My Sister's Bones(54)

My whole body is shaking. I can’t do this. I need to make her stop. Please make her stop. As she continues with Graham’s account, I put my hands over my ears. But I can’t block out those final moments.

A series of shots. A cloud of dust rising into the air. I can’t see him but I can hear his little voice:

Kate. Help me.

My legs are lead and it seems like for ever until I get to him.

‘Help me!’ he screams.

He’s been shot in the head but it wasn’t a clean shot. He’s still alive.

‘It hurts,’ he whimpers.

‘It’s okay, Nidal,’ I whisper. ‘Help is coming. You’re going to be fine.’

He struggles in my arms and I hold him tighter. Where is Graham? Why isn’t he coming to help?

‘That was a great match, Nidal,’ I whisper. ‘The captain says you’ve made the first team. Next stop: Brazil, eh?’

He squeezes my hand.

‘Not long now and we’ll get you safe,’ I say. ‘Keep your eyes open, Nidal. Don’t close them. Stay awake, baby, stay awake.’

But his eyes are rolling to the back of his head.

‘Come on, Nidal,’ I shout. ‘Come on. You’re not dying here. You hear me? You’re not dying on this street. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to go to Disneyland and we’ll stand on that bridge together, do you hear me? And then you can write all about it in your book of smiles. But you have to open your eyes to see it, Nidal. You have to open your eyes.’

But as I speak he goes limp in my arms.

I hear voices above me; men’s voices. They try to prise him away but I won’t let him go. I won’t.

‘Kate,’ says Shaw, her voice a blade cutting through my heart. ‘Kate, are you okay?’

‘Stop!’ I yell. ‘Stop, stop, stop! What are you trying to do to me? You want me to live through all that again just so you can prove I’ve lost my mind; so you can tick some bloody box? He’s dead. That little boy died, he was shot as he tried to get his football. And it was my fault. I shouted at him. I lost my temper and he ran off. If I’d stayed calm he might still be alive. Is that what you want to hear? That he died in my arms and that ever since that moment he won’t leave me alone; that I see his face and hear his voice every minute of the day?’

‘Kate,’ says Shaw. ‘Calm down now. Take deep breaths.’

‘Fuck off, you patronizing bitch,’ I shout. ‘I don’t need to take deep breaths. I need to tell you some hard facts. About Graham Turner. The man whose statement you’re using to paint me as a mad woman – do you want to know what he did instead of helping me? He just stood there with his camera. He stood there, photographing a dead child. He’s the one who should be in here being assessed, not me. This is bullshit, every word of it is bullshit.’

I hurl myself out of the seat and run at Shaw, grabbing the sheet of paper from her hands.

‘Nidal,’ I cry as I slump to the floor and hear Shaw’s reedy voice calling for assistance. ‘Nidal.’





25


Saturday 18 April 2015

It is getting dark as the taxi pulls up outside 46 Smythley Road. The journey from the seafront was short and we sat in silence, damp, cold and exhausted on the back seat while the driver ranted about migrants, raising his voice to be heard above the din of local radio.

And now we are here. There is no turning back.

‘￡3.20 please, folks,’ says the driver as Paul fiddles with his rucksack. He pulls out his wallet from the front pocket. It is dripping with seawater.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says as he hands over a soggy ten-pound note. ‘It’s all I have.’

‘No bother,’ says the driver. ‘It’s all legal tender, wet or otherwise.’

He fiddles with his money holder as we sit waiting awkwardly.

‘Listen, keep the change,’ says Paul impatiently, leaning across me to open the door.

‘Thanks, mate,’ says the driver, folding the note into a neat square.

We step out on to the rain-soaked street and as I look up at the darkened house I feel a stab of panic. This was not my intention when I agreed to the day out. I look at Paul. He smiles, though I detect a sense of unease. Are we really going to do this? Perhaps there’s still time to turn back.

‘Come on,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s get out of these wet clothes.’

A light goes on next door in the upstairs bedroom, and I imagine Fida pulling the curtains, climbing into bed beside her brute of a husband, and suddenly I don’t want to be alone any more.

So I take Paul’s hand and let him lead me inside the house. I let him lay me down on the stairs, where my mother’s blood still stains the carpet, and slowly remove my sodden clothes. His skin is warm against mine and as I lift my head to meet his lips my body tingles with desire. It’s been such a long time.

It’s different to how it was with Chris and I blink away the memories of the last, precious time I did this and yield instead to this new being, the one that is pressing against me. But there is little emotion as he turns me over and takes off my knickers, no tenderness as he thrusts himself deep inside me. A sharp pain makes me cry out and I know that I am not better yet. I shouldn’t be doing this. He is heavy on me and I try to shift position but he pushes me back. He doesn’t want to see me, I think, as he presses my face into the dirty carpet. If he sees me, it will ruin it all. This way we can both pretend we are with someone else and that will absolve us of our guilt. He’s thinking of Sally, the girl he first met with the loud voice and the zest for life. As he comes jerkily, he yelps with a sound that falls somewhere between pleasure and pain. I lie deathly still as he pulls himself out of me.