‘Thanks, Paul.’
He is silent for the rest of the journey and I look out as we drive through indistinct residential streets, the names of which blur in front of my eyes like ink dissolving in water. My stomach growls and I suddenly feel light-headed. This always happens when I come back here. It’s like I’m allergic to the place.
‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ I ask Paul, praying I don’t throw up over his immaculate dashboard.
‘Go ahead,’ he says, gesturing to the button by the door handle.
‘That’s better,’ I sigh as a flurry of cold air hits my face, though the pungent fishy scent doesn’t help.
I put my hand in my pocket and run my fingers along the reassuring smooth surface of my lucky pen. The pen – a beautiful silver fountain pen inscribed with my name – was a gift from Chris on our first anniversary. It has been everywhere with me – Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. Whenever I touch it I know I’m safe.
‘It’s so quiet,’ I whisper, tucking the pen back into my pocket as the car crawls up the hill towards Smythley Road.
I’d forgotten the blanket of silence that descends on the town at night. As I look out I imagine the inhabitants of Smythley Road cocooned in their beds, like the characters in the Edgar Allan Poe stories I devoured as a child, lost in their ‘little slices of death’. It’s hard to believe that this had once been my home; this silent world.
‘Here we are,’ says Paul as he stops the car.
His voice makes me jump and I look up at the house we have parked outside. Number 46: a lifeless 1930s semi with greying pebbledash that had once been sparkling white. I still remember the telephone number – 654345 – and my childhood mantra: My name is Kate Rafter and I live at number 46 Smythley Road with my mummy and daddy and my sister, Sally. My eyes moisten but I blink the tears away, reminding myself that the first step is always the hardest.
As I open the door and step out on to the pavement my lungs contract, like the prelude to a bout of coughing, and I have to steady myself by placing my hands on the car bonnet.
It’s just a week, that’s all, I tell myself. A few days of sea air and signing Mum’s papers then back to work, back to normal.
‘You okay?’
Paul is standing behind me. He lifts the rucksack from my shoulder and guides me towards the house.
‘I’m fine, Paul, just tired.’
‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to book into a hotel?’
‘No,’ I say as we walk up the drive. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.’
‘Well, you’ll get one here, I’m sure,’ he says breezily. ‘It’s nice and peaceful. Don’t know how you manage it, jumping from one hellhole to the next. I’d be wrecked.’
I smile ruefully. That’s all that matters to most people – getting a good night’s sleep. I imagine Paul in Homs or Aleppo, snoring his head off while all around him people fight to stay alive.
I stand on the doorstep staring at the door. It still feels inconceivable that my mother is not behind it, the smell of baking wafting in her wake. My mother was this house; it was the only world she knew.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Paul, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Here are the keys. Chubb’s for the front door, mortice for the back. Thermostat’s in the kitchen above the kettle if you’re cold. I’ll pop over in the morning to see if you’re okay.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, taking the keys and rubbing the sharp metal between finger and thumb. ‘And give my regards to Sally, won’t you?’
He flinches at the sound of her name.
‘She’s still my sister,’ I tell him. ‘Despite everything.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘And deep down she knows that too.’
‘I hope so,’ I say, the cold air sending shivers down my back.
‘You get yourself in,’ says Paul, patting my arm. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
I follow him down the gravel drive and watch as his car disappears into the shadowy folds of the bay, putting off going into the house for a few more moments. Once I open the door it will all become real. My mother’s death will be confirmed. It is almost too painful to bear. But I have to do it, I tell myself, as I reluctantly make my way back to the house, or I will never move on. As I approach I see a light in the upstairs window of the house next door and I pause. It is a reassuring sight, a sign of life amid darkness and death, and I feel comforted as I put the key in the lock and open the door.