My Sister's Bones(38)

‘You were a bit drunk, that’s all,’ he says, smiling sheepishly. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

He’s trying to protect me but I need to know.

‘Please,’ I say, taking the glass. ‘Tell me.’

His smile fades and he has a long drink of wine before speaking.

‘We were waiting for the cab,’ he says, rubbing his finger and thumb along the stem of the glass. ‘And you just went all funny. For a minute I thought you were going to faint or something. Your eyes went strange, and then you started to shake. You couldn’t seem to hear me. It was like you were somewhere else.’

I go cold. He is describing what I go through each night. It’s as though he has reached into my head and pulled out my nightmares. I take a nervous sip of the wine. So much for giving up.

‘Then the cab drew up,’ he continues. ‘And I thought about getting in with you and taking you to the door but I knew I should be getting back to check on Sally. So I spoke to the driver. It was a woman; that reassured me. She was nice, said she’d make sure you got home safely.’

As he speaks my hands start to tremble. I want him to stop now.

‘But . . . well . . . it was what you said as you got in the cab that concerned me the most,’ he says.

I look up, willing him to stop. But another part of me needs to know.

‘What did I say?’

Paul puts his glass down and drums his fingers on the table.

‘What is it, Paul? Tell me what it was that I said!’ I can feel a familiar tightening in my throat. ‘Please?’

He stops drumming then continues.

‘It was probably the drink talking, I wouldn’t worry . . . but as you leaned over to close the cab door you looked me straight in the eye and you said . . .’

‘Paul, tell me what I said.’

He looks at the floor. ‘You said: “I killed him.” You kept saying it.’

I look down at the deep red liquid in my glass and wish I could disappear into its opacity. Who was the prince who chose to be executed by being drowned in a vat of wine? I can’t remember but if ever there were a way to die, that would be it. I take a long sip and the taste mellows; I can feel the alcohol numbing my nerve endings one by one.

‘What’s going on, Kate?’ he asks. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

No is the answer. I will never talk about it.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, reaching over to refill my glass. ‘And you’re right, hair of the dog was a good idea. Now, are you going to slice that chicken or will I have to do it myself?’

‘Okay,’ says Paul, his face all concern. ‘I just want to say this and then I won’t mention it again, but you know you can confide in me, don’t you? You know that I’m here for you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I reply briskly. ‘Now somewhere in this sorry excuse for a kitchen is an electric carving knife. Remember those? If we can find it we can eat.’

An hour later we’re sitting on the green fake leather sofa in the living room polishing off the wine. We’ve had a bit too much and are both slightly tipsy.

‘I don’t know about you but I’ll be glad to see the back of this house,’ says Paul, looking around at the grubby room. ‘I’ve always had a bad feeling about it. God, listen to me, I sound like you talking to your friend whatshername,’ he jokes.

‘Alexandra Waits,’ I reply and I tickle the back of his neck. ‘Look, she’s here. I think she likes you.’

‘Get out of it,’ he laughs, pushing my hand away. ‘You’ll spook me again and then I’ll leave and you’ll be all alone with Alexandra.’

‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist,’ I say, laughing too. It feels good. ‘But I know what you mean about this place. It’s as though the walls have soaked up all the grief and violence that went on over the years.’

‘If walls could talk,’ says Paul.

‘They’d say: could you get your father to stop bashing that woman’s head against us please, he’s damaging the plaster.’ I laugh again, this time without humour.

Paul rubs my shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says gently. ‘It must have been hell for you.’

His face is rather too close to mine for comfort so I sit up and reach for the wine.

‘Anyway, enough about me,’ I say as I refill our glasses. ‘What was your childhood like? Did you get on with your parents?’

‘It was okay,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t really get on with my dad but I’m not one for analysing all that stuff. Shit happens and then you grow up, you grow some balls and get on with it.’

I smile.

‘That’s a good philosophy,’ I say, taking a sip of wine. ‘I should take it on board.’

‘Well, it always worked for me,’ he says.

‘Speaking of your folks,’ I say, putting my glass on to the table. ‘What do you know about the people next door, your tenants? Fida and her husband.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious, that’s all.’

‘They’re all right,’ he says. ‘Keep themselves to themselves, pay the rent on time.’

‘Do they have a child?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Mind you, I’ve never really spoken to them much. The letting agent deals with them. I think the woman’s from the Middle East somewhere.’