My Sister's Bones(6)

‘How long had she been in the nursing home?’

‘Not long,’ I reply. ‘Just a few months.’

‘She must have deteriorated rapidly.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Though Paul has told me since that it was peaceful; that she died in her sleep.’

‘She’d had a stroke, is that right?’

‘That’s what they told me,’ I reply with a shrug. I want to change the subject.

‘Your brother-in-law said you couldn’t get back for the funeral.’

Shaw’s voice is cold and dispassionate and it cuts through me, reinforcing my grief, my guilt.

‘That’s right.’

‘Why was that?’

Her words are bullets and I have to force myself to stay in my seat when every part of me wants to jump up and fight back.

‘I told you, my work keeps me overseas sometimes for weeks on end. I was in Syria.’

‘And you couldn’t get back?’

‘No. I wanted to but . . . it was difficult.’

‘So you missed your mother’s funeral. That must have been tough?’

‘Yes. It was.’

I try not to think of that afternoon, of the men and the blood and the child crying out for me, and instead I think about the journey back to the UK. Sitting there waiting for the plane to take off, I felt something inside me break; I even thought I heard it snap, somewhere in my chest. It hurt, it physically hurt, like when you stretch an elastic band to its limit and it breaks in your hand. And in the midst of my grief for my mother was a gnawing guilt; the knowledge that I was running from an atrocity that I had played a part in creating. I had done something terrible, something I could never forgive myself for.

But I don’t want to tell Shaw any of this, it’s none of her business.

‘It must have been strange coming back to Herne Bay after all that time.’

Shaw’s voice brings me hurtling back to the present.

‘Yes.’

‘I understand you’ve been staying in your childhood home,’ she continues.

I nod my head and instinctively start to pick at my arm. The cuts are beginning to scab and they sting. I close my eyes and imagine painkillers and a large glass of Chablis, knowing that neither will be forthcoming. Shaw notices my rubbing and frowns at the lacerations that zigzag up my arm.

‘That looks painful,’ she says.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say, folding my arm into my chest defensively.

‘How did you do it?’

‘I said it’s nothing.’

She looks at me for a few seconds, then seems to make the decision to carry on.

‘And your father, is he still alive?’

She must already know this too. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Thankfully not.’

‘Why thankfully?’

‘Because he was a violent drunk,’ I reply. ‘I hated him and he hated me.’

‘Why did you hate him?’

‘Because he treated my mum like a punchbag.’

I pause. I’ve said too much again.

‘Look, I appreciate the therapy session but what’s this got to do with anything? I understand how this works, Dr Shaw. I interrogate people for a living. But the issue is not with me – it’s with her.’

‘Kate, I just need you to be honest,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘These questions will help us get as clear a picture as possible of what has led to your being here. Do you understand?’

Reluctantly, I nod my head.

‘We can take a break at any point,’ she says lightly, as though addressing a recalcitrant toddler. ‘Just say and we can pause.’

‘No,’ I snap. ‘I’m fine. Let’s just carry on.’

‘Okay,’ she says, shuffling in her seat.

She looks flustered for a moment and this pleases me. For a few moments I am the one in control.

‘You said your father was violent and that he hated you. Why did he hate you?’

‘I have no idea,’ I reply. ‘Maybe I reminded him of my mother who he also hated. Look, my parents had lost a child, my little brother, and it broke them. My mother dealt with her grief by cosseting me while my father just got angrier and angrier. He blamed my mother for my brother’s death. He was an alcoholic and when he was drunk he would lash out.’

‘Why did he blame your mother for the child’s death?’

‘I have no idea. It was his way of coping, I guess.’

‘How did your brother die?’

‘An accident,’ I reply brusquely. I’ve had years of practising this response whenever well-meaning people ask. ‘He drowned.’

‘And your mother was with him?’

I hear screaming. From the corridor? I’m not sure. I look at Shaw but she hasn’t heard it. My heart is racing and I try to remember what they told me the last time this happened. Breathing. I have to focus on my breathing. I close my eyes and slowly exhale, aware that Shaw is waiting for me to answer.

‘Kate?’

I open my eyes and take a deep inhalation of clammy air.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I breathe out. ‘I’d rather not talk about that. It was a long time ago and it has nothing to do with why I’m here.’