My Sister's Bones(64)

I put the wine on to the counter, making a mental note to myself to find a new hiding place; somewhere Paul will never think to look.

‘Sun come out, has it?’ says the man, noticing my glasses. He scans the bottles and begins to put them into a flimsy carrier bag.

I nod my head, wishing he would just hurry up.

‘Spring is here,’ he says with a smile. ‘Makes it even more poignant, doesn’t it?’ He points in the direction of the newspaper rack by the door. ‘She was from round here, you know.’ I follow his gaze and see a mass of headlines:

WIPED OUT

NO SURVIVORS

BOMBED WHILE THEY SLEPT

‘Syria,’ he says, opening another bag to put the remaining bottles in. ‘Never ends, does it? I mean, how much can one country take? Those poor people and that poor journalist. She was only in her thirties. They say she’s officially missing but no one could survive that. Have you seen the photos? It was carnage. Makes you think, though, doesn’t it? One minute you’re going about your business, the next, whoosh.’

He clicks his fingers and the noise makes me jump.

I leave the counter and walk across to the newspapers. I take a copy of The Times and look at the picture that is splashed across the front page: a pile of body bags lying in a scorched field. My stomach twists and I drop the paper on the floor. I’m going to throw up.

‘That’s ￡27.36 when you’re ready, love,’ says the man as I bend down to pick the paper up. ‘Are you wanting the newspaper too?’

‘No,’ I reply, putting it back on the shelf and returning to the counter. I grab the bags and thrust a wedge of twenty-pound notes into the man’s hands; the entire contents of my purse.

‘Hang on, love, that’s far too much,’ he says. ‘Come back and get your change.’

But I’m already out of there. Clutching my stomach, I run behind the pizza shop and throw up violently. Afterwards I put my hand on to the wall to steady myself and stand there for a few moments just trying to breathe. Then, wiping my mouth, I head back to the parade. I have to get home. I have to get away from the man and the newspapers and the Beatles song that is going round and round my head. I have to get home and pour myself a small drink and then it will all be better. I’ll be able to think straight.

Two hours later I’m drunk. Lying on the sofa, I close my eyes while Paul McCartney’s voice flutters through the room.

Just one glass, I’d told myself, but the first glass barely registered so I had a second. That warmed me up and blunted the edges a bit but it still wasn’t enough and as I poured myself a third I remembered I had Kate’s records. It’s got to be here somewhere, I thought, as I rummaged through the tattered sleeves. And then I found it. A twelve-inch copy of the Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ and there on the back of it in black felt tip was her name: Kate Martha Rafter. I took the record out and gave it a wipe with the back of my sleeve, then, taking a big sip of wine, I put it on my ancient turntable and suddenly she was back. We were two little girls dancing around the living room.

And now, as I lie here on the sofa with the song still playing in my head, I try to picture her but all I can see is a damn body bag.

‘Hey you,’ I sing to the ghosts in the room. ‘Dum, dum de dum.’

Slowly, my eyelids grow heavier than the words and everything goes dark.

I wake to a loud bang. I sit up and listen. The thud of heavy feet and a voice, low and muffled, calling my name. I go to stand up but I can’t move. My heart pounds and I can’t get my breath.

The footsteps grow closer.

‘Kate?’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’

I try to get up from the sofa but my legs are so heavy I can barely move.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

I look up and see him. He’s standing at the door, his face like thunder.

‘Sally, why did you do it?’ he says as he steps inside. ‘You know this isn’t the answer.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say, flopping back on to the sofa. ‘Just leave it.’

‘Jesus,’ he says, picking up the bottle from the floor. ‘Three bottles of wine in one morning? You’re going to kill yourself.’

He puts them on the table then comes and sits on the arm of the sofa.

‘Drinking’s not going to bring her back,’ he says, taking the empty glass from my hands.

‘I know that,’ I say.

‘In fact, it’s just going to make things worse,’ he says.

I bury my head in the cushion so I don’t have to listen to him, but I can still hear his voice droning on.

‘You’re going to need a clear head to deal with this, Sally,’ he says. ‘To fully come to terms with her death.’

And as I lie here I remember something. One of the headlines from this morning.

‘You’re wrong anyway,’ I say, sitting up. ‘About Kate. She’s not dead.’

‘Oh, Sally, what are you talking about?’ he sighs.

‘I saw the papers in the shop,’ I tell him, pointing my finger in the air. ‘They said “missing” – she’s missing, not dead. I tell you, she’ll turn up right as rain in a couple of days.’ I laugh loudly.

He shakes his head and his face looks so smug I want to punch him.

‘What? What you shaking your head for?’