My Sister's Bones(36)

My head is splitting and I desperately need some more painkillers.

‘I’m just saying I understand,’ I say. ‘I had to watch my mother go through a violent marriage.’

‘Your mother was a lovely lady,’ she says, her voice softening. ‘Always kind and asking me about my homeland and what it was like.’

I try to speak but my words won’t come out. All I can hear is Nidal’s voice. It’s been growing more insistent these last few minutes. He’s calling my name; begging me to help him.

‘Shhh,’ I hiss. ‘Just shhh.’

‘Don’t tell me to shut up,’ cries Fida. ‘Your mother would never have done what you did. She would never accuse my husband of wrongdoing and she would never call the police. Do you know what I have been through in Iraq at the hands of so-called police? Do you?’

‘I can only imagine,’ I mutter, a sinking feeling in my chest. It is all I can manage though I want to tell her that I know about Iraq, that I understand. I put my arm out and rest it on the wall.

‘You don’t look well,’ she says, coming towards me. ‘You should get back inside.’

‘Yes,’ I say and I let her guide me down the drive, back to my mother’s house.

She settles me on to the sofa, arranging cushions around me as I lean back, my head a black void.

‘I’ll make you a hot drink,’ she says and I watch through half-closed eyes as she disappears into the kitchen.

She returns with a mug of steaming sweet tea. I sip it slowly and it seems to help.

‘Sugar is good when you feel . . .’ She struggles to find the words so I help her out.

‘Hungover?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Lucky for me I never feel that.’

‘No, of course not,’ I reply. ‘Very wise too.’

I watch her as she rearranges her headscarf. She is very beautiful and so polite. She reminds me of my mother, always apologizing and overcompensating with smiles. That’s what beaten wives do. But why would she lie about something like having a child? I realize as I watch her that I will have to tread carefully if I want to get to the truth.

‘Fida’s a nice name,’ I say as I sink my head back into the cushions.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I was named for my grandmother.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Though I never met her.’

She smiles and I notice that her hands are shaking.

‘Fida, if there is anything you want to tell me,’ I say, ‘you know you can, don’t you? You can trust me.’

‘Ms Rafter, there is nothing to tell,’ she says, flashing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Now, I’ll leave you quietly. Try to get some sleep and no more calling police, okay? No more talk of children.’

As she gets up to leave I catch something on her face. What is it? Something like resignation, I think. I have to try one last time.

‘I grew up with a man like this, Fida. I know how it works. They destroy you, up here.’

I tap my fingers against my temples as she stands in the doorway staring at me, her face now blank.

‘You have to be strong for your child, Fida,’ I continue. ‘You owe it to him to be strong. My mother, God bless her, should have left my father but she didn’t, she stayed silent and that silence allowed him to carry on.’

My voice catches in my throat and the smell of the hospital comes back to me, the thick, suffocating smell of blood and bleach.

‘Ms Rafter, please. Stop this.’

‘No, I won’t stop this,’ I shout, pulling myself up from the sofa and spilling my tea. ‘I have a duty not to stop this. I hear your boy screaming every night.’ I lower my voice, seeing her about to run. ‘I know it must be tough for you to admit but you can get help. I can help you. There are people I know who can get you away from him: women’s refuges, counsellors. You have to, Fida, for your child’s sake, you have to do it.’

The exertion of spitting out the words is too much and I flop back on to the sofa.

‘This is crazy,’ she says as I turn on my side and bury my face in the musty material. ‘You are not well. I will leave you alone. But, please, I ask you leave me alone too.’ Her voice is full of barely hidden disgust.

I listen to her footsteps shuffling out of the room, then the front door slams shut and I am alone in the thickening silence.

‘Are you dead?’

It’s him. I recognize his voice even through my sleep-fogged brain.

‘Oh, good,’ he says as I open my eyes. ‘You’re alive.’

Nidal is sitting on the floor. His hair is matted with dust and grime.

‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s late but I can’t sleep. The bombs have started again.’

His face is pale and the dark shadows under his eyes have deepened. He must sleep or he will get ill.

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask.

‘They’re sleeping. But I cannot.’

‘You should try to rest, Nidal,’ I say. ‘You can’t keep coming and waking me up like this. You have to sleep.’

He shakes his head. ‘I will never sleep. You tell me a story. About England.’

‘I can’t, Nidal. I’m too sleepy. You tell me a story.’