My Sister's Bones(39)

‘She’s from Iraq,’ I say.

‘How do you know?’ he asks. ‘Have you been talking to her?’

‘Yes, she was out in the garden. She asked me about Mum. Apparently they were good friends.’

‘Were they? I don’t remember that,’ says Paul. ‘Still, you know what your mum was like, she’d chat to anyone.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Listen, Paul, I think there’s something odd going on in that house.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, leaning forward, his brow furrowing.

‘Well, the other day just before she spoke to me I heard a child laughing in her garden but when I asked her she said she didn’t have a child.’

‘That’s strange. Are you sure it was a child you heard? It couldn’t have been, I don’t know, a dog barking or someone’s car radio?’

‘Oh, come on, I know what child’s laughter sounds like. I’m telling you, there was a child in that garden.’

‘It does sound odd,’ says Paul. ‘But it’s a busy street and I know there are kids on the other side of 44. Maybe it was them you heard.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say, stifling a yawn. I know what I heard but I’m too tired to press it and, anyway, Paul is as much in the dark about the neighbours as I am.

‘Do you know what you need?’ says Paul, leaning back in the sofa.

‘What’s that?’

‘Some fresh air,’ he says. ‘Look at you. You’re exhausted. You’ve been cooped up in this dusty old place for days now. And before that you were in a bloody basement in Syria. You need perking up. How about we organize a day out somewhere nice, eh? You name a place and I’ll take you.’

I smile at his attempts to cheer me up. I’ve had too much wine again, but the dull fuzziness in my head is rather soothing.

‘Come on,’ says Paul. ‘Where shall we go?’

I close my eyes and hear my mother’s voice: Picnic time, girls. And I don’t know whether it’s the wine or my own ghoulish tendencies but for just a moment I get an urge to go back there.

‘Kate?’

I open my eyes and look at Paul. He seems different tonight, less frazzled than usual, almost attractive. The wine must really be getting to me.

‘I’d like to go to Reculver,’ I say, holding his gaze.

‘The beach or the towers?’

‘Both.’

‘Okay, you’re on,’ says Paul. ‘I haven’t been to the towers for years, not since I was a kid. My dad loved them for some reason but then he always was a maudlin old bastard. They’re haunted, aren’t they?’

‘Supposedly so,’ I reply drowsily.

I take another sip of wine and close my eyes. I am so tired.

‘Reculver it is,’ says Paul, his voice muffled. ‘We’ll take a picnic. Kate? Are you asleep?’

He nudges me and I open my eyes.

‘What time is it?’ I grunt, stretching my stiff legs out in front of me.

‘Nearly midnight,’ says Paul.

‘Sorry,’ I say as I ease myself off the sofa. ‘I should probably get some rest now.’

‘Yes, you should,’ said Paul, getting up. ‘So do we have a plan?’

‘A plan for what?’ I say as I stumble towards the door. My head feels very odd and I wonder if I’m coming down with something. When did I last take a sleeping tablet?

‘Reculver,’ says Paul, following me out. ‘This weekend.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say, wishing I’d never mentioned the bloody place. ‘Some things are better left in the past.’

‘Go on. It’ll be fun,’ he says as he fumbles with the zip on his jacket. ‘Just a few hours, that’s all. It will do us both good.’

I look at him and think that he could probably do with the sea air more than me. Weekends can’t be much fun in the Cheverell household. He deserves a break.

‘Okay,’ I say, unlocking the front door. ‘You’re on. Now get out of here and let me go to bed.’

He laughs then pulls me towards him and hugs me tightly.

‘Thanks, Kate,’ he whispers in my ear.

‘Goodnight, Paul,’ I say as we pull away from each other. ‘Drive safely. You’ve had quite a bit to drink.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says as he steps outside. ‘It’s not far. Oh, and I’ll call the letting agent tomorrow, see if I can find out anything about the people next door. Now you go and get some rest, okay?’

‘I’ll try,’ I call to him, watching him walk to his car. ‘I really will try.’

I close the door and go back into the kitchen. The table is still laden with dirty plates. I take them and put them in the sink. They can wait until morning, I tell myself, as I pour a glug of washing-up liquid over them and run the hot water. The wine has made me fuzzy-headed and so sleepy that I wonder if my pills are necessary tonight. Still, better not to take chances. I slip two out of the box and swallow them with a mouthful of water. As I go to leave the kitchen I notice the newspaper lying on the counter. I unfold it, distractedly, and within moments I am wishing I hadn’t.

SYRIA’S LOST CHILDREN

Exclusive: Rachel Hadley reports from the Kahramanmaras refugee camp