My Sister's Bones(31)

‘That’s what you said later to the police,’ says Shaw. ‘The manager of the cafe called them and you were questioned but Rosa didn’t want to press charges. It seems she had a soft spot for you.’

‘There was no need for the police to be called,’ I say, my hackles rising. ‘The manager overreacted. Rosa knew it wasn’t my fault. The police could see it was just a misunderstanding. Christ, there are more serious crimes being committed in Soho than that, Dr Shaw. They didn’t want to waste their time on something as trivial as a woman falling over.’

‘I think you lashed out at Rosa because you were scared,’ she says, putting the notes on the floor beside her feet. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it, Kate? You didn’t fall over, you had a hallucination, isn’t that right?’

Why is she doing this? Why won’t she just let it go?

‘It was a momentary thing, just a memory,’ I say. ‘Nothing serious.’

Shaw nods. ‘And have you had anything like this since? Any more hallucinations?’

‘No,’ I reply, making sure to hold her gaze. ‘I can assure you, I haven’t.’

‘Are you being honest with me, Kate?’

‘Yes.’

She picks up her notebook and turns to a fresh page. I look at the clock and wonder how many more questions Shaw has waiting for me; how much more of my life I have to expose to her. As long as we don’t go back to Syria, I tell myself – as long as we don’t do that – then I can cope with anything.





15


Thursday 16 April 2015

The sheets are hot and moist against my skin as I come round. The room is dark. It’s still night. I try to remember how I got home but my brain is mush and the only thing I recall is sitting in a bar talking about striking lorry drivers. After that, all is a terrifying blank.

My eyes are stinging and I have a raging thirst but I can’t lift my head from the pillow. As I lie here, immobile, the events of the evening come back to me in fragments. A large glass of wine gulped down in one . . . an empty bottle . . . How can I have got so drunk on just one bottle of wine? Or was it two? I try to think clearly but I can’t.

The room spins and as I sit up the pain starts; thick, jagged pain that stabs at my temples. I need pills. I get out of bed and feel my way towards the door, stubbing my toe on something sharp. Looking down, I see the shape of my handbag lying on the floor, the contents scattered all around and the thick silver buckle that ought to be clasped shut undone. I turn on the lamp then kneel down gingerly to check everything is there. Mobile, pills, purse. The zip of my purse is open and coins and notes spill out of it. I don’t think I’ve lost any of it though. I pile them back in and see a crumpled bit of paper amongst the twenty-pound notes. Unfolding it, I see the words ‘Marine Taxis’ and a fare for ￡3.50. Paul must have bundled me into a cab for the five-minute journey home. I try to picture his face but my thoughts are liquid and I can’t get a hold on any one thing. Yes, it must have been Paul who helped me get the taxi; it has to have been.

Maybe I should call him, I think, as I close my purse and put it back into the handbag. I could explain myself; tell him that it was a one-off incident brought about by exhaustion; that I don’t drink excessively, that a large glass is usually my limit. But then I change my mind. The poor man’s probably had enough of me for one night.

The pain in my head intensifies as I get to my feet. I go down to the kitchen and take out two painkillers from the box in the cupboard, washing them down with a glass of water. As I stand at the sink I am startled by the sight of a gaunt skeletal woman glaring at me from the window. I jump back then realize that it’s me. Jesus, I look a state. I need to rest otherwise I’m going to make myself ill.

Back upstairs I pop two of my sleeping pills into my mouth, swallowing them with the remainder of the water. Then, turning off the light, I get back into bed.

But as my head touches the pillow I am dragged back by a piercing scream. It sounds like the noise a cat makes when you step on its paw. I sit up in the bed and listen. Another scream. This time softer, a pathetic resigned yelp that dissolves into a series of low moans and sobs. Foxes, perhaps?

I climb out of bed and open the curtains. Flocculent night clouds drift across the sky and the lights from the distant pier trickle through them like thin golden arteries. The noises have stopped and all seems calm. Get some sleep, Kate, I tell myself, stepping away from the window. But as I go to close the curtains, I see something.

A small figure is crouched in my mother’s flower bed.

My stomach contracts. This can’t be happening. I’m awake. The nightmares don’t come when I’m awake.

I blink my eyes. But, no, the figure is still there, right in front of me. This is no hallucination; there is a child in my mother’s flower bed.

I stand at the window looking out. For once I have no idea what to do. The child isn’t moving and, for a moment, I think it may be dead. But then the figure looks up, right up, at the window, and I gasp. In the glow from the moon I can see that it’s a boy.

I pick my phone up from off the floor.

‘Hello, yes,’ I say when I finally get through, my hands shaking. ‘I need to report a case of child abuse. He’s the child of my neighbours and he’s . . . he’s in my garden. He’s there right now. He must be freezing. I heard a scream a few moments ago then I looked out and . . . Sorry? My name? It’s Kate Rafter, 46 Smythley Road, and as I said the boy is the child of my neighbours, they live at 44 Smythley Road. Yes, he’s alone as far as I can tell. Where am I? I’m standing at my bedroom window looking out and he’s huddled up in the cold. Thank you so much. What? Oh gosh, I’m afraid I can’t remember the postcode right now . . . it’s my mother’s house, she died and I’m . . . er, it’s Smythley Road by the . . . Okay, that’s great. Sorry? Why do you need that? Okay. It’s 16.06.75. Yes. And please do hurry. He’s not moving . . .’