My Sister's Bones(47)

That was Chris’s childhood. Warm and secure. The total opposite of mine.

And he tried to recreate that childhood for his own kids. But then he met me and I turned everything upside down. I was his secret; his buried bones; the mystery he just had to solve.

My eyes grow heavy but as I close them Nidal is there, clutching his scrapbook.

‘Tusbih ‘alá khayr, Kate.’

‘Tusbih ‘alá khayr, Nidal. What are you doing today?’

‘I’m making a book.’

‘That sounds wonderful. What’s it called?’

‘It is called the book of smiles.’

And as I sink deeper into sleep, flimsy paper cut-outs flutter around my head: I see a beaming boy standing on a fairy-tale bridge; I see the sugary pink towers of Disneyland glistening in Technicolor sunshine and Mickey Mouse gambolling across a lush green meadow.

‘I want that.’

I hear Nidal’s voice but I can’t see him. All I can see are his pictures.

‘You want Disneyland?’

‘No. I want that. To be the boy on the bridge. You help me.’

‘I can’t see you, Nidal.’

‘Help me.’

‘Nidal, where are you?’

His voice is closer. He’s right next to me. If I reach out I can touch him.

‘Help me.’

I stretch out my arms towards the voice and I feel myself falling. There’s a loud bang and when I open my eyes I’m lying in a heap on the living-room floor.

‘Just a dream,’ I reassure myself as I haul myself up. ‘Just another sodding dream.’

Sweat clings to my forehead and I wipe it with the back of my hand as I step out into the hallway. The air is salty and a breeze flutters across my bare feet. Then, as consciousness returns, I hear it: thud, thud.

‘Who’s there?’

The words come instinctively. The human body knows when it is alone, truly alone, and when another being is nearby, every nerve, every muscle reacts accordingly. As I creep down the hallway I take a cursory glance around to see if there is something I can arm myself with and I grab my mother’s old wooden clock from the sideboard. It’s the closest thing to hand.

If there is an intruder then one crack on the correct part of the head will be enough to disable him. Holding the clock tightly in my hands, I slowly make my way to the kitchen. The sound grows louder as I approach. Thud, thud, thud. It falls in step with my heart as I reach the kitchen door and prepare to launch myself at whoever is in there. I take a deep breath and slowly count to three. One, two, three –

I burst into the kitchen ready to fight. With the clock raised above my head I let out a scream of fear and relief. The room is empty, and nothing, as far as I can see, has been touched. Except the door, which is wide open. And the cool evening breeze that had drifted into the living room and tickled my feet is now blowing it open and shut. Thud, thud, thud.

Moving slowly towards it, I stand on the step and call out into the empty garden. ‘Who’s there?’

The sky is moonless and the darkness makes me feel vulnerable as I step out. I push my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand so I can see clearly. I should have brought my torch, I tell myself, as I hear Harry’s voice through the gloom. ‘If you ever need a spare torch,’ he used to chuckle, ‘just ask Kate. She’s got enough to supply a whole army.’ And he was right. In my job a torch is a necessity I can’t live without. I have hundreds of them. And here I am standing in the darkness with only an old wooden clock to light my way.

I put the clock down and creep towards the fence, my hands shaking as I pull myself on to the plastic chair and look into next-door’s garden. Everything is still and silent. The house is in darkness and the shed just an ordinary garden shed. No noise, no movement, no face at the window.

What is happening to me?

I stand there for a few moments longer, but all is still. I have to sleep. Perhaps the stress of everything is getting to me.

I go back inside and double bolt the kitchen door.

But as I reach the stairs I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. There’s something on my face. I step forward to take a closer look. There are rusty red smears across my cheeks. What is it? I go to wipe my face and then I see that it’s on my hands too. I smell it. It’s blood. Dried blood. My heart starts to pound. I check for cuts or grazes – maybe I scratched it on the fence. But there’s nothing.

My mind feels like it’s shutting down. How can this be? I am standing here covered in someone else’s blood.





21


Herne Bay Police Station

35 hours detained

‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I’d really like to talk about your last visit to Syria,’ says Shaw softly. ‘I think it’s important.’

I immediately tense. The woman won’t give up. The whole interview, I realize now – these past thirty-odd hours – has been a prelude to this. Shaw doesn’t care about sleeping pills. She doesn’t care about Polish waitresses. What she is interested in is what happened in Syria. It’s Syria that has sent me mad. Or at least that’s what she thinks.

‘I told you. I’m not going to talk about Syria.’

Shaw leans forward in her chair and looks at me.

‘Kate, we have to talk about it if I’m to make a full assessment. Do you understand?’