“I asked how long you’ve been taking prescription sleeping pills.”
“Fifteen years,” I reply, too exhausted to lie.
Shaw’s eyes widen infinitesimally. I’ve been trained to notice these things.
“That’s a long time.”
“Listen, Dr. Shaw,” I say slowly, as though addressing a small child. “Have you ever tried sleeping through a mortar attack?”
She shakes her head, then writes something in her notebook. I smile as I imagine her neat handwriting swirling across the page: sleeping pills, mortar attacks . . . diagnosis.
“It’s not just the bombing,” I continue. “It’s the jet lag and the deadlines. There are times I’ve gone forty-eight hours without sleep and then when I try to my brain won’t shut down. We all take sleeping pills, Dr. Shaw. It’s as much a part of the job as a flak jacket and a good translator. It’s normal.”
“What about other medication?”
She puts her pen down and stares at me. I turn back to the window and watch as an overweight copper struggles to get into his car.
“I don’t take any other medication.”
Shaw clears her throat.
“So you’ve never been prescribed anything to deal with hallucinations? No antipsychotics, for instance?”
I turn around and see that she is reading from a sheet of headed notepaper.
“What’s that?” I ask, a feeling of dread creeping through my bones.
“Antipsychotics?” she says, looking up. “They are a type of drug used to treat a range of conditions. Mainly schizophrenia but also bipolar, depression . . .”
“No, I know what they are,” I say as I come back to the chair. “I’m talking about the paper in your hand. Where did you get it from?”
Shaw tucks the document back into the blue file and folds her arms.
“Kate. I will ask again,” she says firmly. “Are you taking any other medication besides sleeping pills?”
I look at her, try to read her face. Does she, like me, just want this all to be over? Does she just want to get home in time for tea with her husband and kids, put her feet up, watch the telly? Of course she does. I decide to come clean. Anything to hasten my release from this place.
“I was prescribed something a few months ago,” I tell her. “Though it seems you know that already.”
“Right,” says Shaw. “And are you still taking them?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Do they help?”
I flinch as I remember hitting the pavement, the taste of blood in my mouth and the feeling that my head was on fire. I see the frazzled doctor at A&E handing me a box of pills as though they were sweets and the weird sense of weightlessness as I lay on my bed waiting for them to kick in. The side effects of those drugs were worse than any hallucination, any nightmare. I couldn’t think straight, could barely construct a sentence, let alone write a report or conduct an interview. In the course of a couple of weeks I was reduced to a marshmallow. All I wanted to do was sleep and eat and not think. Eventually, I flushed the pack down the loo. The voices came back the next day but after weeks of nothingness they were like a welcome friend.
“Oh yeah, they help,” I tell Shaw.
“And the hallucinations? Have they lessened since you started taking the medication?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Completely. Though I took the pills more for anxiety than anything else.”
As if to taunt me, the old woman chooses this moment to scream and I jerk forward in my chair. The room falls silent. Did Shaw notice? She stares at me blankly as she delivers her next question.
“Would you say that your job and the things you’ve seen have, perhaps, contributed to that anxiety?”
“Of course,” I reply. “I’m not a robot. I couldn’t do my job if I wasn’t moved, wasn’t affected by the things I’ve seen.” Show you have feelings, that you’re human . . .
Shaw nods her head. I stare at her, trying to read her expression, but she is giving nothing away.
“Now,” she continues, looking down at her notes again. “You’ve been back and forth to Syria how many times in the last two years?”
“Oh God, I don’t know,” I reply. “Eight or nine times.”
“Eight or nine times,” says Shaw. “And while there you have witnessed some extremely distressing things, yes?”
“Yes,” I reply. “But so have all the other reporters and the aid workers and the people living there. My experience is not unique.”
“No, but it’s pretty extreme,” she says. “Going in and out of conflict zones with such frequency must take its toll on your mental health. I’m sure it would affect me if I had to work like that.”
“Maybe I’m tougher than you,” I spit. Her tone is beginning to annoy me.
“These assignments,” says Shaw, ignoring my comment. “How long on average do they last?”
“It depends,” I say. “No assignment is the same.”
“Well, for instance, your last assignment in Aleppo. How long were you there for?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you stayed with a family there?”
I nod my head.
“Three weeks in the same place,” says Shaw. “Under extreme conditions. Long enough to build up a connection, a strong bond with the people you were staying with. Would you agree?”
I know now where this is heading and I can’t bear it. I shake my head, but she continues.
“In your last report you spoke of a young boy,” says Shaw. “What happened with him in Aleppo affected you deeply, didn’t it, Kate?”
The blood drains from my body. Why this? Why can’t we just go back to the cuts? They are easier to explain. I look at the door and see the shadow of a policeman on the other side. I have no choice; I’m trapped.
“Kate. Could you tell me about him? His name was Nidal, wasn’t it?”
She leans forward in her chair and I catch the scent of her perfume, something sugary and cheap, like everything in this town. It sticks in my throat and I can’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing up. “This is getting silly. My head is throbbing and I need to get home.”
“Kate, as I told you when we began, you’ve been detained under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act. We’re allowed to keep you here for up to seventy-two hours until we reach a decision on your mental state.”
“I can’t be kept here for three days.” I try to control my voice but it comes out as a yell.
Shaw sits deathly still as I stand up and start to pace the tiny room. Her impassiveness makes me want to slap her face, to knock some sense into her. I shudder as I remember my father saying the same thing as he went at my mother, his fists raised. I take a deep breath and sit down. Anger is not going to help the situation. I need to keep calm.
“Kate, would you like to take a break or are you happy to carry on?”
“I’ll carry on,” I say. “But I have nothing to say about Syria. Nothing at all.”
6
Monday, April 13, 2015
I slump to bed at nine thirty, drowsy with pills and a two-hour TV documentary on Margaret Thatcher. The Iron Lady’s voice is the last thing I hear as I collapse into bed, curled up like an ancient fossilized creature, my knees touching my chest, my chin buried deep under the covers.
“Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.”
The bed smells of 1979. The year Sally was born. The year I was given a “big girl’s bed.” My miserable childhood is embedded in the wood, in the springs of the mattress, in the blue velvet headboard, and as I close my eyes I follow the scent and find myself tumbling down the rabbit hole. I am four years old again, sitting on the sofa beside my mother and the new baby while my father inches his armchair closer to the television, turning up the volume so he can hear every word the new prime minister has to say. I go to speak but he shushes
me. “Keep quiet, you little pest. I’m trying to hear what she’s saying.” Sally starts crying to be fed and the screams obliterate Thatcher’s voice. My mother jumps up to soothe her but it’s too late, he’s missed Thatcher’s words and someone is going to pay. “Useless bitch,” he yells as he comes at her with fists raised. “Lazing on the sofa when you should be looking after the baby. You’re not fit to have kids.”
I hear my mother’s screams as I crawl deeper into the hole. I cover my ears as the air grows warmer and I smell a familiar smell. Death dust. I’m back in Aleppo. I know what lies ahead: a deserted street, blood and rubble, piles and piles of rubble that I must dig through to get to him. My penance.
“You’re not fit to have kids.”
My father’s voice, thin and reedy, bleeds through the air pocket that connects the past with the present, a warped present, an infinite series of moments that I find myself living through night after night. I try to shout at him, to tell of the legacy he left us, a world of guilt and pain, but my anger has no outlet. My adversary looks back at me with hollow eyes. The dead can’t fight back.
His voice grows fainter as I reach the darkest point of the tunnel. I’m back in the shop, the first shot has just been fired and there is still time. If I go quickly I can get to him, but each time I try something alters. Tonight the street is filled with water and, as I plunge into it, relief soars through my body. I’m a strong swimmer and the water is washing away the dust and the blood. I can do this; I can get to him in time. His skin is warm when I reach him and a spark of hope fills my heart . . . where there is despair, may we bring hope. . . . But as my hands take hold of him, a noise punctures the air, a terrifying cry that seems to come from inside me.
I let go and feel myself rising up, up into pale moonlight that trickles into my eyes. Stillness hangs above the room like a thin membrane, time is suspended; outside, the suburbs are holding their breath and I hold my breath too, waiting for the film to be punctured.
Nothing. I turn over and begin to count. I’ve been told that counting helps ward off anxiety attacks.
“One, two, three, four . . .”
The scream comes again, sharp and unbidden, and I sit bolt upright in the bed, my hands shaking. It sounds like a wounded animal fighting for its life and it is coming from outside my head.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
I get up from the bed and stand at the window. Light is coming up on the horizon, casting a pink haze onto the empty garden. I look out into the neighbors’ gardens. Nothing. Then, just as I’m about to close the curtains, I see it: a shadow. It’s coming out of the shed in the garden that belongs to Fida. Slowly it takes shape and in the light of the fragile morning sun, I see what it is.
It’s a man. He is dressed in black, a peaked cap covering his face. I lean closer to the window and watch as he makes his way up the darkened path. I need to alert Fida.
Then I see her.
She’s outside the back door in her dressing gown. The man hands her something, then they make their way back into the house together. But as she goes to close the door she stops and looks up at my window. Instinctively, I jump back. Did she see me? Possibly, but I don’t care. I haven’t done anything wrong. As I climb back into bed I remember the husband who works away. He must have come home. Everything is fine, I tell myself, the woman next door has her husband back, he has come home to her where he belongs. Tonight she will sleep curled up in his arms.
But as I close my eyes those screams are still echoing in my head, and as I slip off into sleep I’m no longer sure where they come from.
7
Herne Bay Police Station
17 hours detained
It is getting dark in the interview room and I watch as Shaw flicks a switch and the room fills with a sickly yellow light.
“That’s better,” she says as she walks back to her chair. “It hurts my eyes to read in the half-light. Now, Kate, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about your work.”
She smiles a weak, anemic smile. I don’t return it.
“I told you,” I say, raising my voice above the buzz of the strip light. “I don’t want to talk about Syria. I made that very clear.”
“Yes, you did,” says Shaw, looking down at a fresh bundle of notes. “But this isn’t about Syria. I’d like to ask you about your last day at work. Something happened in the newsroom, didn’t it, Kate? Would you like to tell me about it?”
My heart freezes as she flicks the pages of her notes. How does she know all this? Who has she been speaking to? Harry? Rachel? I go to speak but my voice catches in my throat and I start to cough. Shaw looks up.
“Are you okay?” she asks, getting to her feet. “Would you like a glass of water?”
I nod my head and watch as she walks over to the water cooler. She pours a cup and brings it to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, taking the cup and sipping the tepid liquid. It tastes of plastic and I wince as I swallow it.
“Are you happy to continue?” asks Shaw as I place the cup on the table next to me.
“Yes,” I mumble, looking at the clock above her head. I need to get out. I need to get back to him.
“You’d had a long lunch that day?”
“Longish,” I reply.
Shaw nods, then writes something in her notebook. I look down at the floor but all I can see is Chris, his face a fragmented collection of parts, broken pieces like the bodies he exhumes. I see his beautiful mouth, the top lip curled, his stubbled jaw, his dark, close-cut hair, his blue, almond-shaped eyes, but I can’t put the parts together. I need to put them back together.
“Somewhere nice?”
“Yes, a restaurant in Soho,” I reply as the street unfolds before me. I see familiar landmarks I have walked past a thousand times before: Bar Italia and Ronnie Scott’s, the Dog and Duck, all my old haunts. And there he is. I see him through the window of the restaurant, his hands clasped in front of him, waiting, preparing his speech.
“What time did you get back to the newsroom?”
Shaw’s voice is sharp, a knitting needle stabbing at my brain.
“I don’t know . . . Just after five, I suppose.”
“So a very long lunch,” says Shaw, smiling patronizingly. “Was it for work or pleasure?”
I stare at the wall, remembering that day. I see us sitting there like two strangers.
I look up at Shaw. “Work,” I reply. “It was a work meeting.”
“But you had a couple of drinks, yes?”
I nod my head and remember the wine that tasted like acid. The first drink I’d had in years. Glass after glass as I sat in my club after saying good-bye to him on Frith Street.
“Would you say you were intoxicated?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“I’d only had a couple of glasses.”
“Your colleague Rachel Hadley says that you were decidedly the worse for wear and in no fit state to be working when you got back to the office.”
She is reading from her notes. I shake my head incredulously. Rachel bloody Hadley. She would do or say anything to get to me.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
“Because the person you’ve just mentioned is a parasite, a silly little girl who wants my job.”
If only she hadn’t been the first person I saw, I could have got through the rest of the day, finished my article, and left without any drama. But there she was as I walked to my desk, standing like a checkpoint official, blocking my way, asking: “Long lunch, Kate?” in her whiny, nasal voice.
“That’s Rachel Hadley,” says Shaw. “The woman you assaulted?”
“Yes.”
The shame is still as strong now as it was a few weeks ago and I feel my cheeks burn as I remember what happened next.
I tried to edge my way past to get to my desk but she put her arm out to block me and announced in a loud voice that I was unsteady on my feet and would I like her to make me a black coffee. Then she
put her arm on my shoulder and after that everything went hazy. All I could see in front of me was a blockage, an obstacle to overcome.
Shaw is looking down at her notes. It will all be there, every last detail of that wretched day.
“You hit her across the face,” says Shaw.
I stare at the table.
“And your colleagues had to intervene?”
“I believe so, yes. I was upset.”
I was aware of the others rushing to her aid but they were like ants, tiny dots on the periphery of my consciousness.
“Harry Vine says you are one of the finest journalists he has ever worked with.”
I look up at her. So she has spoken to him. Harry, my editor.
“He speaks very highly of you,” continues Shaw. “Despite your actions that day.”
“Yes,” I stammer. “He’s a good man. One of the best.”
As I speak I try to order my thoughts. Harry knows I’m being held under the Mental Health Act. My life is over. My career is over. What will I do?
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Around fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years,” says Shaw, raising her eyebrows. “The same length of time you’ve been taking sleeping pills.”
I smile ruefully.
“Yes,” I reply. “I hadn’t thought about that before.”
“What did Harry say to you in the office after your outburst?” asks Shaw.
I wince as I recall Harry’s face as he brewed a strong coffee and handed it to me. His hands were trembling and he looked, for just a moment, scared of me.
“He . . . he just asked if I was okay.”
I don’t tell her that he threatened to suspend me and that I begged him not to on account of my upcoming assignment to Syria. I was lucky. His hands were tied. He knew I was the only person who could get into Aleppo. He had no choice.
“Rachel Hadley could have called the police.”
I look at Shaw and it is then I notice how similar she and Hadley are: the same blonde bobbed hair, the same sibilant voice. They could be sisters.
“Yes, she could,” I reply. “But she didn’t.”
My Sister's Bones Page 4
