My Sister's Bones(51)

‘You have to admit there is an odd feeling here, though,’ says Paul as we abandon the noticeboard and walk towards the cliff edge. ‘I certainly felt it as a kid. Once, I even thought I heard something.’

‘What did you hear?’

I duck as a sand martin darts past my head.

‘Voices. Screams. I can hear them now. Can you?’

I look at him. He is winding me up, surely? But his face is deadly serious.

‘The only screams I can hear are those of the parents who’ve just been charged a tenner for a couple of ice creams,’ I say, laughing shakily. ‘I don’t believe in the supernatural, Paul, and I don’t believe that the Romans buried their children alive in these towers.’

‘Why not? They threw Christians to the lions.’ Paul grimaces. ‘Can you imagine being buried alive?’

‘No, I can’t,’ I say as a shiver flutters through me. ‘Hey, Paul, speaking of children, have you managed to ask the letting agent about the people at number 44 yet? About the boy?’

‘I haven’t had the chance, Kate,’ he says. ‘Work’s been mental recently and to be honest . . .’ He goes quiet and shakes his head.

‘What?’ I ask him. ‘What were you about to say?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just tell me.’

‘Well, it’s just that . . . well, I understand,’ he says. ‘I mean, it’s natural after all you’ve been through.’

‘What’s natural?’

‘Hearing things, seeing things,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘It’s the grief, isn’t it? I’ve read about it. It was a boy, wasn’t it, in Syria?’

‘I know what I saw, Paul,’ I say, anger rising through me. ‘I know it was real.’

‘Look, don’t get yourself upset,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘I’ll talk to the letting agent as soon as I can, yeah? Put your mind at rest. Now, come on. How about we go down to the beach and have our picnic? I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’





23


We jostle through the tourists and make our way down the steps to the beach. And as my feet sink into the sand and the smell of the sea fills the air I hear her.

Come on, girls, sandwiches!

I follow her voice to a secluded spot where Paul stands unfolding a giant tartan beach rug.

One more page, Mum, then I’ll be there.

Paul opens his rucksack and brings out flasks of hot tea, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil and a round biscuit tin full of shortbread, my favourite.

Don’t be scaring yourself silly now, love. Put the book away and come and have some cake.

I sit down on the blanket, take the flask and pour myself a cup of hot tea while Paul unwraps a sandwich.

Now, let’s talk about nice things.

I sip the tea and feel its goodness trickle down my throat, filling my body with wholesomeness. For once Paul is quiet, and I lie back on the rug.

The sea air is making me sleepy and I close my eyes. I can hear the waves whispering in the distance and my mother’s soothing words.

See, told you it would do you good.

I have spent the last few days trying to locate my mother in that house when all along she has been here, deep amongst the ruins on Reculver beach.

As the sound of the sea lulls me to sleep I see him. He is out on the street with his football; his back to me. I pound my fists on the window.

‘Look up, Nidal! For God’s sake look up.’

But he is lost in his game and can’t hear me.

‘Look up, child. Please look up.’

A man’s voice speaks over mine. Graham.

‘We have to tell his parents, Kate.’

‘No, wait. I can help him.’

He runs towards the ball and kicks it high into the air. It hits the ground and bounces into the road with such force that a cloud of dust rises in the air. He goes to run after it but when he looks up his face contorts. He has seen them.

‘Nidal!’

He is frozen in the road, his thin arms raised above his head. He is terrified and I am here, trapped behind glass.

‘Kate, help me.’

I smash my fists against the window but it won’t break.

‘Help me.’

Eventually the glass yields and I fall with it, down, down, on to soft sand. When I open my eyes, Paul is standing there above me.

‘Come on, sleepy head, time we headed back.’

‘I must have nodded off,’ I say as I get to my feet. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost four,’ he says, his voice agitated. ‘I fell asleep too. We really should go, tide’s coming in. Mist too.’

I look towards the cliffs and realize I can’t see them. The fog has obscured most of the route back.

My head feels thick and I wonder how long I’ve been asleep.

‘Come on,’ calls Paul as he heads up the beach. ‘Quick, before the water rises.’ He’s soon lost in the fog.

I grab my coat and fling it round my shoulders, then stumble across the rocks in the direction Paul went in. But after a few steps I lose my footing and fall face down into the shingle. My legs are wobbly, the dream still working its effects.