‘The morning of the miscarriage I’d got a message from my close friend,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a translator I’ve known for years and he told me that terrible things were happening in Aleppo. I felt I needed to go back and find out what was going on. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’
‘So apart from the translator, it was just going to be you and the photographer crossing the border into Syria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did that concern you?’
‘No. We’d done this many, many times before. Graham was highly experienced and we’d worked together a lot over the years.’
‘And Chris? Did you let him know you were going?’
‘No, I didn’t tell Chris I was going. Why would I? We were over.’
‘And how would you describe your mental state at this point, as you prepared to return to Syria?’
‘My mental state?’
‘How were you feeling?’ she goes on. ‘Were you happy, fearful, nervous?’
I shake my head.
‘I was numb, Dr Shaw,’ I say. ‘Completely and utterly numb.’
20
Friday 17 April 2015
I am sitting at the table in my mother’s kitchen watching Paul as he prepares lunch. I haven’t mentioned last night. Part of me still isn’t sure it really happened. Although the soil I found on the kitchen floor this morning tells me it must have. And even now, as I sit here with the back door open, I can smell my blood dream: a faint whisper of death.
‘I’ve bookmarked a shortlist for you to have a look at,’ Paul says, his face moistening as he stands over a vat of steaming hot soup, pulverizing the liquid with a shiny chrome blender. Apparently he got the morning off work and thought it might be nice if we spent it looking at bathroom suites. Not exactly my idea of fun, but according to him a new bathroom will make all the difference once Mum’s house goes on the market.
I look at the small black laptop that sits on the table in front of me. Paul has kindly opened up the bookmarked web pages and now it is down to me to decide between the gleaming white ‘Sorrel’ suite, the off-white hexagonal ‘Myriad’, the silvery-grey ‘Bartley’ and, the wild card, a burnt-orange number named ‘Sienna’. They all look fine to me and are similar in price. I told Paul that I would foot the bill for the bathroom. He has done so much already, it’s the least I can do.
‘I think we should go for the Myriad,’ I say, moving the laptop to one side as he places a large bowl of vegetable soup in front of me. It smells sweet and nutty and my stomach growls with hunger. I hadn’t been able to face breakfast as, no matter how much I had scrubbed, the stench of the blood dream seemed to cling to my skin.
‘Are you sure the shape won’t put people off?’ asks Paul, taking the seat opposite me. He slices a hunk of bread from a granary loaf and places it on my plate. ‘Here, I got the seeded stuff from the fancy bakery for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That’s really sweet of you.’
I take the bread and dip a little into the soup.
‘I like the shape,’ I say, putting the bread in my mouth. ‘Sharp edges are good. You should see my apartment, it’s one big sharp edge.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ says Paul. He pauses to slurp his soup. ‘I bet it’s all minimalist and white, your place.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I reply. ‘It’s my reaction against all the chintz I grew up with.’
‘I’ll have to see it some time, your flat,’ says Paul. ‘Bring Sally too,’ he adds. ‘Make a day of it.’
‘You’re more than welcome,’ I reply. ‘But I can’t see Sally making the trip. I’ve lived in that flat for almost fifteen years and she hasn’t visited me once.’
‘Well, I’d like to see it one day,’ he says. ‘You can show me the sights of Soho.’
He laughs awkwardly and we sit for a few moments in uncomfortable silence.
I take a mouthful of the soup. It has cooled slightly and tepid soup makes me queasy at the best of times. I put my spoon down and play with a morsel of bread.
‘Anyway, where were we?’ says Paul, pulling the laptop towards him. ‘The Myriad. If you’re happy with it, I’m happy to trust your better judgement. I’ll order it this afternoon and we can settle up later.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’ll write you a cheque before you go.’
‘Are you finished?’ he says, gesturing to my half-empty bowl.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I reply, handing it to him. ‘It was lovely.’
‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asks as he balances the bowls and plates in the crook of his arm and takes them over to the sink.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, pulling the laptop over to have another look at the ‘Myriad’ bathroom suite. I try to imagine what it would look like in my mother’s bathroom. I think back to this morning when I stood in the mildewed pink bath holding the sorry excuse for a showerhead over my body with one hand while using the other hand to scrub at my skin with a sliver of carbolic soap. Yes, I think, as Paul returns to the table with the coffee pot, the ‘Myriad’ is a very good idea.
As we sit, Paul pulls the computer towards him and opens up Facebook. ‘Just got to check my messages,’ he says.