I pass a group of children casting crab lines over the edge of the pier. Two little girls start to bicker over a twisted line, but the older one takes charge and begins to detangle it. And as I walk on I know what I must do. I take out my phone and hastily type out a brief text:
I’m coming over.
Then I put the phone in my pocket and flag down a taxi. I know it won’t be easy but I need to talk to her. Ray is right; she’s all I have left.
11
Herne Bay Police Station
18 hours detained
‘Would you like a glass of water?’
I turn from the window and try to compose myself.
‘No thank you, I’m fine,’ I reply, but as I return to the blue plastic chair images flit through my mind like a film on fast-forward. My head pounds but I try not to show my discomfort to Shaw. I have to seem to be in control or I’m finished.
‘Okay,’ says Shaw, clasping her hands together. ‘We talked a little about your last day in the newsroom. Am I correct in thinking that you left for Aleppo two days later?’
My stomach twists but I try to stay calm. This is an interview and I am a journalist. This is not beyond me. If I keep on my toes I can do what I have always done with tricky subjects and second-guess her.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It was a very risky assignment,’ says Shaw. ‘I understand you were smuggled across the Syrian border via Turkey.’
She’s not going to let this go. Though every part of me wants to avoid talking about Syria I know that I am going to have to. But I will only tell her what I want to tell her; nothing more.
‘How do you know that I was smuggled into Syria?’
She goes to speak then looks down at her notes. She shuffles through them for a few moments then looks up.
‘Harry Vine told the officers when they contacted him,’ she says, holding up a piece of paper. It’s a print-out of my last dispatch. Harry must have sent them it.
‘Seems like Harry has been very useful,’ I say with an empty laugh. I keep eye contact with her for as long as I can. She must not know that I’m falling apart here.
‘The district where you were staying was under siege I believe,’ she says, holding my gaze. ‘And being heavily bombarded.’
I nod my head.
‘And most nights you were holed up in a basement which belonged to a shopkeeper and his family.’
‘Yes.’
‘The shopkeeper had a young child,’ she continues. ‘A little boy.’
I want her to stop. I want to shout at her, but I have to stay calm. I must.
‘You grew rather attached to the boy, didn’t you, Kate?’
I see his little face looking up at me from the doorway, a scrap of paper in his hands. I’ve brought you a present to take back to England, to cheer up the grumpy people.
‘I was there to work, Dr Shaw.’
It’s called the book of smiles. See.
‘But children are different,’ she continues. ‘They are more vulnerable than adults. They need protecting.’
Mama said you were sad. I’ll make you happy.
I clear my throat and his voice subsides.
‘Yes, they do.’
‘You focus on children quite a lot in your work, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because they’re the victims, the innocent bystanders,’ I reply. ‘When you meet children who have lived through war you see how futile it all is. Children don’t see borders or divisions. They aren’t bound by tribal loyalties or politics, they just want to play, to go to school, to be safe.’
Shaw is silent for a moment then she smiles at me, her head cocked to one side.
‘Do you have children of your own?’
‘No. You must know that.’
‘Yet it’s clear you have an affinity with them which is remarkable when you’re not yet a mother.’
‘It’s not about being a mother, Dr Shaw,’ I reply. ‘It’s about being a human being.’
‘Would you like to be a mother?’
‘No.’
My voice stays steady though I want to scream and shout it hurts so much. Make her stop. Please make her stop.
‘And you’re not married?’
I shake my head.
‘In a relationship?’
‘Christ, what has any of this got to do with why I’m here?’ I snap. Then reining myself in, I lower my voice. ‘Why aren’t you taking me seriously? I know I have some . . . some problems – but you need to search that house.’
‘Please just answer my question, Kate. Are you in a relationship right now?’
‘No,’ I say, sitting on my hands to stop them from shaking. ‘No, I’m not in a relationship.’
12
Wednesday 15 April 2015
I arrive at Sally’s house just after three. The street is deserted. She lives in one of those new-build estates where every house looks identical. It’s in a cul-de-sac and Sally’s is tucked right in the centre of the curve with two houses leaning in from either side. I feel like a thousand eyes are on me as I knock on the door and wait.
There’s no reply but I know she’s in there. She has to be; according to Paul she never goes out. I knock again, harder this time, but still there is no response. Eventually I bend down and shout her name through the letter box.