Paul was my route into normality. He took Hannah and me away from that house, away from Mum and her endless criticism, and he gave us a new life, one with holidays and fitted kitchens and barbecues on Sundays. It was perfect. But then it all went wrong.
I close the album and put it back into the drawer, but as I lie down and shut my eyes Hannah’s face is there in front of me, twisted with rage.
“I hate you!” she yells at me. “You have no idea what it’s like living with a drunk. A pisshead.”
And I want to grab her, sit her down, and tell her that I do know what it’s like, that my dad was a drunk and that my childhood had been a battleground that nobody came through unscathed.
It started slowly, the rift between Hannah and me, and then like a disease it just spread and spread until it destroyed us. As I lie here I try to pinpoint when it all started. Was it her fourteenth birthday when she went out with her mates instead of coming to Alfredo’s with me and Paul? It sounds daft but Alfredo’s was a family tradition. It was an Italian restaurant in Whitstable and I’d taken her there on her birthday since she was a little kid. And it hurt when she said she’d grown out of all that; it really did. Paul didn’t understand why I was so upset; he said it was only natural, that she was growing up, asserting her independence. I had no choice. So I spent the evening of her birthday sitting in front of the TV with Paul, thinking about the cake that was waiting for her in the kitchen. But when she came home she said she was too tired to blow out candles and, anyway, all that stuff was for kids.
And so it grew and grew, the divide between us. Hannah would stay out with her mates most nights; Paul had set up his new haulage business and was working late shifts to get it up and running. So that left me stuck in by myself with just the TV and my memories for company. There were no more family barbecues, no laughter, just a big empty house. Wine helped fill the gap, it soothed the loneliness and stopped me thinking about the past. I didn’t know how much I was depending on it until it was too late.
Getting sacked from my job at the bank should have been a wake-up call but I just saw it as an opportunity to lock myself away and drink more. Paul was there but we were like strangers passing each other on the stairs. We were no longer intimate; all the comfort and love I needed came at the bottom of a glass. Hannah would come home from school and I would try to act sober, fuss around her, make the dinner, but she wasn’t stupid and we’d end up having silly arguments over nothing. In the end she would avoid dinner altogether and come down later when she thought I’d be asleep.
After she left I started to think back to those days, tried to work out if I’d missed something. Her moods changed dramatically, I know that much. Paul said it was probably hormones but I suspected she was taking drugs. She became withdrawn and secretive. She stopped going out and started locking herself in her room for hours on end. But now I wonder if it wasn’t drugs—what if it was just me?
I found the Internet searches one night a few months later. She’d Googled him. His name was Frankie Echevarria. Kate said it sounded like “itch of your rear.” That always made me laugh. But the fact that it was an unusual name made the search a bit easier. Hannah had found out that he was a teacher now and living in Brighton. He had a family of his own; he was settled.
I didn’t want her to get hurt, so I tried to stop her.
“He won’t want you contacting him out of the blue,” I told her. “Just leave it alone.”
“He’s my father,” she yelled at me. “I need him.”
“You don’t need him,” I yelled back. “You’ve got me and Paul.”
“I don’t want you. I want a proper parent.”
And she looked at me so defiantly that something inside me snapped.
My words come back to me now. “That man didn’t give a damn about me and he certainly didn’t give a damn about you. He wanted me to get rid of you. And I told him that I’d never do that. I told him to leave me alone and I’d deal with our mistake.”
Why did I say that word? I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth, but it was too late.
“Mistake?” she said. Her voice was so bitter it scared me. “Is that what I am? A mistake. Jesus, Mother, you really are something, aren’t you?”
I turn on my side and look out of the window. I can smell garlic coming from downstairs. Paul will be cooking another meal that I won’t eat. We’ll sit in front of the telly and then I’ll come back up here, try to sleep, then it will start all over again. Another empty day. But as I lie here I see Kate’s body lying in some morgue in a foreign country. I’ve got to face the truth. My sister is not missing, she’s dead and she needs a proper burial. I jump up from the bed. I might have let Hannah down but I still have a chance to do the right thing by Kate, give her a decent send-off. As I pull on my dressing gown and go to the bathroom, my head feels a little clearer.
It’s time to bring her home.
34
Paul looks shocked when I walk into the kitchen. I’ve washed my hair, changed into some clean clothes, and I now smell of lavender instead of sweat and booze.
“Hello, love,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve come down. I’ve made a lasagne. Would you like some?”
“Just a little bit,” I say, pulling out a chair to sit down.
“I bet you feel better for having a bath,” he says as he flits about getting plates and cutlery together.
“I feel clean, not better,” I reply. I’ve only been in the room for a couple of minutes and already he’s making me feel tense.
“Clean is a good start,” he says, putting a plate in front of me. “Can I get you a drink?”
I look up quickly but he’s offering fizzy water, not Chardonnay. I nod my head and he pours it into my glass.
“I wanted to discuss Kate’s body,” I say as he sits down in the chair opposite me. “What do we need to do to get it back?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “There’ll be a repatriation process to go through and that could take weeks. If they find her body, that is.”
“They haven’t found her body?” I say, sitting up in my chair. “So there is still a chance she could be alive?”
“Sally,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. He always does this if I raise my voice even slightly. “She’s not alive.”
“How do you know?” I cry, pushing his hand away. “She could be out there, injured, in need of help, and we’re sitting here eating bloody lasagne.”
“There were no survivors,” he says. “The place they were staying in took a direct hit. When they say missing . . . well, I didn’t want to go into detail because it’s not something you want to hear.”
“You didn’t want to go into detail?” I cry. “I’m not a bloody child, Paul. Of course I want to know what happened to my sister. Stop pussyfooting around and just tell me.”
He puts his fork down and sighs.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes,” I reply, my stomach churning.
“Well,” he says. “The MoD said that the explosion was so huge a lot of the bodies would have been . . . obliterated.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there may not be a body to bring back.”
His words are like bullets tearing into my skin. My sister, my beautiful, brave sister. I try to imagine her final moments and hope it was quick, that she didn’t suffer.
“So we can’t give her a funeral?” I say as I sit watching Paul spoon a heap of meaty stodge onto my plate. “We just have to leave her out there in . . . in bits?”
He puts the spoon down and rubs my arm again.
“You’ll have your memories,” he says. “She’ll always be alive up here.” He taps his forehead and smiles and it’s such a stupid, patronizing smile, I want to rip it from his face.
“You have no idea, you idiot,” I yell as I jump up from the table and run up the stairs. “No idea at all.”
I’m back o
n the bed, lying in the darkness and thinking of Kate’s blasted body, when he comes in and turns on the light.
“You know something, Sally, I’m getting a bit sick of this,” he says, sitting down heavily on the bed.
“Oh, will you please just go away,” I say.
“No, I will not just go away,” he shouts, grabbing my wrist. He is squeezing tightly and it hurts. “I’m not some pest you can just click your fingers at and make disappear.”
“Paul, stop it, you’re hurting me,” I say, pulling my arm free.
I look at him. I hardly ever see him angry like this. His face is contorted, his nostrils flaring.
“Look, I know you’re upset,” he says. “But I’m sick of having to hold your hand through everything. I wanted a wife, not a bloody patient.”
“My sister’s just died,” I say, covering my face with my hands.
“Yes,” he shouts. “Your sister. A woman you cut out of your life because she said something you didn’t want to hear. That’s what you do to everyone, Sally. If you don’t like what they have to say you push them away.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
Why does he always take Kate’s side? Years ago I told him what she’d done and he still made excuses for her, said it was probably an accident. I’d felt guilty for telling him but I had to; I was sick of him talking about her like she was some saint. But it made no difference.
“It is true,” he goes on. “Kate and I became close when she came back here. She was devastated, in a real state over the death of a little boy out in Syria. But you’d know nothing about that, would you? As you told me when we first met, you were sick to death of hearing about Kate’s wonderful job. You were so jealous of her it was eating you up inside.”
I burrow my face into the pillow but he pulls my head up.
“Don’t ignore me,” he spits. “I’ve had years of that, of being ignored and treated like a bloody doormat. No, you’re going to listen to this. For once in your life you’re going to face up to things instead of running away.”
I sit up in the bed and look at him.
“Kate told me things,” he continues. “Like how your old man used to knock her about. No kid should have to put up with that.”
My body freezes when he mentions my father and suddenly the room is full of him.
She’s dangerous, Sally . . .
I put my hands over my ears but Paul yanks them away.
“No!” he yells. “You’re not taking the easy route like you always do. Kate was worried sick about you, she tried to help you even though she was battling her own issues.”
I shake my head. My eyes are heavy with tears and I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
“She was in a really bad way,” says Paul. “What happened in Syria had seriously affected her. She was having nightmares, hearing voices, seeing things.”
“What do you mean, seeing things?”
“She said she could see a kid in the garden next door,” he says. “There are no kids living next door. Then I found sleeping pills in her bag, loads of them, super strength they were as well. She was taking handfuls of them every night. And she was drinking. Lots.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Because I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Didn’t want to worry me?” I shout. “She’s my sister, for God’s sake.”
“Okay, I’ll be blunt, shall I?” he says. “You were drunk and sitting about in your own filth and even if I had told you, what help would you have been? Kate was losing her mind and I had to deal with it all by myself while you sat in here drinking yourself stupid.”
“She wasn’t losing her mind, don’t be ridiculous.”
“That’s not what the police said.”
“The police?” My head is spinning as I try to take it all in.
“She was arrested,” he says, his voice quivering. “She’d had a set-to with the neighbors. Accusing them of things. Then she broke into their shed in the middle of the night and they called the police. I’ve never seen her in such a state—she was completely delirious. The police psychiatrist interviewed her. Said she’s got PTSD. You know, like soldiers get.”
“What was she accusing them of?”
“Oh, something about a child. I’m sure it’s to do with what happened to that boy in Aleppo—”
“Hang on,” I say. “You said you’d never seen her in such a state before. Were you with her when she broke into the shed?”
His face flushes and he turns to the window.
“I’d popped in to see if she was all right.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“I was on my way back from a late one at the office,” he says brusquely. “Listen, that’s not the point. What matters is that your sister was arrested, she was detained under the bloody Mental Health Act, and I was the one who had to deal with it.”
Nothing about this makes sense and Paul is talking so fast it’s hard to keep up.
“Kate has a mental illness?” I exclaim. “That’s not possible.”
But then I hear my father’s words again: She’s dangerous, Sally.
“You didn’t see her,” Paul says. “She was like a madwoman. The neighbors were terrified. She tried to attack one of them.”
“But when she came to see me, she was fine,” I say. “I would have noticed if she was behaving strangely.”
“Would you?” He lets out a sound that falls between a laugh and a sigh. “Would you really? Honestly, Sally, you’re so wrapped up in your own world. You only see what you want to see, what suits you.”
“I know my sister,” I reply, but even as the words come out I know they’re not true. I have no idea who Kate really is. Was.
Another scrap of that last phone call comes back to me. Kate’s voice, pleading: I’m calling to ask you a favor.
“They dropped the charges, thank goodness,” says Paul. “But on the condition that Kate leave Herne Bay. They made it clear they’d take out a restraining order against her if she went near the house again.”
I think of the way Kate used to rage against my father, how she would fight back, her eyes bulging, her fists raised.
“When she was released I picked her up and gave her a lift to the train station,” Paul goes on, drumming his fingers on the window ledge. I hate it when he does this. It sets my nerves on edge. “And that was the last time I saw her. So you see, when you say I have no idea, you’re very wrong. I saw Kate deteriorate right in front of my eyes, just like I saw Hannah fall apart.”
“Don’t compare Hannah to Kate,” I yell. “Hannah didn’t fall apart. She was a troubled teenager. Like you said, she was finding her way.”
“Oh Jesus, Sally, you really are unbelievable,” he shouts, slamming his fist on the window ledge. “I said that to be kind, so I didn’t upset you. Now I wish I’d just been honest and straight with you, then maybe Hannah would still be here.”
“Why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m shouting because I’ve had it up to here with you,” he says. “I’ve cosseted and protected you ever since we met, even to the detriment of your own daughter. And I was a fool because you’re right, you’re not a child, you’re a grown woman and you needed to know the truth.”
His hands are shaking and it’s scaring me.
“What truth?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“When we first met, Hannah was so terrified of you, she was wetting the bed almost every night,” he says, his voice ice cold. “But instead of telling you I covered it up, to protect you.”
“Paul, you’re talking nonsense,” I say. “Hannah never wet the bed, even when she was a toddler. She was potty trained at eighteen months and after that she was meticulous about going to the loo. If she’d started wetting the bed at the age of thirteen I would have known.”
“Well, you didn’t,” he says. “The poor kid begged me not to tell you. She was terrified of what you might do. By the time you’d woken up
with your hangover I’d already changed the sheets.”
“Oh, come off it, Paul,” I say. “I know Hannah and I had our differences but that came later, when she was well into her teens. She wasn’t scared of me. That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, really?” he says. “You know she told me once that when she was five you left her in a pub garden while you got pissed at the bar. I mean, what kind of mother does that?”
My cheeks burn at the memory.
“That was a one-off,” I say. “It was the anniversary of my dad’s death and I was in a bad state. It was wrong, I know it was, but it didn’t happen again.”
“As I said, Sally, you only see what you want to see,” he says. “How about your mother, eh? What was the name of the care home I found for her, the one she died in?”
My head is a fog. Why is he bombarding me like this?
“Erm, it was Hill something,” I stutter. “Hill View?”
“Nice try,” he sneers. “It was Willow Grange. I know that because I found it, I paid for it, and I visited her there twice a week. When did you visit her, Sally? Oh, that’s right, you didn’t.”
“My mother and I had a difficult relationship,” I say.
“You’ve had a difficult relationship with everyone,” he yells. “This is what is so exasperating. You blame everyone else but you’re the one who causes all the bad blood. You didn’t get on with your mum, you didn’t get on with Kate, you didn’t get on with Hannah, you can barely look at me. The only person you ever seem to have liked is your bloody father and he was a drunken mess. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
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