“Well,” he says, kissing me lightly on my forehead. “That was . . .”
“Don’t,” I say as I get to my feet. “Please don’t. We shouldn’t have done that.”
I reach for my clothes and stumble up the stairs to the bathroom.
I LIE ON the bed with the door closed. Paul is asleep beside me. I didn’t really want him to stay, but he said Sally would be more suspicious if he came back late. In the end I decided better Paul than the voices.
My arm is throbbing from where I cut it on the rocks earlier. Paul bought some antiseptic cream and plasters from the chemist when we got back to the seafront. He’d applied them to my cuts while we waited for the taxi.
“There you go,” he said when he’d finished. “All better.”
That was when I knew we were going to end up sleeping together.
As I lie here watching the moon filter through the curtains, Nidal’s face floats in front of me, splintering into fragments of silver. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots and the night grows heavy. I close my eyes and imagine the boats bobbing up and down on the water under Neptune’s Arm, waiting for the sun to rise and take them out into the fertile sea. I feel the motion of the waves under my body as I drift out with them, across the estuary, to the Channel and on to France. Out, out into the wide world where nameless people live out their lives, their stories yet to be written.
Lying back in the boat, I hear the faint tap, tapping of the lifebuoy as it bobs alongside. Tap, tap. The sea is getting wilder and the noise intensifies. I turn on my side and cover my ears. Deep sleep is within reach and I am clinging to it with every ounce of strength. But the boat is rocking violently and the buoy crashes into the sides with a force that shakes me out of my stupor.
I sit up and look around as the boat becomes a room with a bed and a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe that looms in the shadow of the heavy damask curtains.
The noise brings me clean out of the bed and I stand shivering in the center of the room. Then I hear it, a voice.
“Mummy!”
It’s coming from outside but I’m too terrified to go to the window.
“Mummy!”
The voice is so wretched with fear that it dispels my own and I tentatively creep toward the window. Placing my hands on the ledge, I take a deep breath and look outside.
He is there again, sitting in my mother’s flower bed. The little boy. I can see him clearly now. He’s around four years old and dressed in an orange sweater and dark, loose-fitting trousers. His face is pale and framed by a mop of lank black hair. I lean forward and gently tap the window. He looks up, his eyes wide with fear, and I go cold. He has a black eye.
“Jesus,” I cry as I run back to the bed. “What have they done to him? Paul, wake up,” I shout, tugging at his shoulder. “Quickly, Paul. It’s the boy. He’s out there and he’s hurt.”
“Wha—” he groans, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Go back to sleep.”
“It’s the boy, Paul,” I cry insistently. “The one I told you about. He’s out there in the garden. He’s hurt. You’ve got to wake up. Please.”
I tug the covers clean away and Paul curls up into a fetal position. He is naked and I quickly grab a towel from the floor and throw it at him.
“Here, put this on,” I say as he opens his eyes. “You have to come and see.”
“What time is it?” he mutters as he stumbles to his feet and wraps the towel around his middle. “It’s still dark, Kate.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say impatiently. “Just come and look.”
I take his arm and drag him toward the window. The moon has gone behind a large black cloud and I put my face to the glass to get a better view.
“There,” I say, pulling Paul closer. “Can you see him, by the flower bed?”
He shakes his head.
“I can’t see a thing,” he says drowsily. “Except that knackered old garden chair.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” I say, jabbing my finger on the glass, which is quickly misting up with our breath. “He’s over there, right in the middle of the flower bed.”
“It’s probably nothing, Kate,” he says, leaning over me to open the window. As he lifts the latch, I hear a noise like a flutter of wings.
“See,” says Paul, sticking his head out into the night air. “Nothing at all. It’ll have been a fox or something. Those urban foxes are huge. It would be easy to mistake one for a child.”
I push past him and put my head out of the window. The garden is still and quiet and the flower bed is empty.
“He was there,” I whisper, turning to Paul, who is standing shivering in his towel. “I swear he was right here on the flower bed. You must have scared him when you opened the window.”
“Come back to bed,” he says gently, putting his hand out. “It was just a bad dream. Come on, you need to rest, particularly after what happened at the beach today.”
“I don’t need to rest,” I cry, slamming the window shut. “I need to help that child. It wasn’t a bad dream, it was real. I heard him shout ‘Mummy,’ then I saw him. He was there. I know he was and so does somebody else.”
I push past him and pick up my clothes from the floor.
“Kate, what are you doing?” says Paul as I pull my sweater over my head. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble.”
“No, I’m not,” I say, grabbing my boots from under the bed. “She’s going to get into trouble. What kind of mother lets her husband beat up her kid? What kind of mother lets her little boy get out of the house in the middle of the night? She’s a disgrace.”
“This is crazy,” says Paul, running down the stairs after me.
“It’s not crazy,” I shout. “She’s got a child in there and she’s mistreating him and if the police won’t help me, then I’m going to have to go and search that house myself.”
Paul stops to gather his clothes that are lying in a pile by the bottom step. I flinch as I remember our desperate fuck. What was I thinking? I stand at the front door and fumble with the key while behind me Paul huffs and puffs as he pulls his clothes on.
“Kate, think about this,” he says. “Think of the consequences. We all know what this boy is. Kate, he doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, he does!” I yell as the lock finally yields. “He does exist. And he needs me.”
I pull the door open and head out into the night.
“Kate, come back,” Paul calls after me. “If you go next door she’ll have the police onto you and that’s not going to help anyone.”
The air is warm outside and the sky smeared with tiny stars as I stomp up the drive and hammer on the door.
“Open this door now,” I shout. “You hear me? Open the door.”
I stand back and look at the bedroom window. A light goes on and I return to the door, hammering harder this time. Finally, after about ten minutes of yelling and knocking, the door opens.
“What do you want?” Fida says, not looking me in the eye. “It’s the middle of the night.”
She is fully dressed, headscarf in place. Maybe that was why she took so long to answer. She was getting dressed. Conserving her modesty. Or hiding something?
“Yes, I know it’s the middle of the night,” I say, my voice trembling with anger. “And your little boy should be in bed but instead he was cowering in my garden. Now can you tell me what the hell is going on? He’s a tiny little thing and he was calling for you, crying for his mummy.”
“Ms. Rafter,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to stop this. You’re scaring me now.”
She looks up at me and I gasp. Her eye is swollen and there is a deep cut across the bridge of her nose.
“My God!” I exclaim, stepping toward her. “What’s happened to you? Did he do this?”
“It’s nothing,” she says, brushing me away. “I fell and hit my face yesterday, that’s all.”
“Fida, listen to me,” I say, lowering my voice. What if he’s there right now? �
�This is serious. I know what your husband has done. You have nothing to gain from covering for him. He’s an abuser and I know that because I lived with one. My mum used to end up looking like you most evenings and she made every excuse in the book. Now please, Fida, let me in so I can make sure the boy is all right.”
“There is no boy,” she yells. “Now please will you just leave me alone.”
She goes to close the door but I put my arm inside to block it.
“Fida, I can help you,” I say. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I can get you and the boy out of here.”
She stares at me. Her hands are shaking and I see that she is terrified.
“Just go,” she whispers. “Please go.”
And with that she closes the door.
I stand on the step wondering what to do next. The boy must be here somewhere, I think, as I walk to the side of the house and try the gate to see if it’s open. I push the lever up and I’m about to go through when I hear something move behind me. I turn and see Paul walking down the drive toward me.
“Kate,” he says, his voice scared. “That’s enough now. Come on.”
“He’s in there,” I cry. “And I’m going to go and find him.”
“Please stop,” says Paul. But it’s too late, I’m already running into the garden.
The shed door is open and I step inside.
“It’s okay,” I call. “I’m here now and I can help you.”
I step farther inside. Where is he? Perhaps he’s hiding. Then I hear something, a muffled voice. It sounds like it’s coming from below the earth.
Kate.
“Nidal?” I whisper.
“Kate Rafter.”
I look up and see a desperately young police officer standing in the entrance.
“Could you tell me what you’re doing?”
He steps toward me and I see Fida standing outside with another male police officer and Paul.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” I say. Fida must have seen sense and called them. I take the officer’s arm and pull him into the shed. “There’s a child being abused. They’re hiding him here somewhere.”
“Kate, stop this,” calls Paul. “Just come out.”
“Ms. Rafter, we’ve had a report of trespass from the occupier of the house,” says the officer. “Do you mind telling us what you’re doing in her shed?”
My heart sinks. She hasn’t reported her husband; she’s reported me.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I shout. “There is a child in grave danger. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He’s constantly crying for his mother and tonight he was in my flower bed.”
The officer smirks, then tries to cover his amusement with his hand.
“Oh, I’m glad you find this funny,” I say, fury coursing through my body. “But forgive me if I don’t share the joke. That woman out there is a victim of domestic abuse. Look at her face. So is her child. I’m sure he had a black eye when I saw him. You need to go and search the house. They must have him locked up in there.”
“Come on, Ms. Rafter,” says the officer, taking me by the arm. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
As we reach the door, Fida steps toward me.
“This is happening almost every day,” she says. “She just won’t stop. I don’t have a child. I fell over, that is all. I don’t deserve to be hounded like this.”
I can see in her eyes that she wants to say something. For God’s sake, why won’t she just tell them?
“She needs help,” she whispers to the officer nearest me. “She’s not well.”
I look at her and something inside me snaps. Her blank face is my mother’s face and every bit of frustration and impotence come hurtling to the surface. I need to make her see sense.
“Why won’t you tell them, you stupid woman?” I shout, grabbing her scarf and shaking it violently. “Why won’t you just tell them where he is?”
My answer comes in the form of cold, hard metal clasped around my wrists and a male voice telling me what I can or cannot say. As they lead me back through the garden I can hear Fida sobbing and I know that this time I have gone too far.
26
Herne Bay Police Station
37.5 hours detained
Shaw has left the room and a young officer is guarding me. He’s sitting by the door with his hands clasped in front of him and, like his colleagues, he looks like he is just out of diapers. How can my life be in their hands?
I told Shaw everything she wanted to know and now my fate rests with something called a Full Mental Health Act Assessment, which, somewhere in this building, she is completing.
The clock above the young man’s head reads 16:01. I have been here for almost forty hours. Last night I slept in a windowless cell and dreamed of nothing. That is something at least. Perhaps the very act of recounting my nightmares to Shaw has rendered them obsolete. Who knows?
Paul has been called and informed of my detention. I was allowed to speak to him for a couple of minutes. He told me that he would do everything he could to get me out but they were empty words. The only person in the world with the power to release me is Dr. Shaw and I have no idea what she is going to do.
While I have been detained in this tiny police station in a deserted backstreet, Fida’s husband will have unleashed his fury on the boy, there is no doubt about it.
If I’m released I will call Harry and tell him there is a story unfolding. I will draw on my contacts in child services and use all the influence I have left to get that child out of there. But I can only do that if I’m released from my own prison. And I have no idea if that is going to happen.
The door opens and the young man jumps to his feet. Shaw enters with the officer who arrested me. In her hands she holds a wedge of papers. I scrutinize her face for an answer but it is a screen of impenetrability. My heart begins to pound against my chest and my mouth is dry. Only now, at the final moment, do I understand the enormity of my situation. The woman sitting in front of me, shuffling into her seat, has the power to incarcerate me in a mental institution. My life, my career, my whole future, has shriveled to this room, this woman, and the papers she holds in her hands.
“Kate,” begins Shaw. She pauses to clear her throat before continuing. “I’ve completed the assessment form and I am satisfied that you do not pose a threat to yourself and others. Therefore I will not be recommending further detention under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act.”
My eyes water and I look down at my knees, willing myself not to cry. Not here, not in front of these people.
“However,” continues Shaw, “from what you have told me, and the symptoms you have presented, I believe that you are suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder and I would like to refer you to a relevant professional for counseling. I cannot order you to do this but I would highly recommend it, particularly at this critical point where your behavior has resulted in arrest.”
I nod my head. I will do whatever she asks me as long as I can get back to the house and help the boy.
“My work here is done,” says Shaw, placing the papers on her knee. “And I’ll now hand you over to PC Walker to outline the outcome of your arrest.”
I look up at Walker and he raises his eyebrows. What a pathetic excuse for a police officer. There he stood, yards from an abused child, and what did he do? He arrested me.
“Do you have any questions before I go, Kate?” asks Shaw.
I have many questions. I want to ask her if she has ever seen a child die in front of her eyes. I want to ask her why she keeps taking her wedding ring of f, then putting it back on again. I want to ask her why she flinched when I described my father’s beatings. I want to ask her if the nightmares will stop. I want to ask her if she believes me.
Instead I shake my head.
“Okay,” she says, standing up from her seat. “I’ll leave you with PC Walker.”
She nods her head and for a moment I think she is going to speak some words of comfort to me. But then s
he turns and walks toward the door. I am just another case to her, another form to fill in. She has no interest in my life and what I have seen. She will walk out of this room and into another one where some poor bastard will sit and unload his life onto her while she neatly ticks her boxes. And I think of the countless men and women I have interviewed over the years, some whose stories stayed with me, others to whom I barely gave a second thought once the dispatch had been written, and I wonder if that is how I looked to them: a woman who had taken a piece of their soul along with their story as she walked away.
The door closes and PC Walker steps toward me.
AN HOUR LATER I’m sitting in Paul’s car in the train station parking lot with my knapsack on my knee.
“I packed everything of yours I could find,” he says, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “I hope it’s okay.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say. “I didn’t bring that much with me anyway.”
“You know it’s probably for the best, don’t you?” he says. “And at least Fida didn’t press charges.”
“Ha!” I cry as I look out into the late afternoon gloom. “She didn’t press charges. Of course she didn’t because she knows if the police delved deeper they’d find out her husband’s little secret. He’s an abuser, Paul, and she’s covering for him.”
“Well, whatever she’s doing it’s none of your business now.” He sighs. “It can’t be. You heard what the copper said, if you go back to the house Fida will apply for a restraining order. Which they’ll definitely approve. And then that’s it, your life’s over. You’ll be dragged into court, your reputation will be down the toilet. It’s not worth it.”
“No,” I whisper. “So it seems I have no choice. Other than to see a shrink.”
“Well, would that be such a bad thing?” he says gently. “Nip this PTSD in the bud before it gets worse, while you still can. Before you end up like . . . well, you know what I mean.”
“Before I end up like Sally?”
He puts his head onto the steering wheel and sighs.
“Will you tell her?” I ask. “About us.”
He lifts his head. His face has drained of color.
My Sister's Bones Page 17