My Sister's Bones(7)

‘Okay,’ says Shaw. ‘What about your sister, Paul’s wife Sally – did your father hit her too?’

I shake my head.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Are you and your sister close?’

‘No, we’re not.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Is anyone close to their sister? Are you close to yours?’

‘I’m an only child,’ says Shaw.

‘Lucky you,’ I reply snarkily.

‘I was asking about your sister, Kate.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, shaking my head. ‘Why aren’t we close? I have no idea. I guess our lives are just very different.’

Shaw nods her head and scribbles something down. As I watch her I think of the last time I saw Sally, her face contorted as she yelled at me. You swan in here when I haven’t seen you in years and think you can start telling me what to do? We’re not kids any more, Kate. I make my own decisions now.

‘In what way?’ continues Shaw. ‘In what way are your lives different?’

‘In every way.’

I think of the email that landed in my inbox as I sat huddled in a Syrian basement: Mum’s dead. Thought you should know.

One line. That’s all Sally could give me. One terse line that told me my mother, who I loved beyond words, was gone.

Bitch.

‘What was that, Kate?’

I look up at Shaw, the memory of that email coursing through my head. Did I say that out loud?

‘My sister is not a particularly pleasant person, Dr Shaw,’ I say. ‘We don’t get along. Can we just leave it at that?’





4


Monday 13 April 2015

Paul stands on the step with a beaming smile. He’s holding a carrier bag.

‘Fish and chips,’ he says. ‘Herne Bay’s finest. I bet you missed them.’

I haven’t but I feel strangely upbeat as I lead him through the passageway. For the first time in ages, I have woken with a clear head. The voices are silent. For now.

‘I wangled myself an extended lunch break so I thought I’d pop to Tellivers. I bet you’re dying for some real food after being in – where were you again?’

‘Aleppo,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in Syria,’ I add, noticing the blank look on his face.

‘Yeah, well I bet they don’t have food as good as this out there,’ he says as he puts the carrier bag on the table.

It’s a f*cking war zone, I think, as I stand in the kitchen doorway watching Paul set the table. There’s barely any food and the people are fighting to survive. The last thing I was thinking about in Aleppo was bloody fish and chips.

‘Actually, Paul, I’m not that hungry,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve only just had breakfast.’

‘Oh, come on,’ he says, patting the wooden dining chair next to him. ‘It won’t kill you and you could do with feeding up a bit. You’re all skin and bone.’

He’s only trying to be friendly I tell myself as I reluctantly join him at the table.

‘There you go,’ he says as he piles my plate with fat chips. ‘Tuck in.’

I put a chip in my mouth and chew slowly. It tastes surprisingly good.

‘I’ve spoken to your mum’s solicitor in Canterbury and she’s booked us in for one o’clock on Wednesday to sign the papers,’ says Paul. ‘It shouldn’t take long. Oh, and you’ll need to bring some ID with you. Have you got a passport?’

I stare at him incredulously.

‘Paul, do you think I could do my job if I didn’t have a passport?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ he laughs. ‘Of course you have. Forgive me, my head’s full of work stuff.’

He goes to the kitchen cupboard and brings out a dusty bottle of malt vinegar.

‘Want some?’

I shake my head and watch as he drowns his chips with the pungent brown liquid.

‘Will Sally be coming?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he says, putting his fork down. His face looks grave.

‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s just Sally. She’s not feeling too good.’

‘You mean she’s drinking again?’

‘She’s had a few setbacks, yes,’ he says, picking up a chip and twisting it distractedly between his finger and thumb.

‘Have you tried AA?’

He shakes his head. ‘She won’t hear of it. She doesn’t think she has a problem. I wish you would speak to her. You might make her see sense. She won’t listen to me any more.’

‘Oh, come on, Paul, she told me very clearly the last time we met that I wasn’t welcome. She practically pushed me out of the door.’

‘I know, but that was a long time ago and you know how sensitive she is about the Hannah situation. She thought you were blaming her.’

‘I was trying to knock some sense into her,’ I say, pushing my plate away. ‘I don’t care if she was offended, she needed to know the truth. If she’d been sober, Hannah would still be here, it’s as simple as that.’

‘I know,’ says Paul. ‘But at least Hannah’s okay. Thanks for your help with finding her, by the way. It really put our minds at rest.’