As she continues I put my head in my hands and try to drown out her words with the rhythm of my breathing.
‘We had been staying in downtown Aleppo for a week and during that time Kate had befriended a young Syrian boy, the son of the family we were staying with. Her behaviour went beyond the professional and I could see that she was becoming emotionally involved with the boy and his family to the detriment of our safety.’
I think of Graham Turner, my friend, my colleague, the man who’d accompanied me through hell on so many occasions, and I wonder why he has done this to me; why he felt the need to betray me like this.
Shaw clears her throat and continues:
‘On the afternoon of 29th March we had been disturbed by the boy kicking a football outside our room. Kate ran out to see him and the next thing I knew she had grabbed her shoes and was making her way to the shop above to find the boy. At that time of day it was a grave mistake as the district was under heavy bombardment and the shop was in a prominent position. Alarmed for her safety, I ran after her, and when I got to the door of the shop I saw her outside on the street.’
Tears stream down my face as I sit listening to Graham’s words. I can smell the dust and the petrol in my mouth as Shaw continues.
‘She was talking to the boy and telling him that if he came back inside she would take him to England.’
‘And I would have,’ I sob. You bastard, Graham. ‘I would have taken that child anywhere he wanted to go if it meant I could have saved him.’
Shaw waits for me to catch my breath then continues.
‘I opened the door and saw them coming towards me. The boy had taken her hand and they were coming back inside.’
‘No, no, no,’ I wail as I feel his little hand in mine. ‘Don’t do this to me.’
We were nearly there; we were so close.
‘They got to the door and were just about to step inside when the boy said something about his football, said he’d left it in the street. Kate told him to leave it. She said she would buy him a new one. But the boy was frantic. He was pulling at her, trying to break free from her hand. Kate lost her temper. She shouted at him. Told him that it was just a stupid football and to get back inside. Then the boy yanked his hand from hers and ran into the street. She went to run after him but I held her back. I told her not to be so reckless. The street was a no-go area and we needed to get back inside and find the boy’s parents.’
My whole body is shaking. I can’t do this. I need to make her stop. Please make her stop. As she continues with Graham’s account, I put my hands over my ears. But I can’t block out those final moments.
A series of shots. A cloud of dust rising into the air. I can’t see him but I can hear his little voice:
Kate. Help me.
My legs are lead and it seems like for ever until I get to him.
‘Help me!’ he screams.
He’s been shot in the head but it wasn’t a clean shot. He’s still alive.
‘It hurts,’ he whimpers.
‘It’s okay, Nidal,’ I whisper. ‘Help is coming. You’re going to be fine.’
He struggles in my arms and I hold him tighter. Where is Graham? Why isn’t he coming to help?
‘That was a great match, Nidal,’ I whisper. ‘The captain says you’ve made the first team. Next stop: Brazil, eh?’
He squeezes my hand.
‘Not long now and we’ll get you safe,’ I say. ‘Keep your eyes open, Nidal. Don’t close them. Stay awake, baby, stay awake.’
But his eyes are rolling to the back of his head.
‘Come on, Nidal,’ I shout. ‘Come on. You’re not dying here. You hear me? You’re not dying on this street. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to go to Disneyland and we’ll stand on that bridge together, do you hear me? And then you can write all about it in your book of smiles. But you have to open your eyes to see it, Nidal. You have to open your eyes.’
But as I speak he goes limp in my arms.
I hear voices above me; men’s voices. They try to prise him away but I won’t let him go. I won’t.
‘Kate,’ says Shaw, her voice a blade cutting through my heart. ‘Kate, are you okay?’
‘Stop!’ I yell. ‘Stop, stop, stop! What are you trying to do to me? You want me to live through all that again just so you can prove I’ve lost my mind; so you can tick some bloody box? He’s dead. That little boy died, he was shot as he tried to get his football. And it was my fault. I shouted at him. I lost my temper and he ran off. If I’d stayed calm he might still be alive. Is that what you want to hear? That he died in my arms and that ever since that moment he won’t leave me alone; that I see his face and hear his voice every minute of the day?’