‘And your child, does he or she like doughnuts?’ I ask, craning my neck to see if the little one is still there.
The young woman’s smile drops and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.
‘Only I heard a child just now. They were laughing. It was lovely.’
‘I don’t have a child,’ says the woman and I see a familiar pain in her eyes. ‘You must have heard children out the back. Sometimes they take a shortcut, the children from the school, they take the path by the fields.’
‘Either that or I’m hearing things.’ I giggle, trying to lighten the mood.
The young woman laughs but her eyes are sad.
‘You live alone then?’ I ask, unable to quash the journalist in me.
‘Sometimes,’ she says. ‘My husband, he is away a lot.’ She gestures her hands up to the sky.
‘He works abroad?’ I venture.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Abroad.’
‘That must be tough,’ I say. ‘Being alone so much.’
‘It’s fine. I’m happy,’ she says, though she doesn’t sound it.
‘Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Iraq,’ she says, her voice lightening. ‘Fallujah.’
‘Oh, I know it well,’ I say. ‘I was there in 2004.’
She nods her head and looks off into the distance. It is a look I have seen countless times before on the faces of people who have been forced to flee their homeland, a mix of sadness and confusion.
‘2004,’ she whispers. ‘So you were there during the Battle?’
‘Yes, I was,’ I reply.
‘I left just after that,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘My cousin was leaving and my parents they said go with him. Said it would be for the best . . .’
She trails off, and a fat tear falls on to her dress. She hastily wipes it away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘I understand. For me Fallujah was a work assignment but for you it was home. It must be so hard for you.’
‘Iraq is not my home any more,’ she says quietly. ‘This is my home.’
She smiles but her eyes are still sad. There are so many things I would like to ask her but I know that this isn’t the right time.
‘Iraq will always be your home,’ I tell her. ‘It’s part of you. Like this place is a part of me even though I left Herne Bay years ago.’
She nods her head. ‘Sometimes I dream of Fallujah,’ she says. ‘How it was when I was young and I wake up wishing that I could go back but I know it would not be the same now.’
I am about to tell her about a recent article I wrote on the city when a loud crash stops me in my tracks.
‘What was that?’
I look at the woman. Her smile has faded and her hands are shaking.
‘I have to go,’ she says hurriedly.
‘Is everything okay? Can I help with anything?’
‘No, please, everything is fine,’ she says, her voice trembling. ‘I have to go.’
She pulls her scarf up so that it almost obscures her face then half walks, half runs towards the house. I stand for a moment looking at the empty space she has left behind and wonder what it was that made her react in such a way. But as I turn to make my way back to the house I see my mother reading in a threadbare armchair as my father’s key turns in the lock; I see her face turn from happiness to dread; and I think of the young woman next door, the fear in her eyes, and a shiver courses down my spine.
5
Herne Bay Police Station
13 hours detained
‘How long have you been taking sleeping pills, Kate?’
I am standing by the tiny square window tracing an oval shape on the glass with my fingertip. I can hear Shaw breathing somewhere behind me. She’s annoyed that I’ve got out of the chair, that I’ve removed myself from her gaze.
‘Not much of a view, is it?’ I remark as I look out on to the small strip of car park. ‘It must depress you, all this grey concrete.’
‘Kate, could you answer my question?’
Shaw’s voice remains steady though I know she is losing patience.
‘Sorry,’ I say, turning to face her. ‘Could you repeat it?’
‘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.