‘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 13 April 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 her 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 on to the empty garden. I look out into the neighbours’ 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.