My Sister's Bones(44)

We stare at each other for a moment, doctor and patient, both taking in the seriousness of my admission, not mentioning the big things like babies and birth defects and safe limits.

‘And when you returned to the office you lost your temper with Rachel Hadley?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Can you understand it now?’

Shaw doesn’t answer.

‘How long did you stay in the hospital?’

‘Just a night,’ I reply. ‘The bleeding slowed down over the course of the morning and by midday it became clear that I would be bed blocking if I stayed any longer. They prescribed me a course of strong painkillers and I left.’

‘And then?’

‘I walked home. I wanted to think.’

‘Taking a detour by the Star cafe?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t really know where I was going though. I just needed to think.’

‘When the police finished talking to you, did you go home?’

‘Yes.’

I think back to that evening. The scent of the hospital clung to my canvas rucksack as I climbed the stairs. I can smell it now as I sit here. Hospitals and police cells have the same scent – a mix of chlorine and despair. When I opened the door to the flat my phone rang. It was Graham asking if I’d received the itinerary. And I pretended I was fine; that my world hadn’t just fallen apart. I told him I would see him in the morning and then I curled up into bed and cried myself to sleep.

‘I went to Syria the following day,’ I say, looking up at Shaw. ‘With Graham, my photographer.’

She looks flabbergasted.

‘The next day?’ she exclaims. ‘Even though you’d just had a miscarriage?’

‘Women lose babies every day, Dr Shaw,’ I tell her. ‘This is my job. People were relying on me to go out there.’

‘Who was relying on you?’

‘The morning of the miscarriage I’d got a message from my close friend,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a translator I’ve known for years and he told me that terrible things were happening in Aleppo. I felt I needed to go back and find out what was going on. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’

‘So apart from the translator, it was just going to be you and the photographer crossing the border into Syria?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did that concern you?’

‘No. We’d done this many, many times before. Graham was highly experienced and we’d worked together a lot over the years.’

‘And Chris? Did you let him know you were going?’

‘No, I didn’t tell Chris I was going. Why would I? We were over.’

‘And how would you describe your mental state at this point, as you prepared to return to Syria?’

‘My mental state?’

‘How were you feeling?’ she goes on. ‘Were you happy, fearful, nervous?’

I shake my head.

‘I was numb, Dr Shaw,’ I say. ‘Completely and utterly numb.’





20


Friday 17 April 2015

I am sitting at the table in my mother’s kitchen watching Paul as he prepares lunch. I haven’t mentioned last night. Part of me still isn’t sure it really happened. Although the soil I found on the kitchen floor this morning tells me it must have. And even now, as I sit here with the back door open, I can smell my blood dream: a faint whisper of death.

‘I’ve bookmarked a shortlist for you to have a look at,’ Paul says, his face moistening as he stands over a vat of steaming hot soup, pulverizing the liquid with a shiny chrome blender. Apparently he got the morning off work and thought it might be nice if we spent it looking at bathroom suites. Not exactly my idea of fun, but according to him a new bathroom will make all the difference once Mum’s house goes on the market.

I look at the small black laptop that sits on the table in front of me. Paul has kindly opened up the bookmarked web pages and now it is down to me to decide between the gleaming white ‘Sorrel’ suite, the off-white hexagonal ‘Myriad’, the silvery-grey ‘Bartley’ and, the wild card, a burnt-orange number named ‘Sienna’. They all look fine to me and are similar in price. I told Paul that I would foot the bill for the bathroom. He has done so much already, it’s the least I can do.

‘I think we should go for the Myriad,’ I say, moving the laptop to one side as he places a large bowl of vegetable soup in front of me. It smells sweet and nutty and my stomach growls with hunger. I hadn’t been able to face breakfast as, no matter how much I had scrubbed, the stench of the blood dream seemed to cling to my skin.

‘Are you sure the shape won’t put people off?’ asks Paul, taking the seat opposite me. He slices a hunk of bread from a granary loaf and places it on my plate. ‘Here, I got the seeded stuff from the fancy bakery for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That’s really sweet of you.’

I take the bread and dip a little into the soup.

‘I like the shape,’ I say, putting the bread in my mouth. ‘Sharp edges are good. You should see my apartment, it’s one big sharp edge.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ says Paul. He pauses to slurp his soup. ‘I bet it’s all minimalist and white, your place.’