My eyes are stinging and I have a raging thirst but I can’t lift my head from the pillow. As I lie here, immobile, the events of the evening come back to me in fragments. A large glass of wine gulped down in one . . . an empty bottle . . . How can I have got so drunk on just one bottle of wine? Or was it two? I try to think clearly but I can’t.
The room spins and as I sit up the pain starts; thick, jagged pain that stabs at my temples. I need pills. I get out of bed and feel my way towards the door, stubbing my toe on something sharp. Looking down, I see the shape of my handbag lying on the floor, the contents scattered all around and the thick silver buckle that ought to be clasped shut undone. I turn on the lamp then kneel down gingerly to check everything is there. Mobile, pills, purse. The zip of my purse is open and coins and notes spill out of it. I don’t think I’ve lost any of it though. I pile them back in and see a crumpled bit of paper amongst the twenty-pound notes. Unfolding it, I see the words ‘Marine Taxis’ and a fare for ￡3.50. Paul must have bundled me into a cab for the five-minute journey home. I try to picture his face but my thoughts are liquid and I can’t get a hold on any one thing. Yes, it must have been Paul who helped me get the taxi; it has to have been.
Maybe I should call him, I think, as I close my purse and put it back into the handbag. I could explain myself; tell him that it was a one-off incident brought about by exhaustion; that I don’t drink excessively, that a large glass is usually my limit. But then I change my mind. The poor man’s probably had enough of me for one night.
The pain in my head intensifies as I get to my feet. I go down to the kitchen and take out two painkillers from the box in the cupboard, washing them down with a glass of water. As I stand at the sink I am startled by the sight of a gaunt skeletal woman glaring at me from the window. I jump back then realize that it’s me. Jesus, I look a state. I need to rest otherwise I’m going to make myself ill.
Back upstairs I pop two of my sleeping pills into my mouth, swallowing them with the remainder of the water. Then, turning off the light, I get back into bed.
But as my head touches the pillow I am dragged back by a piercing scream. It sounds like the noise a cat makes when you step on its paw. I sit up in the bed and listen. Another scream. This time softer, a pathetic resigned yelp that dissolves into a series of low moans and sobs. Foxes, perhaps?
I climb out of bed and open the curtains. Flocculent night clouds drift across the sky and the lights from the distant pier trickle through them like thin golden arteries. The noises have stopped and all seems calm. Get some sleep, Kate, I tell myself, stepping away from the window. But as I go to close the curtains, I see something.
A small figure is crouched in my mother’s flower bed.
My stomach contracts. This can’t be happening. I’m awake. The nightmares don’t come when I’m awake.
I blink my eyes. But, no, the figure is still there, right in front of me. This is no hallucination; there is a child in my mother’s flower bed.
I stand at the window looking out. For once I have no idea what to do. The child isn’t moving and, for a moment, I think it may be dead. But then the figure looks up, right up, at the window, and I gasp. In the glow from the moon I can see that it’s a boy.
I pick my phone up from off the floor.
‘Hello, yes,’ I say when I finally get through, my hands shaking. ‘I need to report a case of child abuse. He’s the child of my neighbours and he’s . . . he’s in my garden. He’s there right now. He must be freezing. I heard a scream a few moments ago then I looked out and . . . Sorry? My name? It’s Kate Rafter, 46 Smythley Road, and as I said the boy is the child of my neighbours, they live at 44 Smythley Road. Yes, he’s alone as far as I can tell. Where am I? I’m standing at my bedroom window looking out and he’s huddled up in the cold. Thank you so much. What? Oh gosh, I’m afraid I can’t remember the postcode right now . . . it’s my mother’s house, she died and I’m . . . er, it’s Smythley Road by the . . . Okay, that’s great. Sorry? Why do you need that? Okay. It’s 16.06.75. Yes. And please do hurry. He’s not moving . . .’
I can’t wait any longer – I slam the phone down and run downstairs. On the way I go to the cupboard on the landing and take out a thick blanket. It smells of dust and mothballs but it will be warm. He’ll be so cold out there.
Before I can get out of the back door I hear a noise at the front and run to the window. The police have arrived. I open the door to two police officers, a thickset older man and a pointy-faced young woman with a heavy fringe that nearly covers her eyes.
‘Mrs Rafter?’ asks the woman. She looks shocked. They obviously don’t get many calls like this in Herne Bay.
‘Yes, come quickly,’ I say. ‘He’s out there . . . I was just going . . . he’s in the flower bed . . .’
I march them through the house and into the kitchen. My head feels woozy and I hear the female officer sigh as I struggle with the back-door key. Finally it yields and I beckon them outside.