My Sister's Bones(37)

‘But you are adult and I am child. Adults don’t need stories.’

‘We all need stories, Nidal.’

‘Okay, I tell you about Aleppo; how it used to be.’

I feel him shuffle closer to me then he rests his hand on my head. It is cool and soft just like Fida’s was, and as I close my eyes he takes a deep breath and I’m there with him, walking through a beautiful city that no longer exists.





17


I can smell Aleppo when I wake up two hours later, my back aching from the springs of my mother’s sofa.

‘Nidal?’ I whisper as I slowly come to. And then I remember where I am.

The dream had been so clear, so vivid, that as I stand up and make my way to the kitchen I can hear his voice in my head, the words he always left me with.

‘Tusbih ‘alá khayr, Kate.’

Goodnight, Nidal.

I need air, I tell myself, as I cross the kitchen and open the back door. If I stay in the house I will dwell on Nidal and Aleppo and then the nightmares will come. I have to get out.

I pour myself a glass of water and take it with me to the garden. Pulling a plastic chair over to the patio, I sit and watch as the sky darkens. It is chilly and I rub my arms to warm myself. And then I see something: a triangle of light showing through the fence.

I get out of the chair and go to take a closer look. One of the slats in the fence has come loose and is hanging at an angle.

‘One more thing to fix,’ I mutter to myself but as I go to return to the chair I hear something.

A voice. A very faint voice.

‘Kate?’

I stand frozen to the spot. Fear ripples through me. The voice is coming from an unexpected direction. It is coming from a silent place, an empty place; it is coming from the house. Not next door – mine.

There is someone in there and I am out here alone. The hairs on my arms bristle as I hear footsteps coming closer.

‘Oh, there you are.’

My shoulders sag with relief when I see him.

‘Paul, what are you doing here?’

‘You’d left the front door open. I was worried.’

He stands in the fading light of the patio. The kitchen behind him is dark and for a second he looks like a photograph that hasn’t yet developed. I go to greet him and slowly his features begin to re-form.

‘The door was open?’ I exclaim. ‘But it can’t have been . . .’

I leave the sentence unfinished because there is no explanation for it. I heard the door slam when Fida left. I slept for a couple of hours and then I came out here. I haven’t been anywhere else, have I?

‘You got to be careful,’ he says. ‘There’s been a spate of burglaries in this road. Not that there’s much to steal in this old place.’

As I walk towards him I see that he is holding carrier bags.

‘What’s that?’

‘Dinner,’ he says, raising the bags to his chest like a set of dumb-bells. ‘I thought you could do with a home-cooked meal. Tell me to sod off if you want; I’ll understand.’

I wish he wouldn’t feel the need to drop in and check on me all the time. I need space to think, to make sense of what is happening. But then I think of last night; my behaviour.

‘No, it’s me who should sod off,’ I say, ushering him into the kitchen. ‘I am so sorry about last night. I haven’t had much sleep lately and I don’t normally drink. I’m afraid the wine just went straight to my head.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says, placing the bags on to the table. ‘It’s not a crime to have one too many, and anyway, you were very entertaining, especially your views on Dover.’

‘What did I say about Dover?’ I ask, trying to recall the previous evening’s events. ‘Oh, actually, on second thoughts, don’t. I dread to think what I said. Really, Paul, I’m mortified.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘You were just merry, that’s all.’

I watch as he slowly removes the contents of the bag. There’s a cooked chicken, a bag of salad leaves, some cherry tomatoes, lemons, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, some sort of seed bread and two bottles of wine.

‘Oh please, no more wine,’ I groan.

‘Come on, just a glass,’ he says, unscrewing the bottle.

I smile awkwardly. I’d wanted to be alone tonight, wanted to clear my head, maybe even call Harry. I don’t need to spend another night talking about Sally with Paul, it’s just futile; but then I don’t want to offend him either.

‘Oh, I brought you this as well,’ he says, throwing a bulky newspaper on to the kitchen counter. ‘Thought you might like to catch up with what’s going on.’

I see my employer’s name in bold black type on the masthead and think to myself that it’s the last thing I want, but I smile and thank Paul all the same.

‘Right, let’s have a drink,’ he says.

I watch as he rummages through the glassware and emerges with a pair of old green-stemmed wine glasses. And as he pours the wine I think of Ray’s visit earlier. I need to find out what happened.

‘Paul,’ I begin tentatively, ‘last night . . . when we left the pub . . . did I make a scene?’

Paul finishes pouring the drinks then hands me a glass.