Paul goes on ahead and climbs over the low wire fence heading for the side of the towers. The wind is fierce up here and I steady myself as we walk towards what would have been the main entrance of the fort. From this angle it doesn’t look like a ruin but a beautiful complete building, its V-shaped facade dwarfed by the towers on either side. An optical illusion that’s just as breathtaking now as it was when I first saw it. I see Paul’s head darting in and out of the stones and as I walk towards him the building appears to crumble, spilling its rubble behind it like entrails hanging from a slaughtered body.
I step back to let a group of tourists past. They are following a tall man in a black trilby hat and frock coat. He speaks in a loud theatrical voice as he leads them deeper inside the ruins.
‘It’s been said that these towers are one of the most active sites in Kent for paranormal activity,’ he booms.
The tourists follow him, open-mouthed, as he continues. ‘You must agree there is a deeply disturbing presence here.’ He looks at them expectantly and they nod in unison. A woman in a purple waistcoat takes a photograph but the guide puts out a gloved hand. ‘Perhaps later. We don’t want to disturb the inhabitants.’
Paul jumps down from the rock he is standing on and comes to join me by the information board.
‘He’s talking about the children,’ he whispers, leaning towards me, and I shiver at the coldness of his breath on my neck.
‘Oh, that old story,’ I say, turning to face him. ‘Are they still trotting it out?’
I remember the tales of the children that were supposedly buried alive in the foundations of the fort. The legend was that they had been offered up as a sacrifice to consecrate the building. On dark and stormy nights their screams could be heard in the grounds of the fort. It was the usual fodder designed to lure tourists to the site.
‘You have to admit there is an odd feeling here, though,’ says Paul as we abandon the noticeboard and walk towards the cliff edge. ‘I certainly felt it as a kid. Once, I even thought I heard something.’
‘What did you hear?’
I duck as a sand martin darts past my head.
‘Voices. Screams. I can hear them now. Can you?’
I look at him. He is winding me up, surely? But his face is deadly serious.
‘The only screams I can hear are those of the parents who’ve just been charged a tenner for a couple of ice creams,’ I say, laughing shakily. ‘I don’t believe in the supernatural, Paul, and I don’t believe that the Romans buried their children alive in these towers.’
‘Why not? They threw Christians to the lions.’ Paul grimaces. ‘Can you imagine being buried alive?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I say as a shiver flutters through me. ‘Hey, Paul, speaking of children, have you managed to ask the letting agent about the people at number 44 yet? About the boy?’
‘I haven’t had the chance, Kate,’ he says. ‘Work’s been mental recently and to be honest . . .’ He goes quiet and shakes his head.
‘What?’ I ask him. ‘What were you about to say?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Well, it’s just that . . . well, I understand,’ he says. ‘I mean, it’s natural after all you’ve been through.’
‘What’s natural?’
‘Hearing things, seeing things,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘It’s the grief, isn’t it? I’ve read about it. It was a boy, wasn’t it, in Syria?’
‘I know what I saw, Paul,’ I say, anger rising through me. ‘I know it was real.’
‘Look, don’t get yourself upset,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘I’ll talk to the letting agent as soon as I can, yeah? Put your mind at rest. Now, come on. How about we go down to the beach and have our picnic? I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’
23
We jostle through the tourists and make our way down the steps to the beach. And as my feet sink into the sand and the smell of the sea fills the air I hear her.
Come on, girls, sandwiches!
I follow her voice to a secluded spot where Paul stands unfolding a giant tartan beach rug.
One more page, Mum, then I’ll be there.
Paul opens his rucksack and brings out flasks of hot tea, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil and a round biscuit tin full of shortbread, my favourite.
Don’t be scaring yourself silly now, love. Put the book away and come and have some cake.
I sit down on the blanket, take the flask and pour myself a cup of hot tea while Paul unwraps a sandwich.
Now, let’s talk about nice things.
I sip the tea and feel its goodness trickle down my throat, filling my body with wholesomeness. For once Paul is quiet, and I lie back on the rug.
The sea air is making me sleepy and I close my eyes. I can hear the waves whispering in the distance and my mother’s soothing words.
See, told you it would do you good.
I have spent the last few days trying to locate my mother in that house when all along she has been here, deep amongst the ruins on Reculver beach.
As the sound of the sea lulls me to sleep I see him. He is out on the street with his football; his back to me. I pound my fists on the window.
‘Look up, Nidal! For God’s sake look up.’
But he is lost in his game and can’t hear me.
‘Look up, child. Please look up.’
A man’s voice speaks over mine. Graham.
‘We have to tell his parents, Kate.’