My Sister's Bones

‘Oh, unhappy,’ he says, his face falling. ‘Why are they unhappy?’


‘Well, in England, people complain a lot. Often about things that aren’t really important.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, like trains running late and poor service in restaurants, oh, and the weather, everyone in England complains about the weather.’

‘Is it cold in England?’

‘Sometimes. Though we complain when it’s too hot as well as when it’s too cold.’

‘English people sound funny,’ he says and his face breaks into a smile.

‘Yes, they are. But you’ll see it for yourself one day. You can visit me.’

‘Maybe,’ says Nidal. He shrugs his shoulders and turns away.

‘What is it, Nidal? Tell me.’

I kneel down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder.

He turns round and his face is stained with tears.

‘It is this,’ he yells, gesturing to the dank hallway. ‘I used to go to school. I used to play football and go on school trips. I did real things, fun things. Now I am trapped in here with this.’

He grabs his toy car and hurls it at the wall.

‘I don’t want to do pretend things, I want to do real things again. I don’t want to be locked up inside like a prisoner.’

I take his hand. It is shaking.

‘Nidal, I know you are scared but this won’t last for ever.’

He bats my hand away.

‘My aunt, she wants us to go with her to Turkey,’ he says. ‘She knows a man who can get us there but Papa, he says we can’t. He says we stay here until all this is over; that he won’t become refugee.’

Khaled is a proud man, I think to myself, though I wish with all my heart that he would follow the aunt’s advice and head for Turkey.

‘Mama says we should go,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘She says that we’ll be safe there and I can play football again.’

As I look at him, his eyes wide with hope, I remember the refugee camp I visited on the Turkish border six months ago. It was chaotic and disease-ridden and rammed full of desperate people whose dead eyes told me they had seen things that I could never imagine. It is not the paradise Nidal is imagining, but it would offer safety and shelter and a chance for Khaled and Zaynah to set about rebuilding their lives. But I know Khaled’s mind is made up.

‘Your father knows what’s best for you,’ I say to Nidal, trying to reassure him.

‘You think this is best?’ he cries, gesturing to the dank hallway. ‘I can’t stand it. I want to get out.’

‘You will get out,’ I say softly. ‘And when you do you can come visit me in England and meet all the grumpy people I’ve been telling you about.’

He looks up at me. His face is swollen with tears.

‘No,’ he cries. ‘Stop saying that. Stop saying they are not happy. They have to be happy. They live in England.’

‘Nidal, sweetheart,’ I say, putting my arm round his shoulders. ‘Please don’t get upset.’

But he can’t hear me. His hands cover his ears and he shakes his head furiously.

‘I don’t want to talk to you any more,’ he says. ‘You say silly things. Just go away. Leave me alone.’

I touch his shoulder gently as I stand up and make my way out. As I reach the end of the corridor I look back and he is there, still shaking his head, and I realize how insensitive I have been. Why did I tell him that people were unhappy in England? Couldn’t I see that, for him, a little boy trapped in a war zone, the idea of anyone being unhappy in a safe place like England was more than he could bear?

A hammering at the front door interrupts the memory and I stand up and put my empty coffee cup into the sink. It will be Paul, come to take me to the solicitor’s.

I open the door and he hugs me.

‘You look better this morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘Though the seagulls are rather noisy.’

‘One of the drawbacks of living by the sea,’ he says with a laugh as he steps inside. But something’s not right. The lines around his eyes deepen as he stares back down the driveway.

‘Is everything okay, Paul?’

‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ he says. ‘It’s just I’m in a bit of a rush, that’s all. We’re short-staffed at work and I’ve told the lads I’ll be two hours max.’ He glances at his watch.

‘Oh, you should have said. I would have got a cab.’

‘Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he says. ‘Those lads are a bunch of pansies sometimes and I’ve put in enough overtime as it is.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘Now come on, grab your coat, chop chop.’

I take my coat from the hall cupboard and knock over my bag in the process.

‘Dammit.’

‘Here, let me help.’ Paul crouches next to me and begins to pick up various items that have fallen on to the floor. He hands me a box of pills and narrows his eyes as I hurriedly toss them into the bag.

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