My Sister's Bones

by Nuala Ellwood

  “Of course I won’t,” he says. “It would destroy her.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “But then I think Sally destroyed herself a long time ago.”

  He puts his hand on my arm and strokes it tenderly.

  “I do care about you, Kate,” he says. “I always have. Perhaps in another life we might have—”

  “Don’t,” I say, easing my arm away. “I think we both know that’s crazy talk. The other night was just one of those things. We needed some comfort.”

  He smiles and rubs his face with his hands. “So where will you go? Back to London?”

  “I’ll go to my flat first but I won’t be hanging around. Too many ghosts there.”

  “You mean Chris?”

  I flinch at the sound of his name.

  “You left his Facebook page open on my laptop,” says Paul. “Married, eh? Sounds like a bit of a shit to me.”

  “Sally is very lucky,” I say as I unclip the seat belt. “Having someone like you. I don’t think she realizes it.”

  He smiles but I can see it’s painful.

  “You said you won’t be hanging around,” he says, changing the subject. “So where will you go?”

  “I’ll talk to Harry,” I say. “Get him back onside, then I’ll go back to Syria. It’s the only place I can be right now.”

  “Are you insane? Have you seen the news?”

  “I write the news, Paul,” I reply. “It’s my job.”

  “But after all you’ve been through with the little lad in Aleppo, are you sure it’s the right thing to do?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Jesus, girl,” he says with a wry laugh. “You don’t do things by halves, do you? I’m going to miss you.”

  He leans over and hugs me tightly and it feels so good that I almost want to stay but I know it’s impossible, not just with the Fida situation but with Sally too. It’s best for everyone if I get as far away from here as I can.

  “I’ll miss you too,” I say as I ease myself out of the embrace. “You’ve been a wonderful friend to me these last few days. I really appreciate it.”

  “I told you, it’s no bother,” he says. “Now, you just get yourself better, you hear me?”

  “I’ll try,” I say. “Oh, and Paul, I know you think it’s all in my head, but would you do me a favor and keep an eye on number 44? Just for me.”

  “Of course I will,” he says, his voice gravelly.

  I open the door and step out into the salty air.

  “Bye,” I say. “Take care.”

  “You too,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Now go on or you’ll miss your train.”

  I close the door and head for the station entrance. When I get there I stand for a moment, watching the silver sedan pulling out of the parking lot, and as it disappears into the sprawl of the suburban housing development I take out my phone and go over to the bench by the ticket office.

  I sit down and press her number. One last try.

  The call connects and I hear heavy breathing.

  “Hello,” I say. “Is that you, Sally?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me. Kate. Look, Sally, I need to tell you something.”

  “You said enough last time.”

  Her words are labored. She’s drunk. Dammit. Still, I need to try.

  “Look, I have to be quick. I’m at the station and my train arrives in five minutes.”

  “Off on your travels again, are you? I knew you wouldn’t stick around for long.”

  Her voice drips with venom. She’ll be onto her second bottle. I can tell. The first makes her merry; the second makes her nasty.

  “It’s work,” I tell her. “I’m needed back at the office.”

  “Nice to be needed,” she slurs.

  I’m tempted to just end the call but I know I have to try. I take a deep breath.

  “Sally, I’m calling to ask you a favor,” I tell her. “It’s really important.”

  “Ooh, a favor,” she says mockingly.

  “Please, Sally, this is serious,” I say. “I need you to keep an eye on the house next door to Mum’s. Paul’s house.”

  “What you on about now?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “There’s a little boy living there and I think he’s being mistreated.”

  “Little boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Mum’s house?”

  “No. Next door. The house Paul rents out.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “But it would be really helpful if you could . . . maybe go and see the neighbors, check them out. I mean, after all, they are Paul’s tenants.”

  “Are you having a laugh?” she cries. “You want me to go and knock on someone’s door and ask them if they’re bashing their kid about?”

  “No, I just—”

  “You never change, do you, Kate? Always sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted, always telling people how to live their lives.”

  “Sally, it’s not like that. This child . . . he’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah? Isn’t that what you said about Hannah? You know your problem? You’re bitter.”

  “Bitter? What are you talking about?”

  “Bitter that you’ve never had kids, that you put your big-shot career first and now it’s too late.”

  Her words cut, but I won’t let myself show it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Sally, you’re talking rubbish.”

  “Really? Am I? Nah, I just know you too well, that’s all. Truth hurts, don’t it?”

  “You’re drunk,” I say, trying not to lose my temper. “I don’t know why I even bothered.”

  “Disrespect you, did she, the woman next door? Say something you didn’t like? Is that why you’re making shit up about her?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “You’re always making stuff up,” she says, raising her voice. “Just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  As she rants, I hear my train being announced over the PA system.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” I say, interrupting her. “Thanks for nothing, Sally.”

  I terminate the call and put the phone back in my pocket.

  Why did I ever think that she could help? She can’t even look after herself, never mind anyone else.

  I stand up and as I pull my knapsack onto my shoulders I try to expunge her drunken insults from my head. Time to get back to work, I tell myself as I make my way to the train. Time to leave Herne Bay and all its misery behind me.

  27

  Aleppo, Syria

  Two weeks later

  Something has changed. I have changed.

  I arrived in Aleppo last night. It was a terrifying journey. We were smuggled into the city by my old friend and translator Hassan. We had to walk for several miles through an abandoned sewer. Hassan led the way, a torch taped to his forehead. Rats crawled across our feet as we stepped through ankle-deep water and ancient shit. My body didn’t stop shaking the whole way. Every step I asked myself why. Why did I come back? I covered my mouth with my hand as the water rose higher and my nostrils filled with the smell of excrement and chemicals. Just when I thought I would collapse we emerged into an expanse of wasteland, a disused industrial site on the outskirts of Aleppo where a makeshift camp has been set up. And as I stood there looking at the dilapidated tents I felt like running back through the sewer. I could smell death on the air and it reminded me of my baby. And as Hassan took my shaking hand and led me to my tent I asked myself again: Why did I come back?

  This morning I have been touring the clinic on the north side of the camp. It was set up by a couple of young medical students and is packed with terrified, bloodied people, most of them women and children. A young man in a filthy white coat rushes from bed to bed, desperately trying to stem bleeding limbs with bits of cloth. I have witnessed many scenes like this before in Gaza and Iraq but back then I was stronger. This time I feel nervous. My skin prickles
at the slightest noise.

  And as I step through the chaos of the clinic I feel something depart. I can’t do this anymore.

  Yet I swallow my fear and go through the motions. I follow the young medic, who introduces himself as Halil, around the clinic and listen as he tells me what has happened.

  We stop at a rickety stretcher where a young woman is lying motionless. She is barely out of her teens and she stares at the ceiling, her mouth wide open, while Halil fixes a tourniquet to the remains of her arm. I kneel down beside her, my heart pounding in my chest. I know there are no painkillers and that she will be in agony. I stroke her arm and as she turns her face to me I think of Hannah. She was close to this girl’s age when I last saw her. And as I sit looking at the broken body of the young woman a searing sensation rips through my own, a memory of an old wound that I had inflicted but never tried to heal.

  It happened on Hannah’s tenth birthday. I had just returned from Gaza, where I had reported on the bombing of a school where hundreds of children had been killed. The experience of walking through mounds of mutilated bodies had affected me greatly and I remember thinking how lucky we were in the West, how chance dictated that some children were born into peace while others were born into conflict. Three days after I returned I was invited to Hannah’s birthday party and the little girl delighted in showing me her new doll. I have no idea what came over me, but seeing Hannah in her sparkly new dress with all her presents made me see red. I grabbed the doll and twisted its head off. “Come on, Hannah,” I shouted as I threw the doll at her. “Let’s play Gaza.” I will never forget the look of fear and confusion on her face as she stood there above the remains of her doll. My mother and Sally were furious but they soon forgot it. Hannah, though, never forgot, and after that whenever she saw me, she flinched.

  I blink away the memory and ask the girl her name. She looks at me blankly, her eyes cloudy with pain.

  “She is Amira,” says Halil. “Her house was hit while she and her family were sleeping. Her baby was blown from her arms and her little son also died.”

  I turn to the girl. She seems so young and yet she has been a mother. I look at her missing arm and imagine the baby that once lay there; one minute warm and safe and suckling its mother, the next obliterated. The young woman closes her eyes and turns away, and as Halil guides me to another bed all I can see is Hannah and her broken doll and I know that it has happened; I have finally lost my nerve.

  I GOT BACK to my tent an hour ago but I couldn’t rest. All I could think about was that girl and her missing baby. My heart was thudding and it felt like I was going to collapse. I needed air. So I put my knapsack on my back and walked.

  I’m sitting outside now, watching the stars come out. It’s quiet here away from the groans of the patients. My mind drifts to Paul and Sally back in Herne Bay. I wonder how they are. Paul will be worrying about Sally; I know he will. I wish she would do the right thing and stop drinking. I also think of my own demons. Coming back here has convinced me that I need to face up to my problem.

  When I got back to London I assured Harry that I would talk to the company’s occupational therapist as soon as I returned from Syria. He was dubious about letting me come out here but he knows I’m the only one who can get close to what is happening. My reports sell papers and that is enough for Harry. But perhaps I will see someone when I get back, I think to myself. Perhaps it’s time.

  It’s getting cold. I grab my knapsack and open it up, taking out the first item at hand, a thick woolen sweater. I pull it over my head but as I put my arm into the sleeve I feel something hard. I push my hand out and a slim black object drops onto the ground.

  I stoop to pick it up and shake my head as I turn it over in my hands. Mum’s tape recorder. Paul must have packed it thinking it was mine. I push the knapsack to one side and sit back on the grass. If it still works I can hear her one last time, my lovely mum. I curl up on my side and fiddle around with the buttons. It’s an older model than mine and it takes me a while to get it going, but finally I hear a hiss and then the unmistakable tones of my mother:

  “Testing. Testing. That’s what they say, isn’t it? I’m meant to speak into this thing cos I keep forgetting where I left my glasses. Kate says I’m going to get through a whole rain forest of Post-it notes if I’m not careful so she’s bought me this nice new thingy. Though I told her not to bother. I’m too old for all this new-fangled nonsense.”

  I smile as her voice drifts through the dusty air. She’s come back for me just when I need her most. My eyes well up with tears as she carries on talking about what she needs to get from the supermarket and the Christmas bin collection dates. Silly little trivial things, but hearing her talk about them makes me feel safe. Then she stops and there is a long pause. I fast-forward and hear her voice again.

  “. . . the house next door.”

  I rewind a bit and wait for her to start up again.

  “I’m telling this to you because I know they’ll all think I’m barmy but I’ve seen him twice now and he was as clear as the nose on my face.”

  Her voice is serious and I stand up and increase the volume, my heart thudding in my chest as she continues.

  “There’s a little lad. Tiny little thing, can’t be much more than three or four, in the house next door . . .”

  It’s the last thing I hear as a shaft of bright white light blinds me and I’m flung to the ground. I hear the familiar tap, tapping of an approaching shell. I cover my face and close my eyes, then all is black.

  PART TWO

  28

  Herne Bay

  Tuesday, May 5, 2015

  Someone is shining a light in my face. I squint and try to remember where I am. When I come to I see a man standing in front of me. From this angle he looks like a giant with great big hairy arms folded across his chest. But as my eyes focus I see that it is just Paul. My husband. And the light is the light of early morning, coming through the conservatory window.

  “What do you want?” I mutter as I lie back into the folds of the armchair. My mouth is dry and my head hurts when I speak.

  “Sally, I need to talk to you,” he says. His voice is low and serious.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  I squint. The sunlight pouring through the window is making my head throb. I can still taste last night’s wine and if I move I will throw up. I close my eyes and try to pretend he’s not here. Why is he standing over me like this? He knows not to come in here; this is my space. I just want to go back to sleep.

  “Sally, please,” he says. “You need to wake up. We’ve had some bad news.”

  I open my eyes and look at him. He’s been crying. I go cold. It’s her.

  “Hannah,” I whisper. “Is it Hannah?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No, it’s not Hannah.”

  Thank God, I think to myself, as I sink back into the chair. If it’s not Hannah, then I don’t care what he has to say. But he’s still there. I can feel him looming above me.

  “What is it?” I say. “Just tell me.”

  He sits down on the edge of the table and puts his head in his hands.

  “Paul, for God’s sake tell me.”

  “It’s Kate,” he says, looking up.

  “Oh, what’s she done now?” I say, looking around the room for the wine. I need a quick drink just to take the edge off. “Got herself kidnapped?”

  I can’t see the wine. I must have finished it last night. I stand up and head for the door.

  “Sit down,” says Paul, putting his hand on my arm. “This is serious.”

  I look at him. His face is deathly pale.

  “Look, whatever this is,” I say as I sit back down, “Kate will be fine. She can look after herself. Always has done.”

  “Sally, listen to me.”

  “She was only here a little while ago, she seemed fine.”

  My hands start shaking. I need a drink.

  “Come on, love,” he says, leaning forw
ard and taking my hands. “Just let me speak.”

  “I’m not interested,” I snap, pushing his hands away. “Kate can look after herself.”

  What does he think he’s playing at, coming in here at this time of the morning wanting to have serious conversations when I haven’t even had a drink?

  I push past him and head into the living room, but as I get to the door I feel his hands on my shoulders.

  “Sit down,” he says, guiding me toward the sofa.

  “Get your hands off me,” I shout. “I told you I’m not interested in Kate or whatever trouble she’s got herself into. Get out of my way.”

  “Sally, stop,” he says firmly.

  “No, I won’t,” I reply, struggling against him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

  “Jesus Christ, will you just listen, you stupid woman,” he yells, gripping me hard with both hands. “She’s dead. Your sister is dead.”

  Everything goes black and I slump to the floor.

  “I’m sorry, love,” he’s saying. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you this way, but you just wouldn’t listen.”

  Paul picks me up gently and settles me on the sofa.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water,” he says as he plumps up the cushions behind my head.

  “No,” I cry. “I don’t want water.”

  He sits down next to me and holds my hand.

  “The first I knew about it was last night,” he says. “I was driving home with the radio on and there was a report saying that a makeshift hospital had been bombed in Syria.”

  “Shut up,” I whisper, but he carries on talking.

  “I took notice,” he says. “Because it was in Aleppo and I knew she was going back there.”

  “Just shut up.” I dig my nails into his hand but he doesn’t pull away. He just keeps talking.

  “I put the TV on this morning,” he says, rubbing my hand. “And her photo came on the screen. The camp she was in was hit, Sal. There were no survivors.”

  “I said shut up,” I yell, pushing his hands away. “You’re wrong, you bloody idiot. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I pummel his chest with my fists and he just stands there and lets me hit him, again and again. I carry on pounding his chest until I have no energy left and I collapse in a heap at his feet.