My Sister's Bones

by Nuala Ellwood

  “No,” I cry as I leap from the bed and run at him, my fingernails clawing into his face. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

  He grabs my wrists and holds them tightly, and when my anger subsides I see the blood streaming down his face.

  “That’s it,” he says, his voice quivering. “I’m done with you.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” I sob as he lets go of my wrists and storms to the door. “I’m sorry, Paul. Please don’t leave me, we can sort this out, please.”

  “It’s too late, Sally,” he says, wiping the blood from his face. “It’s over.”

  35

  I can’t do this anymore. Paul is gone. Without him I have nothing, just a big empty house. It’s time to leave. The wine will numb me, then I’ll finish it off with a handful of pills. Nice and clean.

  I lie back on the bed and dissolve into a white-wine haze. The Spar was just opening when I arrived and the woman shook her head as she rang through my three bottles of white.

  “Bit early, isn’t it?”

  Usually I give her some blather about having a dinner party later but this time I couldn’t be bothered making excuses. “Yes, it is a bit early,” I hissed as I handed over the cash, “but I’m giving you business so what’s your problem?” I could feel her eyes on me as I left the shop. I must have looked a state in my coat and slippers but I didn’t care. I’d never see her again.

  When I got home part of me hoped he would be there, standing in the kitchen with that look of disapproval on his face: “Wine, Sally, at this time of the morning? Honestly . . .” But the house was empty so I took a glass from the kitchen cupboard and made my way upstairs.

  I close my eyes and my head fills with his voice. He was so angry, so bitter. It was like he hated me.

  I do push people away. Paul was right about that. But if you spend your childhood desperately seeking your mother’s approval and never getting it you grow up feeling that you’re not worth anything. What’s the point of letting people in when they’re only going to hurt you?

  The love I felt for Hannah when she was born was so huge I felt like I would die, that my heart would burst, every time I looked at her. She was so tiny, so vulnerable, and I knew that it was beyond me. So I handed her over to Mum and let her do the things I could never do, like feeding the ducks and standing pushing a swing for hours on end without becoming frustrated. That’s why Hannah loved Mum so much, because she was solid, as mothers should be, where I was unpredictable, unstable. I cringe as I remember that day at the pub, her little face as I left her in the beer garden and headed inside to the bar. No child deserves a mother like me.

  And now the booze is all I have left.

  I drain the glass and pour another, then another, until the room becomes a pinkish blur. I close my eyes and the blackness feels so good I want to fall into it. As I lie back I see a tiny boy drifting out to sea. The waves crash over his head, then silence. It’s over. And I think how tempting it must be to just give up, to stop breathing and fall into a long deep sleep.

  It’s time.

  I reach over to the bedside table and take out a box of sleeping tablets. Drinking plays havoc with my sleep and when I wake up in the middle of the night a quick pill is the only thing to send me back off. Now if I just increase the dose I can curl up nice and cozy. I can go and find Kate and David and all this pain will stop.

  I puncture the foil and pop one in my mouth, washing it down with a mouthful of wine. There are eighteen pills left but I reckon half of that will do the trick. I push another one out of the foil but as I swallow it I hear knocking at the front door. It’s Paul. He’s come back. He’s changed his mind.

  I shove the pills back in the drawer and slam it shut.

  “Paul,” I call out as I run down the stairs. “I’m just coming.”

  But my heart sinks as I see the outline of a woman through the glass. It must be nosy Sandra from next door. She’s the only woman who knocks on our door and it’s usually because she’s got something to complain about.

  “What is it this time?” I sigh as I open the door.

  But it’s not Sandra. It’s a young woman. She looks Middle Eastern and is dressed in a beautiful blue dress and matching scarf.

  “Sally?” she says.

  When I hear her accent I assume she must be here about Kate. She must be from the consulate.

  “Have you come about my sister?”

  She nods her head.

  “You’d better come in then,” I say.

  My head is light with booze and the sleeping pills as I lead her inside. My stomach knots. I’m not prepared for this at all. She’s going to tell me about Kate’s death and I know it won’t be good. I take her into the kitchen and ask if she would like a cup of tea. I could do with a stiff drink but the way she’s dressed tells me she probably wouldn’t approve of that.

  “You must have come a long way,” I say as I fill the kettle.

  “No, not very far,” she says, looking around uncertainly.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” I say. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I watch as she sits down at the table. She is very nervous. Her face twitches every so often and I wonder if this is a result of living in Syria, some sort of shell shock.

  “Here you are,” I say, placing the mug of tea in front of her. “Sugar’s on the table if you want some.”

  “Thank you,” she says, but as she takes a sip her hands start shaking and the tea splatters down her front.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, putting the cup down. “Clumsy.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I reply, handing her a tea towel. “It was probably my fault. I overfilled it. I hope it hasn’t spoiled your nice dress.”

  She dabs at the damp stain, her hands still shaking, then she puts the towel on the table and cradles the half-empty cup.

  “So you knew my sister,” I say, sitting down next to her.

  “Yes, a little,” she says. “We only met a couple of times but she was very kind. She wanted to help me.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “That sounds like Kate,” I say as I take a sip of tea. “She wanted to help everybody. She was born that way.”

  “I was so sorry to hear of her death,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “It was a huge shock. You were out there too then, were you?”

  “Out where?”

  “In Syria,” I say. “You were with her?”

  “Oh no,” she says. “I’m not from Syria. I live in the house next door to your mother’s. My name’s Fida.”

  I put my cup down, my heart thudding.

  “Paul’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the one who had my sister arrested?”

  “Yes, but that was all a big mistake.”

  “A big mistake?” I spit. “As I understand it she was forced to leave Herne Bay because you called the police. If you hadn’t done that she wouldn’t have gone to Aleppo. She wouldn’t be dead.”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” she says, looking at me pleadingly. “If you’ll let me, I can explain.”

  “I don’t want you to explain,” I cry, my heart pounding. “It’s too late. My sister’s dead.”

  “But I need to tell you something,” she says. “I need . . . I need your help. I have—”

  “I’d like you to leave,” I say, getting up from my chair.

  “Please just let me speak,” she cries.

  “Listen, love, I’m not interested,” I say, folding my arms. “Now clear off.”

  She stands up and I march her to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, turning to me. “I just wanted to—”

  “Did you not hear me?” I cry as I yank the door open. “I said get out.”

  36

  I step back inside the house. I’m glad that the last thing I did was stand up for my sister. Now I can get on with it. I grab another bottle of wine in case I need it. But as I make my way up the stairs I hear a clattering noi
se. I turn and see a pile of mail lying on the doormat.

  On the top is a bulky Jiffy bag. I bend down and pick it up. It’s probably something for Paul—no one sends anything to me. But then I see my name printed in capital letters and the logo of Kate’s newspaper printed on the back. I tear open the parcel, wondering what it can be. Looking inside, I see a thin black object. I pull it out and hold it in my shaking hands.

  A tape recorder. It’s cracked and pockmarked and the plastic casing has melted in parts but I can still make out what it is. Surely it’s not . . .

  There’s something else in there. I put my hand back inside the Jiffy bag and ease out a piece of paper. I take it and the tape recorder into the kitchen, then sit down at the table to read.

  Sally,

  I want to convey my deepest condolences for the loss of your sister, Kate. She was a brave and brilliant woman and the finest journalist I have ever worked with. This Dictaphone was found by one of the rescue workers close to where she was last seen. It was sent to the newsroom but, on listening to the contents, it seems it is more of a personal item than a professional one as you will hear when you play it.

  I am working closely with the MoD and the consulate in Syria and will be in touch as soon as I have any more news for you.

  In the meantime, if I can be of further help to you at this difficult time please do not hesitate to get in touch.

  Best wishes,

  Harry Vine

  Harry Vine. I run the name over and over in my head and then it clicks. Harry. Kate’s editor. She used to talk about him whenever she came home. It was all: “Harry’s going to love this” or “Wait till I tell Harry, he won’t believe it.” She was godmother to his children if I recall. Two girls. I remember feeling envious of her connection to this Harry person and his family and wondering why she couldn’t be like that with Hannah and me.

  As I fold the letter and put it on the kitchen counter, I think back to the times when Kate would come home for a visit. I hated it. Mum would spend days getting the house ready and making sure we had the right food in. And then we’d sit there poised on the sofa, waiting for her to arrive; the favorite daughter. She’d sweep in looking immaculate and stylish and I would feel shabby next to her in my cheap high-street outfit. I’d sit there looking at her wondering how she did it, how she managed to get so lucky after what she’d done. It was like she had this invisible cloak all around her, protecting her from harm. Whatever she touched turned to gold. Yet me, I was the opposite.

  Still, she couldn’t keep the act up all the time. Sometimes we got a glimpse of the real Kate and it wasn’t pretty. Like the time she came to Hannah’s tenth birthday party. Hannah never got over that. None of us did. Even Mum was shocked. We knew Kate had just come back from a pretty hellish assignment in Gaza, but we didn’t realize how much it had affected her. Mum had bought Hannah a Barbie doll for her birthday and she was so excited. She passed the doll around to all her friends at the party so they could brush its hair and change its clothes. It was a gorgeous day and the kids spilled out into the garden to have a play before we cut the cake. I was in the kitchen counting out the candles when Kate appeared in the doorway behind me. She was holding the doll and she had a strange look on her face.

  “Western kids are so pampered, it makes me sick,” she said as she came into the kitchen. “I mean, look at all this, it’s grotesque.”

  “Oh, come on, Kate, it’s just a few sausage rolls and a bit of cake,” I said. “It’s not the height of luxury by any means.”

  “I’ve spent the last few weeks talking to children who have nothing,” she said, her voice all haughty and pious. “Not a toy, not a book; most don’t even have access to running water. If you’d seen those kids, Sally, you would think twice before overindulging your own.”

  “I’m not overindulging her,” I said. “It’s her birthday. Now please don’t make a scene.”

  “A scene?” she shrieked. “Oh, yes, I forgot. That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Keeping quiet. Not questioning anything. Not making a bloody scene. Just like when we were kids.”

  I was about to respond when Hannah came in the back door.

  “Have you seen my doll?” she said, looking up at us. “Oh, there she is. Can I have her back, Aunt Kate?”

  And then Kate did something so horrible it still pains me to think about. She stepped toward Hannah with this evil look on her face and she said: “I know, Hannah, let’s play Gaza.” Then she pulled the doll’s head off and threw it on the ground.

  Hannah was hysterical. Her cries brought Mum and the little kids in from the garden, and Mum immediately noticed Kate’s expression and swung into action, telling Hannah that we would send the doll off to the toys’ hospital and she would be as good as new. Then we brought the cake out to the garden and lit the candles. But the day was ruined and when her friends left Hannah went to bed and cried herself to sleep. After that she was never the same with Kate. Her beloved aunt had become something else, something unpredictable and frightening.

  But I already knew that.

  I sit down at the table and take the recorder in my hands, fiddling with the buttons. It feels wrong. This was Kate’s and I feel like I’m intruding as I press “play” and wait. But there’s just a loud hissing noise. It must be broken. I’m not surprised, the state it’s in. I press “stop,” then try again. It crackles into life and I hear a voice but it’s not Kate’s voice. It’s Mum’s.

  “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.”

  Tears run down my face as I sit there listening to my mother’s voice. She sounds so old, so fragile. I hadn’t been near her in those final months. I was still so angry.

  “Oh, Mum,” I whisper as the voice fades out.

  There’s a hiss of white noise and I guess that might be the end of it. I pick up the recorder and try to find the rewind button. But then she starts 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.”

  What? No, it can’t be. I rewind the tape so I can hear that bit again, then I let it run on.

  “There’s a little lad. Tiny little thing, can’t be much more than three or four, in the house next door. I see him all the time. In the garden, outside the shed, he flits about like a little pixie. And I hear his voice too, mainly at night. I hear him crying for his mummy. Paul thinks it’s my mind getting slow and he might be right. . . . You see, he’s the absolute spit of my baby David. I miss him so much.”

  A little boy . . . I remember now what Kate said. In that last phone call.

  I’m calling to ask you a favor. It’s really important. I need you to keep an eye on the house next door to Mum’s . . .

  My head is spinning as I sit there with the device in my hands, trying to make sense of what my mother is saying. Mum may have been losing it, but she had also seen a boy. Just like Kate.

  Then Fida’s words come back to me. What had she been trying to tell me?

  I need your help.

  I put the recorder down and get up from the chair. Something very odd is going on in that house. I grab my coat from the end of the stairs and head out, Kate’s voice ringing in my ears.

  Please, Sally.

  This time I promise not to fail her.

  37

  The sun is just dipping when I reach Smythley Road. Mum’s old house is all lit up with the orange rays from the sunset. It makes it look pretty though it’s just a shabby old semi. It makes me think of those Easter Sundays when Mum would drag us off to Reculver beach to see the dancing sun.

  As I walk toward the house I can see the three of us clearly. We’re huddled up in a tatt
y beach blanket waiting for the sun to rise. “Look at the water,” my mum shouts and it’s there, the sun, like a big orange beach ball bobbing along the waves. “It’s dancing,” Kate shouts. “It’s really dancing.”

  It was just an illusion; the water was moving, not the sun. I knew that and I thought the whole thing was daft, a childish folk tale passed down through the family. But Kate and my mother believed in it and would sit there mesmerized, lost in their own little fantasy world, as the sun flitted across the waves.

  What if all this is a fantasy too? I think to myself as I walk up the driveway. What if this kid is just a product of my mother and Kate’s imaginations? Still, either way, I feel good for just doing something. Maybe this is what Kate felt like when she was out in some far-flung place following up a story.

  When I get to the front door I notice it’s open. Who leaves their door open at this time of night? I think to myself as I tap gently on the door frame.

  “Hello?” I call. “Is there anyone home?”

  I can see through the crack that the house is in darkness. Suddenly I feel afraid. Maybe I should go and come back tomorrow in the daytime when there’ll be more people around on the street. But then I think of Kate again. I need to show her that I can be strong. I take a deep breath and step inside the house.

  The hallway is so dark I can barely see. My heart races as I step farther inside.

  And then, as my eyes adjust, I see her. She’s lying at an odd angle at the bottom of the stairs, her arms over her face. Shit. What’s happened? I go to her and move her arms away. Her face is dark with blood.

  “Fida,” I say, trying to keep calm. “Fida, what happened? Did you fall?”

  She mutters something I can’t understand.

  “You need to go to the hospital,” I say. “You might have broken something.”

  I reach in my pocket but my phone is not there. In my rush to leave the house I must have forgotten to pick it up.

  “Fida, do you have a phone? Or a landline?”

  “Shh—” she says, pointing behind me.

  “What?” I say, not daring to look.