My Sister's Bones

by Nuala Ellwood

  It would be so easy to slip away, to say that’s it. I think of the many ways you could do it: a couple of bottles of champagne and a fistful of pills; a sleek pistol edged in gold leaf like a baddie in a James Bond film—both too glamorous for me, of course. Perhaps a luxuriously hot bath and a sharpened knife. I look at the bulbous blue veins that snake along my wrists and imagine myself slicing through them.

  I shudder as I look up at the sky. The night is thick and heavy and I wish for the light to come and take away these thoughts. I stand up, suddenly desperate for a drink. I flick a wood louse from my lap. My legs feel like lead as I make my way to the conservatory door and I know that I’m only going to make myself feel worse, but I need it. It’s the only way I can deal with this pain.

  I tiptoe across the room and grab the wine bottle from my new hiding place, an old holdall that I’ve kept hidden under my armchair. Paul hates coming in here so there’s no danger of him finding it. I managed to sneak out of the house when he’d gone to sleep last night. I went to the all-night petrol station around the corner and bought a couple of bottles. He was still asleep when I got back, thank God.

  I come back outside just as the sun breaks on the horizon. I’m desperately tired but I know what will come if I go to bed. She’ll come; with her dead eyes watching me. I won’t risk it. So instead, I sit down and drink.

  I’m at the bottom of the bottle when I see it: a tiny mound of white on the grass that, as I look closer, turns into a living creature.

  “Oh no.” I sigh as I stand up and go to it. “Please, no. I don’t need this.”

  The sea gull doesn’t move and I assume it must be dead. Its eyes are cloudy, its beak partially open. But as I crouch down to take a closer look it makes a gut-wrenching sound. Not a cry but a sob; this bird is coughing up its death rattle. I can’t bear it.

  I hear Hannah’s voice in my head.

  “Mummy, we need to help him.”

  But he’s past help now, I think, as I step over him and walk to the kitchen. From the door I can still hear it: creee-oo, creeee-oo. It’s a pathetic sound, like a baby crying for its mum, and I know that I will have to do something. It could take hours to die.

  So I go to the cupboard and take out the heaviest object in the house: the rolling pin. I think of my dad threatening Kate with Mum’s rolling pin as I wrap my hand around its rough surface. I remember Kate’s words in an article I read years later: Give someone a weapon and they become a warrior. “Give me strength, Kate,” I whisper as I return to the garden.

  The bird doesn’t move as I step toward it and I pray that it’s dead, that I won’t have to do this, but as I bend down to check, it flinches and starts crying again. It sounds like it’s coming from beneath the bird, somewhere deeper and darker. It’s creeping me out. It almost sounds like a child.

  “Don’t look at it,” I tell myself as I raise the rolling pin above my head. I want to close my eyes but I know that I mustn’t or I risk missing the target and causing it more pain. No, I need to get it over with in one clean blow. But my hands are shaking as I bring the pin down and although I feel the crack of bones, I miss its head. The bird flounders and starts to walk away, dazed. I chase it, raining down blows again and again until the path is strewn with feathers and deep-red blood. With each strike the bird cries out and I want to block my ears but I can’t. The sound reverberates through my body as I finally manage to smash its skull and it comes to rest in a heap by the side of my foot.

  I stand there for a few moments, the bloodied rolling pin still raised above my head, and I look at the remains of the bird. Its pink eyes are now black with blood. I don’t want to look at them anymore. I just want this to be over.

  I pick it up, the sharp needles of its broken wing pressing against my skin, and I slowly walk to the flower bed. Placing the bird by the side of the grass, I begin to shovel the soil with my hands. He needs a peaceful resting place, I tell myself, as the soil becomes damp under my fingertips. That’s what Hannah would want. I dig and dig, deeper and deeper, through tangled roots, disturbing worms as I go, and then my hand catches on something hard.

  I look down and see a sliver of gold. Brushing away the roots and soil, I pull at the sparkly thing until it yields and then I sit holding it in my hands. My heart hurts as I remember picking out the slim-line gold watch for Hannah’s sixteenth birthday. I turn it over and read the inscription on the inside of the strap:

  To our beautiful girl on her 16th birthday. Love you always, Mum and Paul xxx

  How did it end up here? Did she throw it away to punish me? But then as I sit rubbing my fingers over the cracked face I hear her voice.

  Just let me go, Mum. You’re hurting me.

  She was going to leave me. I was angry. I’d found an Internet search on her computer. She’d been trying to get back in touch with her real dad, the little shit who got me pregnant when we were both fourteen. I told her he wasn’t interested, told her that his parents had moved away when they found out about the baby and told me to leave him alone. I told her that in sixteen years he’d never once tried to get in touch. I told her that Paul was her dad, that there was nothing to be gained from raking over the past, but she wouldn’t listen.

  Just let me go, Mum.

  Until now those words have been the last thing I could remember from that night, the night she left. But as I sit here, her voice ringing in my ears, I see something more. I see her standing at the door. She’s telling me I’m a drunk. I run at her, grabbing her wrists to pull her back inside.

  “Just let me go, Mum.”

  I pull and pull at her; tell her she’s not going to leave me, that I won’t let her. She’s all I have. And then there’s a bang. A door slamming? Me falling over? I’m holding her watch in my hand. I have Hannah’s watch, but she’s gone. What happened? I can’t remember. I don’t know if I want to remember.

  I look down at the watch with its rusty strap and broken face and my stomach knots. Paul can’t see this watch. He already thinks it’s odd that I don’t remember anything about Hannah leaving and he knows things were volatile between us. If he finds this watch he’ll know by my face that something went on and then I’ll have to tell him. I’m a terrible liar. And once he knows we fought that night he’ll blame me for her leaving and I can’t bear that. I have to get rid of it.

  So I place it back in the hole I’ve dug and put the dead bird on top, folding its wing over its blackened eyes, then I cover them both with mound upon mound of earth until all that remains is a brown patch, an unremarkable square of soil in an unremarkable garden. Nobody would know, I tell myself as I stumble back to the house and make for my wine stash. Nobody would know.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU done?”

  His voice sounds like it’s coming from a great distance but I feel his hands gripping me as he hauls me up to my feet. I try to open my eyes but I can’t; they’re too heavy with sleep.

  “What’s this all over you? Is it blood? What the hell . . . What have you done to yourself?” He puts his hand on the base of my back and guides me across the room.

  I hear running water, then the shock of heat on my skin.

  “There, it’s coming away,” he says, and I feel his skin rubbing against the flesh of my hands. “Where’ve you hurt yourself? Honestly, I can’t leave you for a minute, can I?”

  The water stops and I half open my eyes but they burn with the light. I feel his arms clasped around my waist and a surge of warmth through my body.

  The bed is soft and I fall into it like a stone. I feel him behind me. I hear his breath grow shallow and then his hands are on my breasts. He’s moving against me like he used to. It feels wonderful to be close to him again. I arch my back and he eases himself inside me. “Sally,” he moans and as we begin to make love my eyes fill with tears. I’ve missed him so much.

  32

  Paul is gone when I wake though I can still trace the shape of his body on the bed where he lay beside me.

  Why do my hands hurt? I lift the
m in front of my face and see a pattern of scratches. Grains of black dirt edge my fingernails.

  Panic rises inside me. What happened last night?

  I pull on my jeans and a sweater and run down the stairs, calling his name as I go, but there is no reply.

  “Paul!”

  I stumble into the kitchen. Nothing. I see his empty mug sitting in the sink. I slump across the counter and try to clear my head so I can work out what to do next. But it’s so jumbled all I can see are broken images that don’t fit together: Paul lying beside me on the bed; my fingers digging through soil. Why was I digging?

  Then suddenly I’m back there. I’m standing in the garden looking down and my heart jerks so fiercely it feels as if it’s coming out of my chest. Bones, a string of them, tiny and intricate, rippling across the top of the soil, and a flash of gold. I can see it now but I don’t want to see it. I blink my eyes to make the image go away but it stays there like a stain growing darker each time I close my eyes. I’m remembering but it’s coming to me in pieces. A loud crack and a screeching noise. Hannah. Just let me go, Mum.

  Am I going mad?

  I need Paul.

  I run out of the kitchen and go from room to room shouting for him but there is no reply. I need him to come and get me out of here, to rescue me and take me away. He thinks I’m losing it but he can’t abandon me. I won’t let him. I’ll make it up to him. We can try again; book a nice holiday to Spain or somewhere, just the two of us. We can get away from everything and have a bit of peace and quiet. That will be nice. And the thought of it makes me feel calm where just moments ago I was all panicky. See, if I just keep focused and think good thoughts, then it will be all right.

  I walk back into the kitchen and as I go to the sink to fill the kettle I see him out of the window. He is there, standing, looking at the flower bed. Relief floods through my body, but then I remember the gold watch and I run to the door.

  “Paul!” I yell. “Come inside.”

  He looks up at me, then back at the flower bed and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  “Paul, please.”

  He puts his head down and shuffles toward me.

  “What’s going on, Sally?” He looks strange. Is he angry?

  I try to peer around him, but the soil looks undisturbed.

  “It was a bird,” I say, looking around as though it might pop out at any moment. “A sea gull. Its wing was all mangled and I had to put it out of its misery. I buried it.”

  “I thought it must have been something like that,” he says. “I found the rolling pin just over there. It had loads of tiny bones on it.”

  “Oh no,” I gasp, putting my hands over my face. “Oh, please don’t say that. I can’t believe I did it but it was making the most dreadful noise and its wing was all broken and I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Come on, love,” he says. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. Let’s go inside and sit down.”

  He walks on ahead and I follow in a daze, trying not to think of Hannah and her rescue missions. All those tiny bones.

  “You go in the living room and I’ll make us a drink,” he says, reaching up to the cupboard and taking down two mugs. “Tea or coffee?”

  I would give anything for a glass of wine but I don’t want to give away my secret stash.

  “Tea would be lovely,” I reply. “Make it strong.”

  I go into the living room and turn on the light. I see a pile of papers on the coffee table, Paul’s work, and I feel bad that he has missed another day at the office on my account.

  “Here we are,” he says, coming in with a mug of tea.

  “Thanks, Paul,” I say as he puts it on the table in front of me.

  He sits down and sips his tea while I wait for mine to cool down. Neither of us speaks, and the quiet makes me feel nervous. The bird is back. It’s flying around the ceiling, making me feel dizzy. Around and around it goes, its cold dead eyes boring into me until I can’t stand it any longer. I get up and grab the remote control from the shelf, then switch on the TV.

  “Sally, do you have to?”

  I ignore Paul’s protests as I sit back down in the armchair and stare at the screen. TV has a soothing effect on me when I feel like this, when the nerves spike up on the surface of my skin like tiny knives. It always has. When I was a kid I would drown out my parents’ shouting by staring at the television. In my favorite program the towns were green and sunny, everyone was happy and safe, nobody shouted or argued. If I put my hands over my ears I could pretend I lived there too. I was such a scared little girl but I knew that in the hours between three thirty and five in the afternoon—children’s telly time—no one could hurt me.

  I turn the volume up as the local news bulletin starts.

  “Sally?”

  “Blimey, he’s been presenting this show since I was a kid,” I say, pointing at the lizard-skinned anchorman. “Donkey’s years. Surprised he hasn’t been pensioned off.”

  “Can we at least turn it down?” says Paul, reaching for the remote control that is still within my grip. “I can’t hear myself think.”

  “No,” I say, holding it to my chest as the image on the screen changes. “I want to hear this. He’s talking about Kate.”

  The presenter is saying that she grew up in the area and attended the local school.

  “Oh, Kate would love this,” I say. “She bloody hated Herne Bay Comp.”

  “As far as we know, Kate Rafter is missing presumed dead,” he goes on.

  I lean forward in my chair.

  “See?” I say to Paul, pointing at the screen. “He’s saying it as well: missing. I told you. There’s still a chance.”

  “Sally, he said missing presumed dead. They—”

  “Shhh,” I hiss as they cut to a scene from the place where it happened: a field full of tents and body bags.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp. “Look at that.”

  “Sally, turn it off,” says Paul. “This isn’t going to help.”

  The lizardy presenter is back. His face is gray and serious as he tells us that Kate’s friends and colleagues are holding a vigil in some church in London. St. Bride’s in Fleet Street. Then he smiles and hands over to Christine for the weather.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, jumping to my feet.

  “Go where?”

  Paul grabs the remote control and turns the television off just as Christine is warning of strong westerly winds.

  “Sally, breathe,” he says. “You need to slow down or you’ll have a panic attack.”

  I pat my pockets, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. Keys. I always used to have car keys in my pocket though that’s another thing I’ve lost.

  “Stop,” says Paul, grabbing hold of my arms. “Come on, love, just sit down and I’ll make us another cup of tea.”

  “I don’t want another cup of tea,” I tell him as I rush into the hallway to get my shoes. “I need to go to London. They’re having a vigil; he just said that. I’ll have to check the train times but they’re pretty regular, aren’t they?”

  “Sally,” he yells. “For God’s sake, stop it.”

  He’s in front of me now, holding my arms with both his hands.

  “You have got to calm down or you’re going to make yourself ill,” he says. “Nobody is going to London. Okay? Nobody. You need to rest and let yourself grieve properly. You’ve had a huge shock and barely any sleep. I mean, for Christ’s sake, you spent most of last night digging up the garden.”

  “But he said—”

  “Listen, it’s okay,” says Paul as he takes me in his arms. “The vigil isn’t for another two days. If you promise me you’ll get some sleep and eat some proper food, then I’ll take you to it. Now let’s get you back to bed. You need to rest.”

  But as I settle between the sheets and close my eyes all I can see is the bird. It presses its beak against my ear and whispers with Hannah’s voice:

  Just let me go, Mum.

  33

  I ca
n smell burned toast and my stomach lurches as I turn over in the bed. The streetlight filters through the white linen curtains and I can see the shadow of a bird sitting on the ledge, its beak opening and closing.

  Just let me go, Mum.

  I pull the covers over my head, willing myself to go back to sleep. But then the door opens.

  “Hi, love,” he says. “You must have needed that sleep. It’s almost evening.”

  He taps me gently on the back but I stay curled up in my cocoon.

  “Sally,” he says. “Wake up, love. I’ve brought you some food.”

  “I don’t want anything,” I mumble. I need to think. To plan what to do. How to get to Kate.

  “Look, you’ve got to eat or you’ll get ill,” he urges. “It’s just a bit of toast. You’ve had no lunch. Please, Sally.”

  I yank the covers from my head and glare at him.

  “Fine,” I snap. “Just leave it on the side.”

  He puts it on top of the chest of drawers and looks at me anxiously.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” he says. “I’m cooking us something nice for dinner. Call me if you need me.”

  I watch as he steps out onto the landing and closes the door, thankful that he has gone. There was a time when Paul’s caring nature was a balm to me; now it feels like a straitjacket. I know I should be kinder to him. He saved me. He saved both of us.

  I sit up in the bed and open the top drawer of the bedside table. There, underneath a pile of old bank statements, is a silver-embossed photo album.

  Our wedding album.

  I pause for a second, then open it. The first photo is a black-and-white shot of the three of us. Paul looks handsome in his navy suit and the pink spotty tie Hannah bought him as a wedding present. I’ve got a glass of champagne in my hand and I’m presentable but chubby in my ivory trouser suit. Hannah stands between us in the pistachio green bridesmaid dress she picked out a couple of weeks earlier in a little vintage shop in Whitstable. She beams at the camera and I feel a pang of guilt. She was so happy to finally have a dad. And not just any dad but a warm, loving one who helped her with her homework and took her swimming. As I stare at the photo I see that it’s Paul that she is cuddling into, not me. I’m just standing there with my drink, lost in my own world.