My Sister's Bones(21)

I sit at the edge of Neptune’s Arm, watching as my feet dangle towards the sea. What had I been expecting from my mother? Words of comfort? A warm drink to make the nightmares stop?

I ease myself further along the edge of the wall and take the letter out of my pocket. Below me an old fishing boat bobs aimlessly on the surface of the water. I look down at the empty wooden husk and try to think of my mother, try to summon the image of the soft, sparrow-like woman who gave me life, but she’s not there. I can’t find her.

I scrunch the letter into a tight ball and, lifting my fist, watch as the wind catches the paper and carries it high across the harbour wall, up and up like a gull, twisting and turning in the salty air.

As the sky clouds over and the marine light shifts, I see a deserted street at dusk and the shadows of two soldiers lengthening on the concrete, their guns raised. I am back in Aleppo staring numbly into an abyss. I put my hands over my eyes and start to count, willing the images to go away.

I need to get out of here.

I walk back to the seafront and wait by the bandstand for a moment to watch the fishing boats come in. A cluster of fishermen stand on the breakwater smoking cigarettes. One of them, a thickset man in a blue cable-knit sweater, looks up and sees me. He nods his head and I recognize him.

It’s Ray Morris. Dad’s old friend.

‘Ray,’ I call, waving my hand.

He stubs his cigarette out and steps across the shingle towards me.

‘It’s never Denny’s girl?’ he says. ‘Little Kate. How are you?’

His skin is dewy and pink and his eyes, reflecting the last rays of the late afternoon, are pale grey and glassy. He takes off his hat and shakes my hand. His hands are raw and calloused as if he has spent a lifetime immersed in salt water. The last time I saw him was the night before I left for university. He’d come to deliver some fish and Mum invited him to stay for dinner. We’d avoided sitting round the dining table since my father’s death the previous year; too many bad memories. But that night my mum made an effort and set the table with the best china. It was the first civilized meal we’d had in years. And my last in that house.

‘I’m fine,’ I reply, suddenly feeling like a child again.

‘What are you doing back?’ he says. ‘Last thing I heard you were in the middle of some war.’

‘I’m just here for a few days,’ I tell him. ‘Sorting out Mum’s things.’

‘It was terrible to hear about your mother,’ he says, looking out towards the horizon. ‘Terrible. She was a good woman.’

‘Yes,’ I whisper, trying not to think about the letter. ‘She was.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t go to the funeral,’ he says, putting his hat back on. ‘Only I . . . well, I’ve never been one for churches and all that.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t go either.’

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘I was in Syria.’

He nods his head.

‘We all read your stuff,’ he says, gesturing to his mates out on the beach. ‘But must take its toll, eh?’

He smiles and it’s all I can do not to cry. Something about his voice reminds me of my mum.

‘It’s nice to have a break from it for a bit,’ I say. ‘Have a bit of normality.’

‘How’s that sister of yours?’ he says. ‘Sally, weren’t it? Has she moved away too?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘But she keeps herself to herself these days.’

‘She used to work in the bank on the high street, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, she did,’ I reply. ‘She left a few years ago. I think she fancied a change.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ says Ray, frowning. ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing this much longer. It’s getting on for fifty years now. You get less for murder. Still, it’s given me a decent living.’

‘Which one’s yours?’ I ask, gesturing to the boats that are lying upended on the shingle.

‘That one over there by the rocks,’ he says, pointing to a small black and white vessel.

I strain my eyes to read the squiggly writing on the side but I can’t make it out.

‘What’s it called?’ I ask.

‘The Acheron,’ he says, a slow smile creeping across his face.

‘The river of pain?’ I exclaim. ‘That’s rather dark.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Appropriate, though. People forget how forbidding that sea can be.’

He stops and I watch him as he looks out at the water. His whole being is rocky and solid as though he was carved out of the sandstone cliffs centuries ago and left to weather in the salty air.

‘It must be a tough job,’ I say.

‘It has its moments,’ he replies. ‘The thing to remember is that, no matter what, you can never tame that beast.’ He points towards the sea. ‘It will always have the last word.’

I go to answer but the wind swallows my words. One of the fishermen calls Ray’s name and he puts his hand up.

‘All right, Jack!’ He turns to me. ‘I’m needed,’ he says. ‘It was good to see you, love.’

He pats my shoulder and smiles.

‘You too, Ray,’ I say, suddenly feeling very small.