My Sister's Bones(55)

‘Well,’ he says, kissing me lightly on my forehead. ‘That was . . .’

‘Don’t,’ I say as I get to my feet. ‘Please don’t. We shouldn’t have done that.’

I reach for my clothes and stumble up the stairs to the bathroom.

I lie on the bed with the door closed. Paul is asleep beside me. I didn’t really want him to stay, but he said Sally would be more suspicious if he came back late. In the end I decided better Paul than the voices.

My arm is throbbing from where I cut it on the rocks earlier. Paul bought some antiseptic cream and plasters from the chemist when we got back to the seafront. He’d applied them to my cuts while we waited for the taxi.

‘There you go,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘All better.’

That was when I knew we were going to end up sleeping together.

As I lie here watching the moon filter through the curtains, Nidal’s face floats in front of me, splintering into fragments of silver. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots and the night grows heavy. I close my eyes and imagine the boats bobbing up and down on the water under Neptune’s Arm, waiting for the sun to rise and take them out into the fertile sea. I feel the motion of the waves under my body as I drift out with them, across the estuary, to the Channel and on to France. Out, out into the wide world where nameless people live out their lives, their stories yet to be written.

Lying back in the boat, I hear the faint tap, tapping of the lifebuoy as it bobs alongside. Tap, tap. The sea is getting wilder and the noise intensifies. I turn on my side and cover my ears. Deep sleep is within reach and I am clinging to it with every ounce of strength. But the boat is rocking violently and the buoy crashes into the sides with a force that shakes me out of my stupor.

I sit up and look around as the boat becomes a room with a bed and a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe that looms in the shadow of the heavy damask curtains.

The noise brings me clean out of the bed and I stand shivering in the centre of the room. Then I hear it, a voice.

‘Mummy!’

It’s coming from outside but I’m too terrified to go to the window.

‘Mummy!’

The voice is so wretched with fear that it dispels my own and I tentatively creep towards the window. Placing my hands on the ledge, I take a deep breath and look outside.

He is there again, sitting in my mother’s flower bed. The little boy. I can see him clearly now. He’s around four years old and dressed in an orange sweater and dark, loose-fitting trousers. His face is pale and framed by a mop of lank black hair. I lean forward and gently tap the window. He looks up, his eyes wide with fear, and I go cold. He has a black eye.

‘Jesus,’ I cry as I run back to the bed. ‘What have they done to him? Paul, wake up,’ I shout, tugging at his shoulder. ‘Quickly, Paul. It’s the boy. He’s out there and he’s hurt.’

‘Wha–’ he groans, pulling the covers up to his chin. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘It’s the boy, Paul,’ I cry insistently. ‘The one I told you about. He’s out there in the garden. He’s hurt. You’ve got to wake up. Please.’

I tug the covers clean away and Paul curls up into a fetal position. He is naked and I quickly grab a towel from the floor and throw it at him.

‘Here, put this on,’ I say as he opens his eyes. ‘You have to come and see.’

‘What time is it?’ he mutters as he stumbles to his feet and wraps the towel round his middle. ‘It’s still dark, Kate.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say impatiently. ‘Just come and look.’

I take his arm and drag him towards the window. The moon has gone behind a large black cloud and I put my face to the glass to get a better view.

‘There,’ I say, pulling Paul closer. ‘Can you see him, by the flower bed?’

He shakes his head.

‘I can’t see a thing,’ he says drowsily. ‘Except that knackered old garden chair.’

‘You’re looking in the wrong place,’ I say, jabbing my finger on the glass, which is quickly misting up with our breath. ‘He’s over there, right in the middle of the flower bed.’

‘It’s probably nothing, Kate,’ he says, leaning over me to open the window. As he lifts the latch, I hear a noise like a flutter of wings.

‘See,’ says Paul, sticking his head out into the night air. ‘Nothing at all. It’ll have been a fox or something. Those urban foxes are huge. It would be easy to mistake one for a child.’

I push past him and put my head out of the window. The garden is still and quiet and the flower bed is empty.

‘He was there,’ I whisper, turning to Paul, who is standing shivering in his towel. ‘I swear he was right here on the flower bed. You must have scared him when you opened the window.’

‘Come back to bed,’ he says gently, putting his hand out. ‘It was just a bad dream. Come on, you need to rest, particularly after what happened at the beach today.’

‘I don’t need to rest,’ I cry, slamming the window shut. ‘I need to help that child. It wasn’t a bad dream, it was real. I heard him shout “Mummy”, then I saw him. He was there. I know he was and so does somebody else.’

I push past him and pick up my clothes from the floor.