurry of cold air hits my face, though the pungent fishy scent doesn’t help.

I put my hand in my pocket and run my fingers along the reassuring smooth surface of my lucky pen. The pen – a beautiful silver fountain pen inscribed with my name – was a gift from Chris on our first anniversary. It has been everywhere with me – Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. Whenever I touch it I know I’m safe.