My Sister's Bones(3)

‘It’s so quiet,’ I whisper, tucking the pen back into my pocket as the car crawls up the hill towards Smythley Road.

I’d forgotten the blanket of silence that descends on the town at night. As I look out I imagine the inhabitants of Smythley Road cocooned in their beds, like the characters in the Edgar Allan Poe stories I devoured as a child, lost in their ‘little slices of death’. It’s hard to believe that this had once been my home; this silent world.

‘Here we are,’ says Paul as he stops the car.

His voice makes me jump and I look up at the house we have parked outside. Number 46: a lifeless 1930s semi with greying pebbledash that had once been sparkling white. I still remember the telephone number – 654345 – and my childhood mantra: My name is Kate Rafter and I live at number 46 Smythley Road with my mummy and daddy and my sister, Sally. My eyes moisten but I blink the tears away, reminding myself that the first step is always the hardest.

As I open the door and step out on to the pavement my lungs contract, like the prelude to a bout of coughing, and I have to steady myself by placing my hands on the car bonnet.

It’s just a week, that’s all, I tell myself. A few days of sea air and signing Mum’s papers then back to work, back to normal.

‘You okay?’

Paul is standing behind me. He lifts the rucksack from my shoulder and guides me towards the house.

‘I’m fine, Paul, just tired.’

‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to book into a hotel?’

‘No,’ I say as we walk up the drive. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.’

‘Well, you’ll get one here, I’m sure,’ he says breezily. ‘It’s nice and peaceful. Don’t know how you manage it, jumping from one hellhole to the next. I’d be wrecked.’

I smile ruefully. That’s all that matters to most people – getting a good night’s sleep. I imagine Paul in Homs or Aleppo, snoring his head off while all around him people fight to stay alive.

I stand on the doorstep staring at the door. It still feels inconceivable that my mother is not behind it, the smell of baking wafting in her wake. My mother was this house; it was the only world she knew.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Paul, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Here are the keys. Chubb’s for the front door, mortice for the back. Thermostat’s in the kitchen above the kettle if you’re cold. I’ll pop over in the morning to see if you’re okay.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply, taking the keys and rubbing the sharp metal between finger and thumb. ‘And give my regards to Sally, won’t you?’

He flinches at the sound of her name.

‘She’s still my sister,’ I tell him. ‘Despite everything.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘And deep down she knows that too.’

‘I hope so,’ I say, the cold air sending shivers down my back.

‘You get yourself in,’ says Paul, patting my arm. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

I follow him down the gravel drive and watch as his car disappears into the shadowy folds of the bay, putting off going into the house for a few more moments. Once I open the door it will all become real. My mother’s death will be confirmed. It is almost too painful to bear. But I have to do it, I tell myself, as I reluctantly make my way back to the house, or I will never move on. As I approach I see a light in the upstairs window of the house next door and I pause. It is a reassuring sight, a sign of life amid darkness and death, and I feel comforted as I put the key in the lock and open the door.

Inside, I fumble around trying to find the light switch, tripping over my rucksack as I run my palms across the glossy woodchip walls. When I eventually locate it the dim glow that ensues brings a knot to my stomach. I’d forgotten: my mother always abhorred bright lights. Light was not to be trusted. It revealed too much. And so my mother had installed low-wattage bulbs throughout the house and retreated to the shadows.

I walk down the hallway, thinking how the first eighteen years of my life had been spent in near-darkness, terrified of what lay hidden in the corners. I go from room to room, flicking switches, my heart sinking as each dull bulb splutters impotently to life.

I stop at the kitchen. It looks different. Paul and Sally have obviously set to work getting the house ready to sell. The dark red walls of my childhood have been painted magnolia and the lino replaced with an insipid beige carpet. But it’s all good, I tell myself as I step inside. However boring it may be, beige is what I need right now; its dull neutrality will keep me from hurtling down the hole of memory.

I walk into the pantry and see that Paul has stocked up ahead of my visit. There are new packs of coffee and tea, a fresh loaf of white bread, tins of soup and baked beans. Opening the fridge, I see full-fat milk, butter and eggs and a packet of smoked bacon: things I haven’t eaten for years. Still, I’ll be grateful for them in the morning.

I see he’s also left a couple of bottles of white wine. I take one out and pour myself a large glass. I know I shouldn’t. After all, until the events of the last couple of months, I barely touched alcohol. I vowed never to turn out like my father and Sally. But since Aleppo, a drink seems to be the only thing that will settle my nerves.

That and my sleeping pills.

I pat my pocket and pull out a pack. I swallow two with the rest of the wine and make my way upstairs, praying that they will work fast.