My Sister's Bones(41)

I go to the pantry and take out the heavy rolling pin my mother kept as a prop to hold one of the shelves in place. I shudder as I hold its bulky weight in my hands and remember its former use. My father, the policeman of the house, favoured the rolling pin as truncheon in order to implement his unique brand of crowd control.

With the rolling pin in my hand I open the door and step out into the garden. The air is freezing and I pull my cardigan round my chest as I creep towards the plastic chair that is still where I left it by the fence. Easing my weight on to it, I carefully climb up and stand looking into next-door’s garden. The noise has stopped and there is nothing there but an empty washing line and a pair of old wellington boots lying by an overgrown rockery. The shed is in darkness. I look to my right and see that the house seems to be locked up; the curtains in the back bedroom are closed and there is no light coming from inside.

‘Hearing things again,’ I tell myself as I climb down from the seat but just as my feet touch the ground the noise starts again, this time louder and more frantic.

I scramble back on to the chair and peer over. And then my heart flips inside my chest.

There, in the window of the shed, is a face, a child’s face.

He is very pale, almost translucent, and his face is framed with a shock of jagged black hair. He looks so scared. He bangs his fists against the glass window of the shed.

I have to get him out.

I haul myself up and into a sitting position on the fence, as if I were on the back of a bony horse, then with one swift twist of my body I land on the grass with a thud. The rolling pin that I had wedged under my arm bounces off my knee and I wince in pain.

Pulling myself up from the ground, I look around the garden for something I can use to get back over the fence. We’ll need to be quick. A rickety wooden chair lies on its side on the raised decking area by the back door. That would work but it’s so close to the door I risk alerting Fida. As I stand procrastinating the boy bangs on the window again. I will have to risk it. Crouching on my haunches, I hurry across the lawn and drag the chair back to the fence.

Once it is in place I turn and head to the shed, waving my arms to let him know I am coming to help. He looks terrified. A large cloud drifts across the moon, plunging the garden into darkness. I carry on waving as I approach the window but the glass is opaque and the boy’s face no longer visible. I turn the door handle, holding the rolling pin in front of me like a cumbersome compass. The door is locked but the wood is thin and half yields as I push it with my shoulder. One good shove will get it open, I reckon, and I stand back and come at the door with all my weight. It springs open and I land in a heap in the centre of the shed. It’s pitch black.

‘Hello,’ I call out and my voice comes back at me. ‘It’s okay, I’m here to help you.’

My back aches as I pull myself up and look around. The moon comes out again and exposes slivers of objects: a stepladder is wedged against the window, a bulky lawnmower, a set of secateurs and, at the far end of the shed, a wall of shelves with paint pots and gardening tools neatly stacked. But no child.

‘It’s okay,’ I call out to the shadows of the room. ‘I know you’re scared but you can trust me. My name is Kate. I’m staying in the house next door.’

Where is he?

I move aside some boxes. Peer behind the ladders. Nothing.

He was here, I tell myself. He was right here. I stand for a moment at the window, where a spider has woven a silvery web. From this angle I can see my bedroom window quite clearly though the curtains are closed. I can see a quarter of the kitchen window and can just make out the shape of the plant pots that line the patio by the back door. He could see me. He knew I was there and he wanted my help.

And I have felt his presence. Ever since I arrived at my mother’s house I’ve had the feeling I am being watched.

A child can’t just disappear, I tell myself as I fling aside more boxes and gardening tools. It just isn’t possible. I didn’t imagine it; I know I didn’t. He was here, banging at the window.

‘Please, will you just come out,’ I cry, throwing aside more detritus. ‘You don’t need to hide from me.’

And then out of the corner of my eye I see a light. My stomach contracts. I go to the window and see that the kitchen light has come on. If Fida or her husband find me here I’ll be in serious trouble.

I look around me one last time. Nothing. But as I make my way to the door I hear voices. They are coming from the garden. Shit. I leap back into the shed, close the door and crouch in the corner.

I hear the crunch of footsteps coming down the path and my heart flips in my chest. They are outside the door. They are going to come in. They are going to find me.

But after a couple of moments of terrifying silence I hear the footsteps going back towards the house. I put my hands to my mouth and exhale slowly. I was so close to being discovered. What the hell would they have said if they’d found me in here?

I give it a couple of minutes then creep towards the window and look out. The kitchen light is off. They must have gone back to bed.

After waiting a while longer I open the shed door and scurry across the garden to the fence. There’s no sign of anyone. But as I climb on to the chair, all I can think about is the boy; his terrified little face.

‘He was there,’ I whisper, steadying myself as the chair rocks beneath my weight. ‘He was right there.’