My Sister's Bones(59)

I close the door and head for the station entrance. When I get there I stand for a moment, watching the silver saloon pulling out of the car park, and as it disappears into the sprawl of the suburban housing estate I take out my phone and go over to the bench by the ticket office.

I sit down and press her number. One last try.

The call connects and I hear heavy breathing.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Is that you, Sally?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘It’s me. Kate. Look, Sally, I need to tell you something.’

‘You said enough last time.’

Her words are laboured. She’s drunk. Dammit. Still, I need to try.

‘Look, I have to be quick. I’m at the station and my train arrives in five minutes.’

‘Off on your travels again, are you? I knew you wouldn’t stick around for long.’

Her voice drips with venom. She’ll be on to her second bottle. I can tell. The first makes her merry; the second makes her nasty.

‘It’s work,’ I tell her. ‘I’m needed back at the office.’

‘Nice to be needed,’ she slurs.

I’m tempted to just end the call but I know I have to try. I take a deep breath.

‘Sally, I’m calling to ask you a favour,’ I tell her. ‘It’s really important.’

‘Ooh, a favour,’ she says mockingly.

‘Please, Sally, this is serious,’ I say. ‘I need you to keep an eye on the house next door to Mum’s. Paul’s house.’

‘What you on about now?’

I take a deep breath.

‘There’s a little boy living there and I think he’s being mistreated.’

‘Little boy?’

‘Yes.’

‘In Mum’s house?’

‘No. Next door. The house Paul rents out.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘But it would be really helpful if you could . . . maybe go and see the neighbours, check them out. I mean, after all, they are Paul’s tenants.’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ she cries. ‘You want me to go and knock on someone’s door and ask them if they’re bashing their kid about?’

‘No, I just –’ ‘You never change, do you, Kate? Always sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted; always telling people how to live their lives.’

‘Sally, it’s not like that. This child . . . he’s in trouble.’

‘Yeah? Isn’t that what you said about Hannah? You know your problem? You’re bitter.’

‘Bitter? What are you talking about?’

‘Bitter that you’ve never had kids; that you put your big-shot career first and now it’s too late.’

Her words cut, but I won’t let myself show it.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Sally, you’re talking rubbish.’

‘Really? Am I? Nah, I just know you too well, that’s all. Truth hurts, don’t it?’

‘You’re drunk,’ I say, trying not to lose my temper. ‘I don’t know why I even bothered.’

‘Disrespect you, did she, the woman next door? Say something you didn’t like? Is that why you’re making shit up about her?’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘You’re always making stuff up,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘Just can’t help yourself, can you?’

As she rants, I hear my train being announced over the tannoy.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say, interrupting her. ‘Thanks for nothing, Sally.’

I terminate the call and put the phone back in my pocket.

Why did I ever think that she could help? She can’t even look after herself never mind anyone else.

I stand up and as I pull my rucksack on to my shoulders I try to expunge her drunken insults from my head. Time to get back to work, I tell myself, as I make my way to the train. Time to leave Herne Bay and all its misery behind me.





27


Aleppo, Syria

Two weeks later

Something has changed. I have changed.

I arrived in Aleppo last night. It was a terrifying journey. We were smuggled into the city by my old friend and translator Hassan. We had to walk for several miles through an abandoned sewer. Hassan led the way, a torch taped to his forehead. Rats crawled across our feet as we stepped through ankle-deep water and ancient shit. My body didn’t stop shaking the whole way. Every step I asked myself why. Why did I come back? I covered my mouth with my hand as the water rose higher and my nostrils filled with the smell of excrement and chemicals. Just when I thought I would collapse we emerged into an expanse of wasteland, a disused industrial site on the outskirts of Aleppo where a makeshift camp has been set up. And as I stood there looking at the dilapidated tents I felt like running back through the sewer. I could smell death on the air and it reminded me of my baby. And as Hassan took my shaking hand and led me to my tent I asked myself again: why did I come back?

This morning I have been touring the clinic on the north side of the camp. It was set up by a couple of young medical students and is packed with terrified, bloodied people, most of them women and children. A young man in a filthy white coat rushes from bed to bed, desperately trying to stem bleeding limbs with bits of cloth. I have witnessed many scenes like this before in Gaza and Iraq but back then I was stronger. This time I feel nervous. My skin prickles at the slightest noise.