‘Come on, Kate!’
My body feels so heavy. My arm is throbbing and when I look down I see that it’s bleeding in several places. I must have cut it climbing. A seagull cries overhead. Seabirds can smell blood, like the vultures in Ethiopia. I drag myself up on to the ledge. It is wide and I manage to get both feet on to it but as I stand up straight the wind almost sends me flying backwards.
‘Lean into it,’ shouts Paul. ‘That way you’ll get your balance.’
I do as he says and lean my body into the cliff face; so close I can taste seaweed.
‘Now grab that ledge just above you.’
I look up into the driving rain and see a wide bit of rock jutting out. I’m terrified it won’t hold my weight but I reach up and haul myself on to it.
‘Good girl,’ shouts Paul from somewhere above me. ‘Just a couple more to go and then you’ll reach the top.’
I get myself into a standing position and reach out for the next ledge. It’s closer this time and more sturdy. I get myself on to it but I have to stop to catch my breath.
‘Come on, you’re nearly there. One more to go.’
I see the next ledge but it is so far up I’m scared I won’t make it. My legs are numb with cold and if I miss my footing it’s a long way down.
‘Just grab it, Kate!’
His voice spurs me on and I pull myself on to the ledge.
‘Good girl.’
I look up and see him.
‘Now on a count of three I want you to grab my hand,’ he shouts.
I look up and see his hand hanging over the edge.
‘Kate. I’m going to count. Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ I call. My hands are trembling.
‘One.’
I wipe my shaking hand on the back of my sleeve.
‘Two.’
The water below me is a raging sea. All I can do is go forward, no matter how terrifying.
‘Three.’
I reach out and grab his hand and he holds me so tight I fear he will break my wrist. Soon I am flying through the air, over the cliffs, off into the ether it seems, and I close my eyes, waiting for the moment he loses his grip and I fall. But I don’t. We do it. We hold on to each other and we don’t let go until I’m safely on the clifftop. Paul puts his coat over me as I lie there trying to get my breath.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he cries as he pulls me towards him. ‘Jesus, I really thought I’d . . .’
He buries his face in my shoulder and as I hold him close I feel his body trembling.
‘Shall we go home?’ I whisper into his sodden hair.
He looks up and it may be the salt in my eyes or the dense mist that hangs over the clifftop, but he looks different. His hair, battered by the wind and the rain, looks black. I watch as he pushes it out of his eyes and a familiar sensation twists inside my stomach. He looks, for a moment, like someone else.
‘Yes, I think we should,’ he says. We get to our feet and stand face to face, our backs against the violent coastal air. ‘Come on.’
I nod my head and he takes my hand as we walk silently towards the lights of the bay.
24
Herne Bay Police Station
36 hours detained
The air has changed inside the interview room and I am finding it difficult to breathe.
‘Could we open a window?’ I ask Shaw. ‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘It’s the central heating,’ she replies. ‘It comes on automatically. I’m afraid the window only opens slightly but I can see if it helps.’
She goes to stand up but I shake my head.
‘Oh, don’t bother, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘Let’s just carry on.’
I take off my cardigan and drape it over the back of the chair. As I sit here in my flimsy vest and mud-splattered jeans I feel vulnerable, exposed. As though I have no dignity left.
‘Okay,’ says Shaw. ‘Let’s continue, if you can, Kate.’
She looks down and reads from her notes.
‘Nidal was playing football in the hallway. His father came out of the room and they argued. Then you told the boy that he should listen to his father and stop playing football. The boy shouted and ran away.’
It all sounds so neat and contained, nothing like how it actually was.
‘What happened then?’ asks Shaw.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Please just try,’ says Shaw.
I don’t answer. Silence seems so appealing. I feel like I have no words left.
‘Perhaps if I can read you the account Graham Turner gave to Harry Vine when he returned from Aleppo,’ says Shaw, her voice calm and deliberate.
‘No,’ I cry. ‘Please don’t do that.’ How could Harry do this to me?
‘Kate, I need to understand the conditions that led to your arrest at number 44 Smythley Road,’ she says. ‘And part of that is to look at what happened that day in Aleppo.’
She is holding an A4 sheet of paper. So that’s all it took to sum up what happened, Graham? A few lousy paragraphs?
‘Account given by Graham Turner,’ Shaw begins.