My Sister's Bones(46)

‘Sorry about that, the bin was overflowing,’ says Paul as he comes back in. ‘Coffee should be nicely brewed now.’

The smell of the coffee clashes with the bitter taste inside my mouth: the remains of the blood dream. It burns through my skin and rises up my gullet with such violence I think I might pass out. Scraping the chair back, I run from the table, up the stairs and reach the bathroom just in time.

‘Kate?’

I hear Paul’s voice as I kneel on the floor and vomit it all up: the smell, the coffee, the soup, the champagne flute in Helen’s hand, the daughters on their horses and the unconditional love on Chris’s face as he stood beside her. I heave and heave it all up until there is nothing left but the taste of my own despair.

‘Kate, are you okay?’

I feel the warmth of his hand on the base of my back and I spring to my feet before the tears can come. I need air and noise and nothingness to block out the searing pain that is coiling round my chest.

‘I’m fine,’ I whisper as I stagger to my feet and dab my mouth with the wedge of toilet paper that Paul has handed me. ‘I just need to rest.’

‘Why don’t you go and have a lie-down?’ he says. He is standing in the doorway, his face ashen with concern. ‘I’ll bring you a glass of water.’

I silently implore him to stop being nice. I can deal with anything right now except kindness. Kindness will end me.

‘No, honestly, Paul,’ I say, squeezing past him and making my way downstairs. ‘I just need to be alone for a bit.’

I grab my bag and take out my chequebook.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, following me into the kitchen. ‘We can settle that later.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say as I scribble out a cheque and hand it to him. ‘I’ll only forget if I don’t do it now.’

‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ he asks, taking the cheque and putting it in his back pocket. ‘I can stay a bit longer if you want to talk.’

‘Please stop worrying,’ I tell him as we walk to the front door. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, you know where I am if you need me,’ he says. ‘Call me any time.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumble as I open the door.

‘Oh and if you’re still up for it,’ he says, lingering on the threshold, ‘I’ll meet you at Neptune’s Arm tomorrow. Shall we say eleven?’

I have no idea what he is talking about. I just want him to go.

‘The trip to Reculver,’ he says.

‘Oh, that,’ I say, guiding him out of the door. ‘I forgot all about it.’

He looks at me and frowns. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look so pale. I just hope I haven’t poisoned you with my soup. It was a Nigella recipe as well.’

‘No, no, Paul, the soup was perfect,’ I say, trying with all my might to suppress the sobs that are wavering at the back of my throat. ‘It’s just . . . me.’

‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ he says, patting me on my arm. ‘Take care, yeah?’

He walks down the driveway and gets into his car and I watch as he drives away past the neat boxed gardens and modest semi-detached houses. This is life, I tell myself as I close the door. Not war and disease and burnt-out hotels, but men and women in their boxes with their babies and their coffee makers and their holidays, this is what real life should look like. It’s what Chris’s life looks like. And I am on the edge of it all, a ghost with no foundations, no roots. As I step back into my mother’s dark house and close the door, I feel like the last person left on earth.

The phone lies on the floor beside me and I watch as its screen darkens on the unsent message. He still won’t pick up, so all I’m left with is my own bitterness and hate. I’ve spent the evening trying to express it in a text message but my words are coming out wrong. The first text was a barrage of hurt and anger at his hypocrisy, his cowardice, his double standards and his appalling taste in party hats. Then I changed my mind, deleted, and started another one. And now, after the third attempt, I have given up. A text is too small a medium to relay all that I want to say to Chris. And there is dignity in silence, I think, as I pick up the phone and wipe the final text.

It’s late, but I can’t face my bed. The old woman waits for me there. So I take my warm sweater, wrap it round my shoulders and head downstairs. After a handful of sleeping pills I decamp to the firm green armchair. Sitting here brings me closer to my mother; its threadbare arms feel like her embrace as I sit here sinking into its folds, darkness swallowing the house.

I try not to think about Chris but he is everywhere. I can smell his skin – a mixture of sweat and cedarwood – as I curl up in the chair.

We came from such different worlds. He’d had a happy, middle-class upbringing in Yorkshire. His parents were teachers and they had brought up their four boys in a rambling farmhouse deep in the Dales. It’s where Chris discovered his love of forensics. I remember him telling me the story so clearly. When he was eight years old he had found a bone sticking out of the ground. He’d pulled it out and couldn’t believe the size of it. The next day he came back to the spot with his father’s spade and began to dig. After a few hours he’d excavated a huge skeleton. It was later confirmed to be that of a Clydesdale horse that had been lost in a storm some fifty years previously. Over time its body had sunk back into the ground. It had fascinated Chris how a set of bones could reveal a mystery that had lain unsolved for years and the discovery changed his life. He knew then what he wanted to be when he grew up and he set about achieving it. His parents supported him through university; encouraged his dreams. And as far as I know they still do. Last I heard they were still living in the same old farmhouse. Of course, I’ve never met them. They don’t know I exist. But I imagine their home to be full of framed photographs of their children and grandchildren; there will be a big wooden table where they all gather at Christmas and a roaring open fire to keep everyone warm.