My Sister's Bones

by Nuala Ellwood

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to my father—

  a “great good” man.

  Epigraph

  When the dumb Hour, clothed in black,

  Brings the Dreams about my bed,

  Call me not so often back,

  Silent Voices of the dead . . .

  Alfred Tennyson

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part Two Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Part Three Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . * About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On

  Praise

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  She is safe now. Free from her demons. Her final resting place is still and tranquil, a little watery pocket of calm. She would have liked that, I think to myself, as I watch a pleasure boat sail in to the dock. She would have thought it appropriate.

  It is hard to believe that after such a violent death she could ever find peace, but I hope she has.

  My sister. My beautiful sister.

  “Go safely,” I whisper. And as I scatter her ashes into the water I breathe a deep sigh. Perhaps this is the end.

  The boat fills up with tourists and their excited voices fill the air as we stand here, three broken souls, saying our last good-byes. But as I watch her go I am struck once again by the thought that’s been haunting me ever since she died.

  Of the two of us, how is it possible that I am the one who survived?

  PART ONE

  1

  Herne Bay Police Station

  Sunday, April 19, 2015

  10:30 A.M.

  Would you like me to repeat the question?”

  The doctor is speaking, but it’s hard to hear her over the voices.

  “Kate?” The doctor shifts in her seat.

  “Sorry, can you repeat that?” I try to focus.

  “Shall I close the window? It’s quite noisy out there.”

  She goes to stand up, but I put my hand out to stop her. She flinches and I realize she may have mistaken my gesture for aggression.

  “No,” I say as she sits back down awkwardly. “It’s fine. I just thought I heard . . . nothing. It’s nothing.”

  I mustn’t tell her about the voices.

  She nods her head and smiles a half smile. This is familiar territory. Auditory hallucinations; voices in the head. As a clinical psychologist, this will be heaven for her. She takes her notepad and points her pen at a fresh page.

  “Okay,” she says, and a glint of silver grapples with the rays of the morning sun as her pen swipes across the paper. “These things you can hear, Kate, can you describe them to me? Are they discernible voices?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply.

  “You find them difficult to make out?”

  “Look, I know what you’re doing here,” I say tersely. “But you won’t succeed because I’m not what you think I am.”

  “What do I think you are?”

  “A mad woman who hears voices, who sees things, imagines things. You think it’s all in my head.”

  But as I speak they’re back, fading in and out like a radio between frequencies. Shaw says something but I can’t hear for the screams. The old woman wailing; the young father running through the streets holding the blasted body of his baby girl in his arms. My old faithfuls, the ones that return to me whenever I am under stress.

  I can’t help myself. I put my hands to my ears and hold them there. The voices dissolve into a low hum, like the sound you hear when you place a conch shell to your ear. I see my mother, her cheek pressed against mine. Listen, darling, can you hear it? That’s the ocean talking to you. And I believed her. I believed that the sea lay hidden inside the shell, though what I was hearing was really just the air bouncing off the curved cavity. I believed her because I needed to. She was my mother and she never lied.

  “Kate?”

  I see Shaw’s lips move. She’s saying my name. I stare at her for a moment and she stares back. Her eyes are a dirty green, the color of the winter sea inside my head. It’s getting louder now, the waves pounding on the rocks.

  “Kate, please.” Shaw starts to get up. She’s going to get help.

  I force myself to take my hands away from my ears and clasp them together. The peridot bracelet that Chris gave me on our eighth anniversary ripples down my arm and gathers in a spool at my wrist. I run my finger along the surface, rubbing the stones like the genie’s lamp. Make a wish, I think to myself. I remember the night Chris gave me the bracelet. We were in Venice. It was carnival time and as we weaved our way through the misty streets marveling at the elaborate costumes of the revelers he slipped something into my pocket. “To the next eight years,” he whispered, as I clasped the bracelet on to my wrist. I close my eyes. Please bring him back.

  “How’s your sleep been recently?” asks Dr. Shaw. “Any nightmares?”

  I shake my head and try to focus, but all I can think of is Chris and that trip to Venice. The smell of Venetian canal water lingers in the air.

  “It’s very pretty,” says Shaw, gesturing to the bracelet.

  “Apparently the peridot stone protects against nightmares,” I whisper.

  “And does it work?”

  I carry on rubbing the stone with my finger and thumb. It is strangely comforting.

  “Does the stone work, Kate?”

  She’s not going to let this go. I take a sip of water from the plastic beaker they gave me an hour ago. It is tepid and smells of chemicals, but anything is better than the stench of the canals.

  “I’ve had the odd bad dream,” I reply, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Who wouldn’t? It’s been a rough few weeks.”

  As Shaw continues to write I stare at my feet and for a second I see body parts congealed in mud, like some macabre jigsaw puzzle. She asked me about nightmares but where do I start? Do I tell her how I’ve stood in shallow graves and felt my feet sinking into the earth, my toes drenched in body fluids? Do I tell her about those endless black nights when I have woken up begging for noise, for chatter, for anything but the incessant silence of the dead? No, because if I do I will only confirm her suspicions. I have to stay focused and stay one step ahead of her or it’s all over. I rub the peridot for protection a
s Shaw stops writing and looks up.

  “And would you say these bad dreams have got worse since you’ve returned to Herne Bay?”

  I put the beaker back on to the table and sit up in my chair. I have to stop letting my mind wander; I have to be alert, careful. Every word I say here can be used against me.

  “No, they haven’t got worse,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’ve just become real.”

  2

  Sunday, April 12, 2015

  One week earlier

  I shiver as I step off the train and stand on the deserted platform. The sea air whips angrily around my face as I pull my bulky knapsack onto my back and make my way toward the exit. The station clock reads 11:59. I feel uneasy as I walk through the blistering silence. Have I made the right decision? I pause, and contemplate climbing back onto the train, but the engine has stopped and a guard in a fluorescent waistcoat is opening the doors to let the cleaners do their work. This is the last stop, the end of the line.

  I pull my thin jacket tighter, chastising myself for leaving my heavier coat packed at the bottom of my bag. I’d forgotten how cold Herne Bay can get at night, even in April. My mother used to call it bone-chilling weather.

  As I walk toward the steps I look around for any sign of life but there is nothing. I am the only person here. I hope he got my message. Of all the terrifying situations I have found myself in over the years, none has made me feel as uncomfortable as this. Herne Bay. Where darkness comes early and life is as predictable as the tides. It will take all the strength I have left to get through these next few days.

  As I step into the half-lit ticket hall my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pause by the red glow of a vending machine to answer it.

  “Hello. Oh, that’s okay. I’ll be right there.”

  A light rain begins to fall as I step out of the station and spot the silver sedan parked in the empty taxi rank. I wave to the man sitting in the driver’s seat as I stride toward the car, my heavy knapsack digging into my collarbone. My brother-in-law waves back but doesn’t smile. He knows that my presence in Herne Bay will cause trouble. Still, I’m grateful that he came to collect me. He’s the only member of my family who still wants to speak to me.

  “Hi, Paul.” I sigh as I open the door. “Thanks for coming out at this hour, I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he replies. “Stick your bag on the back seat. There’s more room.”

  I want to stick myself on the back seat as well, and pretend I’m in London in some anonymous taxi, going home to my own bed. Still, the drive from the station to my mother’s house is a short one, I tell myself, as I toss my knapsack into the back and climb into the passenger seat. Clicking the seat belt, I lean back and close my eyes. I am home, whatever that means.

  “Are you sure you want to stay at your mother’s?” asks Paul as we pull out of the parking lot. “I mean, you’re more than welcome to bunk at ours for the week.”

  “Thanks, Paul,” I reply as familiar landmarks pass by the window. “But I really don’t want to put you out.”

  “You wouldn’t be putting us out,” he says. “It would be a pleasure.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “I doubt it would be a pleasure for Sally. I can just imagine her face if I rock up at the door.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “What about a hotel then? There’s a new one opened up on the seafront, nice and plush, you’d like it.”

  “Honestly, Mum’s house will be fine,” I say firmly. “I’m only here for a few days and, anyway, after everything that’s happened it’ll be good to spend some time there; give me the chance to take it all in.”

  “Okay,” he says. “But the offer’s there if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  He is silent for the rest of the journey and I look out as we drive through indistinct residential streets, the names of which blur in front of my eyes like ink dissolving in water. My stomach growls and I suddenly feel light-headed. This always happens when I come back here. It’s like I’m allergic to the place.

  “Do you mind if I open the window?” I ask Paul, praying I don’t throw up over his immaculate dashboard.

  “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing to the button by the door handle.

  “That’s better.” I sigh as a flurry of cold air hits my face, though the pungent fishy scent doesn’t help.

  I put my hand in my pocket and run my fingers along the reassuring smooth surface of my lucky pen. The pen—a beautiful silver fountain pen inscribed with my name—was a gift from Chris on our first anniversary. It has been everywhere with me—Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. Whenever I touch it I know I’m safe.

  “It’s so quiet,” I whisper, tucking the pen back into my pocket as the car crawls up the hill toward Smythley Road.

  I’d forgotten the blanket of silence that descends on the town at night. As I look out I imagine the inhabitants of Smythley Road cocooned in their beds, like the characters in the Edgar Allan Poe stories I devoured as a child, lost in their “little slices of death.” It’s hard to believe that this had once been my home; this silent world.

  “Here we are,” says Paul as he stops the car.

  His voice makes me jump and I look up at the house we have parked outside. Number 46: a lifeless 1930s semi with graying pebbledash that had once been sparkling white. I still remember the telephone number—654345—and my childhood mantra: My name is Kate Rafter and I live at number 46 Smythley Road with my mummy and daddy and my sister, Sally. My eyes moisten but I blink the tears away, reminding myself that the first step is always the hardest.

  As I open the door and step out onto the pavement my lungs contract, like the prelude to a bout of coughing, and I have to steady myself by placing my hands on the car hood.

  It’s just a week, that’s all, I tell myself. A few days of sea air and signing Mum’s papers, then back to work, back to normal.

  “You okay?”

  Paul is standing behind me. He lifts the knapsack from my shoulder and guides me toward the house.

  “I’m fine, Paul, just tired.”

  “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to book into a hotel?”

  “No,” I say as we walk up the drive. “I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’ll get one here, I’m sure,” he says breezily. “It’s nice and peaceful. Don’t know how you manage it, jumping from one hellhole to the next. I’d be wrecked.”

  I smile ruefully. That’s all that matters to most people—getting a good night’s sleep. I imagine Paul in Homs or Aleppo, snoring his head off while all around him people fight to stay alive.

  I stand on the doorstep staring at the door. It still feels inconceivable that my mother is not behind it, the smell of baking wafting in her wake. My mother was this house; it was the only world she knew.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” says Paul, interrupting my thoughts. “Here are the keys. Chubb’s for the front door, mortice for the back. Thermostat’s in the kitchen above the kettle if you’re cold. I’ll pop over in the morning to see if you’re okay.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking the keys and rubbing the sharp metal between finger and thumb. “And give my regards to Sally, won’t you?”

  He flinches at the sound of her name.

  “She’s still my sister,” I tell him. “Despite everything.”

  “I know,” he says. “And deep down she knows that too.”

  “I hope so,” I say, the cold air sending shivers down my back.

  “You get yourself in,” says Paul, patting my arm. “It’s freezing out here.”

  I follow him down the gravel drive and watch as his car disappears into the shadowy folds of the bay, putting off going into the house for a few more moments. Once I open the door it will all become real. My mother’s death will be confirmed. It is almost too painful to bear. But I have to do it, I tell myself, as I reluctantly make my way back to the house, or I will never move on. As I approach I see a ligh
t in the upstairs window of the house next door and I pause. It is a reassuring sight, a sign of life amid darkness and death, and I feel comforted as I put the key in the lock and open the door.

  Inside, I fumble around trying to find the light switch, tripping over my knapsack as I run my palms across the glossy woodchip walls. When I eventually locate it the dim glow that ensues brings a knot to my stomach. I’d forgotten: my mother always abhorred bright lights. Light was not to be trusted. It revealed too much. And so my mother had installed low-wattage bulbs throughout the house and retreated to the shadows.

  I walk down the hallway, thinking how the first eighteen years of my life had been spent in near-darkness, terrified of what lay hidden in the corners. I go from room to room, flicking switches, my heart sinking as each dull bulb splutters impotently to life.

  I stop at the kitchen. It looks different. Paul and Sally have obviously set to work getting the house ready to sell. The dark red walls of my childhood have been painted magnolia and the lino replaced with an insipid beige carpet. But it’s all good, I tell myself as I step inside. However boring it may be, beige is what I need right now; its dull neutrality will keep me from hurtling down the hole of memory.

  I walk into the pantry and see that Paul has stocked up ahead of my visit. There are new packs of coffee and tea, a fresh loaf of white bread, tins of soup and baked beans. Opening the fridge, I see full-fat milk, butter and eggs, and a packet of smoked bacon: things I haven’t eaten for years. Still, I’ll be grateful for them in the morning.

  I see he’s also left a couple of bottles of white wine. I take one out and pour myself a large glass. I know I shouldn’t. After all, until the events of the last couple of months, I barely touched alcohol. I vowed never to turn out like my father and Sally. But since Aleppo, a drink seems to be the only thing that will settle my nerves.

  That and my sleeping pills.

  I pat my pocket and pull out a pack. I swallow two with the rest of the wine and make my way upstairs, praying that they will work fast.

  But as I reach the landing I stop. My throat tightens, and I stand for a moment looking at the closed door of my mother’s bedroom. It’s still there. An ancient foot-shaped gash in the wood panel. I find I am trembling. It’s like being back there, thirty years of distance gone in a flash. Why on earth did she never replace it?