My Sister's Bones(76)

The love I felt for Hannah when she was born was so huge I felt like I would die, that my heart would burst, every time I looked at her. She was so tiny, so vulnerable, and I knew that it was beyond me. So I handed her over to Mum and let her do the things I could never do, like feeding the ducks and standing pushing a swing for hours on end without becoming frustrated. That’s why Hannah loved Mum so much, because she was solid, as mothers should be, where I was unpredictable; unstable. I cringe as I remember that day at the pub; her little face as I left her in the beer garden and headed inside to the bar. No child deserves a mother like me.

And now the booze is all I have left.

I drain the glass and pour another then another until the room becomes a pinkish blur. I close my eyes and the blackness feels so good I want to fall into it. As I lie back I see a tiny boy drifting out to sea. The waves crash over his head, then silence. It’s over. And I think how tempting it must be to just give up; to stop breathing and fall into a long deep sleep.

It’s time.

I reach over to the bedside cabinet and take out a box of sleeping tablets. Drinking plays havoc with my sleep and when I wake up in the middle of the night a quick pill is the only thing to send me back off. Now if I just increase the dose I can curl up nice and cosy. I can go and find Kate and David and all this pain will stop.

I puncture the foil and pop one in my mouth, washing it down with a mouthful of wine. There are eighteen pills left but I reckon half of that will do the trick. I push another one out of the foil but as I swallow it I hear knocking at the front door. It’s Paul. He’s come back. He’s changed his mind.

I shove the pills back in the drawer and slam it shut.

‘Paul,’ I call out as I run down the stairs. ‘I’m just coming.’

But my heart sinks as I see the outline of a woman through the glass. It must be nosy Sandra from next door. She’s the only woman who knocks on our door and it’s usually because she’s got something to complain about.

‘What is it this time?’ I sigh as I open the door.

But it’s not Sandra. It’s a young woman. She looks Middle Eastern and is dressed in a beautiful blue dress and matching scarf.

‘Sally?’ she says.

When I hear her accent I assume she must be here about Kate. She must be from the consulate.

‘Have you come about my sister?’

She nods her head.

‘You’d better come in then,’ I say.

My head is light with booze and the sleeping pills as I lead her inside. My stomach knots. I’m not prepared for this at all. She’s going to tell me about Kate’s death and I know it won’t be good. I take her into the kitchen and ask if she would like a cup of tea. I could do with a stiff drink but the way she’s dressed tells me she probably wouldn’t approve of that.

‘You must have come a long way,’ I say as I fill the kettle.

‘No, not very far,’ she says, looking around uncertainly.

‘Why don’t you have a seat?’ I say. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

I watch as she sits down at the table. She is very nervous. Her face twitches every so often and I wonder if this is a result of living in Syria; some sort of shell shock.

‘Here you are,’ I say, placing the mug of tea in front of her. ‘Sugar’s on the table if you want some.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, but as she takes a sip her hands start shaking and the tea splatters down her front.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, putting the cup down. ‘Clumsy.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply, handing her a tea towel. ‘It was probably my fault. I over-filled it. I hope it hasn’t spoiled your nice dress.’

She dabs at the damp stain, her hands still shaking, then she puts the towel on the table and cradles the half-empty cup.

‘So you knew my sister,’ I say, sitting down next to her.

‘Yes, a little,’ she says. ‘We only met a couple of times but she was very kind. She wanted to help me.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘That sounds like Kate,’ I say as I take a sip of tea. ‘She wanted to help everybody. She was born that way.’

‘I was so sorry to hear of her death,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was a huge shock. You were out there too then, were you?’

‘Out where?’

‘In Syria,’ I say. ‘You were with her?’

‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘I’m not from Syria. I live in the house next door to your mother’s. My name’s Fida.’

I put my cup down, my heart thudding.

‘Paul’s house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the one who had my sister arrested?’

‘Yes, but that was all a big mistake.’

‘A big mistake?’ I spit. ‘As I understand it she was forced to leave Herne Bay because you called the police. If you hadn’t done that she wouldn’t have gone to Aleppo. She wouldn’t be dead.’

‘It was a misunderstanding,’ she says, looking at me pleadingly. ‘If you’ll let me, I can explain.’

‘I don’t want you to explain,’ I cry, my heart pounding. ‘It’s too late. My sister’s dead.’

‘But I need to tell you something,’ she says. ‘I need . . . I need your help. I have –’