My Sister's Bones(48)

I look at her. Her face is expressionless. She has no idea how hard this is for me.

‘Kate, if I can’t make a full assessment then the alternative is –’

‘That I’m stuck in here for good?’ I say, interrupting her.

‘No,’ she says. ‘But we would need to take you to hospital for further assessment. Look, I know this is terribly distressing for you but it really is crucial for me to ask these questions.’

She’s right. I know that. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier.

‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘Let’s do it. But can we be quick about it?’

‘We can take a break at any point,’ says Shaw, opening her notebook. ‘If you feel it’s getting too much, just say and we’ll pause.’

I nod my head.

‘Right,’ she says, her voice gentler than before. ‘Can I begin by asking why you decided to return to Syria? It seems odd that you would choose to go when you were obviously in such mental and physical distress.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, trying to stay focused.

‘Well,’ continues Shaw, ‘we’ve spoken about the incidents with Rachel Hadley and Rosa Dunajski and I know that you’re taking some pretty strong antipsychotic medication. Surely, in such a fragile state, it would seem ill-advised to travel to a place as volatile as Syria?’

‘You make it sound like I was booking a package holiday, Dr Shaw,’ I reply. ‘Nobody advised me because I’m a senior reporter. I know what I’m doing because it’s my job, a job I’ve done without any trouble for almost twenty years.’

Shaw writes something in her notebook. I know she thinks I’m unstable. I have to stay strong; I have to show her that I’m not what she thinks.

‘Can you tell me what happened on 29th March?’ she asks, without looking up. ‘I understand that was your last day in Aleppo?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was.’

‘And there was an incident?’

‘Is that what you’d call it?’ I reply, no longer able to keep the contempt from my voice.

‘What happened, Kate?’

‘Look,’ I say firmly. ‘Why are you asking me about this? You know what happened. The f*cking world knows what happened.’

‘I’d like you to tell me,’ she says coolly, ignoring my outburst. ‘As I said, I need you to tell me everything so we can complete the assessment.’

‘Oh yes, the assessment,’ I say drily. ‘Never mind that a young boy is in serious danger, let’s just carry on with our box ticking so you can make me out to be some sort of nutter.’

‘Kate, talking like that isn’t going to help anyone.’

I look at the clock above her head. I’ve been here almost two days. Who knows what they’ll have done to him in this time?

‘Kate?’

‘Okay, Dr Shaw,’ I exclaim, admitting defeat. ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘How about the morning of the 29th?’

My hands feel clammy as I clasp them together and try to gather my thoughts. There is no escape. I will have to talk about it, the event I have spent the last few weeks trying to erase from my mind. I lean forward in the chair and take a deep breath then slowly start to speak.

‘Okay,’ I begin, in as calm a voice as I can muster. ‘As Harry told you, we were staying in a basement below a grocery store along with a Syrian family.’

‘Khaled and Zaynah Safar?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘And their young son, Nidal.’

I’m trembling. I can’t stop. I grip the side of the chair with both my hands as I continue.

‘We’d been there a week,’ I tell her. ‘It was utter devastation. In the few months since my last visit the city had been reduced to dust and rubble. Electricity and water were in short supply and there were mass food shortages. The streets were no-go areas. It was hell.’

‘What a terribly dangerous situation to be in,’ says Shaw, her eyes widening.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘But this is what ordinary people in Syria are dealing with every day. As a journalist it was my duty to witness it, to record it and let the world know what was happening.’

‘But in the light of your recent ill health perhaps you weren’t in the best mental state to be undertaking such a risky assignment?’ suggests Shaw tentatively.

‘I’ve told you I was fine,’ I say. ‘We can’t all wrap ourselves in cotton wool and hide behind f*cking notebooks.’

She says nothing, just flicks her pen between finger and thumb.

My chest tightens and I rub it as I stand up and walk to the window.

‘You asked me to tell you about the last day,’ I say, turning to look at Shaw who, I notice, has now closed her notebook. ‘May I do that now?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she says, watching me as I return to my seat. Is that a note of excitement I detect in her voice?

‘Thank you,’ I say, keeping my voice calm as I sit down and try again.

‘My photographer Graham and I had spent the morning in downtown Aleppo interviewing a family whose house had been bombed overnight. Graham’s photographs were to lead that Sunday’s dispatch. I was in the middle of writing it up when I heard a banging in the corridor outside the room. I looked out and saw Nidal. He was kicking a football at the wall.’