My Sister's Bones(77)

‘I’d like you to leave,’ I say, getting up from my chair.

‘Please just let me speak,’ she cries.

‘Listen, love, I’m not interested,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘Now clear off.’

She stands up and I march her to the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, turning to me, ‘I just wanted to –’

‘Did you not hear me?’ I cry as I yank the door open. ‘I said get out.’





36


I step back inside the house. I’m glad that the last thing I did was stand up for my sister. Now I can get on with it. I grab another bottle of wine in case I need it. But as I make my way up the stairs I hear a clattering noise. I turn and see a pile of post lying on the doormat.

On the top is a bulky Jiffy bag. I bend down and pick it up. It’s probably something for Paul – no one sends anything to me. But then I see my name printed in capital letters and the logo of Kate’s newspaper printed on the back. I tear open the parcel, wondering what it can be. Looking inside, I see a thin black object. I pull it out and hold it in my shaking hands.

A Dictaphone. It’s cracked and pock-marked and the plastic casing has melted in parts but I can still make out what it is. Surely it’s not . . .

There’s something else in there. I put my hand back inside the Jiffy bag and ease out a piece of paper. I take it and the Dictaphone into the kitchen then sit down at the table to read.

Sally,

I want to convey my deepest condolences for the loss of your sister, Kate. She was a brave and brilliant woman and the finest journalist I have ever worked with. This Dictaphone was found by one of the rescue workers close to where she was last seen. It was sent to the newsroom but, on listening to the contents, it seems it is more of a personal item than a professional one as you will hear when you play it.

I am working closely with the MoD and the consulate in Syria and will be in touch as soon as I have any more news for you.

In the meantime, if I can be of further help to you at this difficult time please do not hesitate to get in touch.

Best Wishes,

Harry Vine



Harry Vine. I run the name over and over in my head and then it clicks. Harry. Kate’s editor. She used to talk about him whenever she came home. It was all: ‘Harry’s going to love this’ or ‘Wait till I tell Harry, he won’t believe it.’ She was godmother to his children if I recall. Two girls. I remember feeling envious of her connection to this Harry person and his family and wondering why she couldn’t be like that with Hannah and me.

As I fold the letter and put it on the kitchen counter, I think back to the times when Kate would come home for a visit. I hated it. Mum would spend days getting the house ready and making sure we had the right food in. And then we’d sit there poised on the sofa, waiting for her to arrive; the favourite daughter. She’d sweep in looking immaculate and stylish and I would feel shabby next to her in my cheap high-street clobber. I’d sit there looking at her wondering how she did it; how she managed to get so lucky after what she’d done. It was like she had this invisible cloak all around her, protecting her from harm. Whatever she touched turned to gold. Yet me, I was the opposite.

Still, she couldn’t keep the act up all the time. Sometimes we got a glimpse of the real Kate and it wasn’t pretty. Like the time she came to Hannah’s tenth birthday party. Hannah never got over that. None of us did. Even Mum was shocked. We knew Kate had just come back from a pretty hellish assignment in Gaza, but we didn’t realize how much it had affected her. Mum had bought Hannah a Barbie doll for her birthday and she was so excited. She passed the doll round to all her friends at the party so they could brush its hair and change its clothes. It was a gorgeous day and the kids spilled out into the garden to have a play before we cut the cake. I was in the kitchen counting out the candles when Kate appeared in the doorway behind me. She was holding the doll and she had a strange look on her face.

‘Western kids are so pampered, it makes me sick,’ she said as she came into the kitchen. ‘I mean, look at all this, it’s grotesque.’

‘Oh, come on, Kate, it’s just a few sausage rolls and a bit of cake,’ I said. ‘It’s not the height of luxury by any means.’

‘I’ve spent the last few weeks talking to children who have nothing,’ she said, her voice all haughty and pious. ‘Not a toy, not a book; most don’t even have access to running water. If you’d seen those kids, Sally, you would think twice before overindulging your own.’

‘I’m not overindulging her,’ I said. ‘It’s her birthday. Now please don’t make a scene.’

‘A scene?’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Keeping quiet. Not questioning anything. Not making a bloody scene. Just like when we were kids.’

I was about to respond when Hannah came in the back door.

‘Have you seen my doll?’ she said, looking up at us. ‘Oh, there she is. Can I have her back, Aunt Kate?’

And then Kate did something so horrible it still pains me to think about. She stepped towards Hannah with this evil look on her face and she said: ‘I know, Hannah, let’s play Gaza.’ Then she pulled the doll’s head off and threw it on the ground.

Hannah was hysterical. Her cries brought Mum and the little kids in from the garden, and Mum immediately noticed Kate’s expression and swung into action, telling Hannah that we would send the doll off to the toys’ hospital and she would be as good as new. Then we brought the cake out to the garden and lit the candles. But the day was ruined and when her friends left Hannah went to bed and cried herself to sleep. After that she was never the same with Kate. Her beloved aunt had become something else, something unpredictable and frightening.