My Sister's Bones

by Nuala Ellwood

  I watch from my hiding place underneath the mattress as Paul steps into the room and walks toward Sally. He’s holding a sheet of plastic, and is wearing rubber gloves.

  Hannah is sitting on the other mattress with the boy. She holds him to her chest but her eyes are on the man bearing down on her mother.

  I note the position of the wooden chair lying on the floor a yard or so away.

  “Well, Sally,” he says, crouching to his knees. “I’ve found a lovely spot for you. I think you’ll like it. Just a short car ride away.”

  Sally whimpers and it takes every ounce of restraint to stop myself from going to her but I have to do this right or we’re all dead.

  “It’s a site you know well,” he continues, kneeling next to her, stroking her hair. “The perfect resting place. Somewhere no one will disturb you. I’ve made sure of that. It will be nice and quiet, Sally. After all the chaos, you’ll finally have what you wanted. A bit of peace.”

  Sally’s breathing grows shallow as he starts to heave her onto the plastic sheet. I need to act fast. I slither out from under the mattress and crawl on my stomach along the floor behind him. I am almost at the chair when something clatters. My pen. It’s fallen out of my coat pocket. Shit.

  “What was that?” he says.

  He jumps to his feet and turns around. There is nowhere for me to hide. His eyes widen.

  “What the fuck?” he cries.

  He puts his hand to his chest and I take advantage of his shock by grabbing the chair, but before I can lift it his foot is on my hand, pressing down.

  “No, you don’t,” he says, glaring at me.

  “Kate, please,” whispers Sally. “Just leave it. Don’t fight him.”

  But I have to. I’ll fight this man with every bit of strength I have left. I yank my hand away and get to my feet, kicking the chair away. I don’t need it. He doesn’t seem to have a weapon. He must have thought he didn’t need one anymore.

  “You don’t scare me,” I say as I stare into his eyes. “Because I’m not a little girl. And that’s your thing, isn’t it? Little girls?”

  Sally lets out a sob and I am aching to go to her, to reassure her that we’re going to get out of here, that everything will be fine.

  “Get out of my way, you mad bitch,” he growls, grabbing my hair and throwing me on the floor. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  I scramble to my feet and as he comes at me again I try to kick him in the groin. But I miss and he grabs me and throws me down hard.

  “I’ll say this for you, Kate,” he says, kneeling on my chest and putting his hands around my neck. “You’re a hard one to get rid of. Those bloody pills weren’t strong enough.”

  “Pills?” I whisper as his hands tighten around my throat.

  “Yeah, you like pills, don’t you?” he says. “All those ones I found in your bag. Proper little druggie, aren’t you? Your body must be used to them, that’s all I can say.”

  “What do you mean?” I croak out as I grab at his hands with my fingers.

  “Remember that time in the pub,” he says, pressing his face against mine, “when you went crazy out on the street? Then the cozy night in we had with the bottle of red wine, that nice flask of tea on the beach? I must say, for a hotshot journalist you’re a bit stupid when it comes to leaving your drinks lying around.”

  “You drugged me?” I gasp as I frantically try to prize his hands from my neck.

  “You didn’t give me any choice,” he says. “Sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. I tried to stop you but you must have the constitution of an ox. Still, you’d have to be a tough bitch to do what you did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He nods his head and smiles.

  “Sally told me,” he says, pressing his mouth against my cheek. The pressure on my throat releases a bit. “What happened when you were a kid. The big family secret.”

  “Paul, no,” groans Sally from the corner of the room. “Please, no.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” he hisses. “You were the one who told me. You were the one who fucking hated her for what she’d done.”

  “What did I do?” I say, holding his gaze. I want him to know I’m not scared of him. “Tell me, eh? What did I do?”

  He tightens his grip around my throat again, then pushes his face in mine.

  “You killed your little brother,” he hisses. “Your dad told Sally all about it when she was a kid. It wasn’t an accident. It was you. You held him under the water until he drowned. Evil bitch.”

  No. It’s not true. He’s making it up. I yank one of my hands away from him.

  “You’re lying, you sick fuck,” I scream, raising my free arm to his face.

  But he’s quicker than me and he grabs my head and smashes it into the floor. My entire body goes limp.

  “You bitch, you fucking murdering bitch,” he yells.

  I can taste blood in my mouth as my head hits the concrete again and I close my eyes, waiting for the next blow. But it doesn’t come. Instead, a heavy weight crashes down on top of me and I feel his grip loosen.

  I open my eyes as Paul rolls to the floor and I see her standing there, the wooden chair raised above her head.

  “Hannah,” I cry.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her lip trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

  Paul isn’t moving.

  “It’s okay,” I say, getting to my feet. “You have nothing to be sorry for, darling. It’s over now. It’s all over.”

  I feel dazed as I look at his slumped body. He’s not moving but when I lean over him I can hear the faint sound of breath. Good. I want him to pay for what he’s done. I grab the rope that was tying Hannah, and bind his hands.

  “Kate.”

  Sally. I stumble over to her and as I take her hand I hear footsteps overhead and relief floods through my body.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “The ambulance is here now. You’re going to get seen to and then you’ll be all better.”

  “No,” she gasps, taking my hand and squeezing it. “Can’t breathe.”

  Her eyelids are drooping and her skin feels so cold.

  “Yes you can,” I say, stroking her hands to warm them. “He’s gone, Sally. You’re safe now. I promise.”

  She stares up at me. Her eyes are clouding over. I know that look. I saw it on Nidal’s face when I picked him up off the pavement.

  “No, Sally,” I shout, rubbing frantically at her hands. “Don’t do this. The ambulance is here now. Hannah’s here and you’ve got the most beautiful grandson. You have so much to live for.”

  “I’m . . . sorry,” she says, smiling up at me. “I’m so . . . sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” I say gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I should have let you in,” she says, her voice rattling in her chest. “That time in the garden . . . should have let you in . . . He said . . . I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  And I mean it. Suddenly all the hurt and resentment I have felt toward Sally over the years is meaningless. We were both victims of my father in different ways. How did I not see this until now?

  “Is there anyone down there?”

  A voice. Female. Coming from above.

  “Yes,” I call. “Down the steps. Quick.”

  “The ambulance is here, Sally,” I say, turning back to her. “Sally?”

  She is still. So very still.

  I grab her body and shake it.

  “Sally, wake up!” I yell. “Please wake up. The ambulance is here.”

  I hear footsteps coming down the wooden steps.

  “No,” I cry. “You can’t do this. You have to wake up.”

  “Miss, you’ll have to stand back,” says a female voice behind me. “You’ll have to let her go.”

  I do as she says and watch as the paramedics surround her body. But the resuscitation kit they have brought with them lies useless on the floor. They
look at one another and then at me. And with that look comes confirmation and I start to scream and the sound of my grief fills the room, the garden, the whole wretched town.

  46

  I’m sitting in a hospital corridor waiting for the doctors to finish examining Hannah and David. When the police arrived David started shaking and didn’t stop, all the way to the hospital. He and Hannah were taken into a private room and a stream of doctors and social workers have been in and out of there throughout the night. The nurses have brought me tea and asked if I would like to get my forehead looked at but I have refused. This pain is my penance. I should have protected her but I failed and the guilt will live with me forever.

  Somewhere in this hospital my sister is lying in a sterile box. Her life needlessly snuffed out by a psychopath who duped us all. I hear a clicking of heels coming up the corridor and I turn, half expecting to see her, arms outstretched, chattering nineteen to the dozen, asking what the hell just happened. But it’s not her, it’s a nurse, and as she walks past I feel something depart, something warm and glowing. In its place is a black hole, a dark, sister-shaped void.

  She is gone.

  “Ms. Rafter.”

  I look up and see two figures coming toward me: a woman in a long tweed overcoat and a uniformed police officer.

  “DI Lipton,” says the woman, extending her hand. “And this is PC Walker.”

  “Yes, I know who he is,” I reply bitterly, recognizing the young man. “I tried to tell you what was happening in that house and you did nothing. Well, actually you did do something. You arrested me.”

  He twitches and DI Lipton looks at him and frowns.

  “If you had taken me seriously that night, PC Walker, then my sister would still be alive. Instead she is lying in some lousy morgue.”

  It’s all too much for me, all of it, and the tears that have been threatening for the last few hours come rushing forth.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Rafter,” says Lipton.

  She pulls out a chair and sits down next to me. Walker remains standing.

  “This must have been a terrifying ordeal for you.”

  I wipe my eyes and look at Lipton.

  “Is he alive?” I ask. “Paul Cheverell, the man who did this to us. Have you got him?”

  She nods her head.

  “Good,” I say, clenching my fists.

  I am glad he is alive because I want him to suffer like my sister suffered in her final moments. I want him to never know peace again for as long as he lives.

  “He’s in police custody,” says Lipton. “We’ve obtained some information from Fida Rahmani and we’ll need to speak to you and Hannah too once you’re ready.”

  “Fida Rahmani,” I spit. “She was part of all this. She needs locking up with him.”

  “From what we’ve gathered, it seems Miss Rahmani was as much a victim of Cheverell as your niece and sister,” says Lipton. “We believe that Miss Rahmani was trafficked into the UK, and somehow Cheverell took advantage of her situation.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “We’re still trying to find out the details,” says Lipton. “But your sister’s neighbor told us that a woman of Miss Rahmani’s description went to see your sister yesterday, perhaps to tell her what was going on. We think Cheverell must have found out somehow, and attacked her. We found a cricket bat with blood on it in the garden.”

  “Right now I don’t care about Fida Rahmani,” I say bitterly. “She had ample opportunity to tell me what was going on in that house. But she didn’t and now my sister is dead.”

  “She told us that Cheverell threatened to kill her and the boy if she spoke out,” says Lipton. “He kept them all separated. Hannah was held in the shed and the rule was that David was to be kept away from her in case he got too attached. She just did what he said. It’s common that women like her grow to be dependent on their captors.”

  I can’t believe the evil of this man.

  “Why didn’t I see it?” I say to Lipton, tears running down my face. “I’ve reported on enough cases of this kind of abuse.”

  “I suppose it’s not something you’d expect to find right under your nose,” says Lipton. “And in such a quiet residential street. I know it’s taken us by surprise.”

  She looks up at Walker and smiles, perhaps hoping to exonerate him from his negligence.

  “Well, it shouldn’t,” I say abruptly.

  She doesn’t know how wrong she is. We’re all of us, every day, just a hairsbreadth away from evil. If I’ve learned anything from over fifteen years of reporting, it’s that. But I couldn’t expect these people to understand.

  I stand up.

  “Listen, we’ll be in touch, Ms. Rafter, but in the meantime we’ve arranged for a social worker from Kent Child Services to come and speak to you. They can go through your options.”

  “Options?”

  “For the care of Hannah and David,” she says. “They’ll be able to talk through the next steps. Temporary accommodation, counseling, possible foster care for the boy.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I say briskly. “I’ll be looking after Hannah and David now. It’s what Sally would have wanted.”

  Lipton nods. “Well, the help is there if you need it,” she says. “Hannah and David will need a lot of support and counseling to help them recover from this.”

  “I understand,” I say, David’s cries still ringing in my ears.

  “And if there’s anything else you need,” says Lipton, handing me a card, “please don’t hesitate to get in touch. You’ll find my direct number there and the contact details for your liaison officer at Kent Child Services.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the card.

  “Oh, and there’s just one more thing,” says Lipton. “Fida Rahmani has asked to see you.”

  I shake my head furiously.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want to see her.”

  “She said she had something to tell you,” says Lipton. “She’s in Ward 3. It’s up to you. Whatever you feel is best. Good-bye, Ms. Rafter. We’ll be in touch.”

  SHE’S LYING IN the bed while a female police officer sits on a plastic chair by the door. The police officer nods as I walk in and Fida looks up. Her face has been cleaned up but she still doesn’t look good.

  “Hello,” I say as I reach the bed.

  She nods her head drowsily.

  “Thank you for coming,” she says. “Sit down.”

  “I’m not staying long,” I reply.

  “Please,” she says, gesturing to a chair.

  “Okay, just for a few minutes,” I say, sitting down.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” she says.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course,” she says. “I should never have got her involved. I should have just called the police.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “I begged and pleaded with you to tell me. I could have helped you.”

  “I wanted to,” she says, wiping her eyes with the thin blanket. “And I almost did. But then one night Paul came to the house. He said you’d told him I’d been speaking to you. He beat me. Little David tried to stop him and he ended up getting a fist in his face. It was terrifying. I thought he was going to kill us.”

  She stops and blows her nose with a tissue.

  “Later that night,” continues Fida, “when Paul had left, I told David to go and find you, to ask for your help. He was scared but I told him to be brave, that you weren’t a monster. Paul used to tell him the world was full of evil people, to stop him from running away. But I told him you were kind. That your name was Kate and you’d help us.”

  “But he couldn’t find me?”

  “No, he did,” she says. “But he said you were asleep in a chair and when he tried to wake you, you screamed at him. He was so scared he ran away.”

  I shiver as I recall the blood on my hands and face. Little David’s blood. Why did I take those stupid pills? If I hadn’t been so reliant on
them, then Sally would still be here. I remember Fida coming to the door with a cut on her face the following night, the night I was arrested. And David staring up at me from the rose patch with a black eye. All because I’d asked Paul about his tenants.

  I stand up from the chair. I need to get out of here now. I need to mourn my sister properly.

  “I’m sorry, Fida,” I say. “For everything you’ve been through.”

  I take a notepad and pen out of my bag and scribble my phone number on it.

  “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “If you need me for anything at all, call me on this number.”

  Her eyes fill with tears as she holds the paper to her chest.

  “Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, that would be . . .”

  She starts to sob.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “It’s all over now. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’ll get through this, okay?”

  She looks up at me and nods.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you are.”

  I nod to the policewoman and make my way out. When I get to the door I look back. Fida has curled up on her side. She is still holding the piece of paper, clutching it to her chest like a sleeping child.

  47

  My head feels like it will burst as I make my way down the corridor. The artificial heat in the hospital clings to my skin. I need to breathe fresh air for just a few moments before I go back and find Hannah and David.

  I walk through the hospital reception area toward the exit. Light is coming, the muted, marine light of dawn, and I damn the sun as it slowly emerges beyond the wide glass automatic doors.

  I stand outside for a moment, wishing I was a smoker so that I could do something with my trembling hands. And then I see him, a dark figure, waving his arms as he weaves through parked cars.

  “No,” I whisper as his face comes into focus.

  He can’t be here. It is impossible.

  “Kate.”

  I blink my eyes to make sure this isn’t another of my visitations, but he is real.

  He is here.

  “Chris.”

  He comes toward me and holds my hand.

  “Oh, Kate,” he says. “I’m so happy to see you.”