Page 36 of 59 Minutes

MRS DABB

The solar streetlights are limp and create more shadows than light as she heads out of Chagford again, passing shuttered cottages, parked cars, vans and trucks.

Could it have just been some random creep in a random truck, enticing girls with free gadgets?

But if so, why just Bunny? And why wouldn’t she tell Jasmine?

Why wouldn’t she tell her own family, for that matter?

She’s been drilled on the importance of speaking up if strangers approach her; did she really want a phone that badly?

No, she thinks with a jagged swallow and a sinking heart, there was nothing random about this. Bunny was clearly nursing unasked questions, and someone slid down their truck window right on cue to answer them.

The last time Bunny asked anything about that side , the only real time, was years ago, and it was theoretical, broad. Some jerk kid at primary school had said something and Bunny came home, fidgeting and wriggling with questions.

‘It’s up to you what you tell her,’ Mary had said, when she asked for advice but actually wanted reassurance. ‘But you have to tell her something or she’ll fill in the blanks herself and that doesn’t always go well.’

‘I don’t know what more to say. I said she’s lucky to have people who love her, that she’s being raised by a village—’

‘Raised by a village? She’s being raised by a mother who won’t give her a straight answer, no wonder she’s confused.’

It had hung in the air too long, silence burning the oxygen in the room until Mary had apologised. The whole thing was then punted down the line. And here’s where it landed.

The light from the headlamps shimmers in the fog, picking out the berry-bare brambles that have consumed these hedgerows.

A car shoots past, just missing her. Its lights are so faint it may as well not have any. She sucks in a breath, feels her pulse hammering in her temples but stays on course. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had crashed on these lanes. Not her problem though. Not today.

Don’t be mean, Mum.

The voice appears fully formed in her head, as if her daughter had climbed inside her thoughts.

You don’t understand, she tells an imaginary Bunny. You can’t understand until you’ve been unable to fix someone.

She looks at the clock, so much time lost already. The fog seems slightly lighter now, which helps her go faster. She doesn’t want to get to her destination, she never wanted to return there, but she must. Somehow, it’s become her only hope.

The last time she saw inside his house was when she woke up there, fourteen years ago, with a mouth that tasted of bad decisions and a stomach churning with guilt.

He was lying across the bed, hairy arse out, one arm pinning her into position. The coverless duvet was in a heap on the floor, the sheets smelled of sweat, cum and booze. And all she could think, as her eyeballs throbbed in their sockets, was you’re not my person. You, will never be my person.

A month later, holding the positive test result in one hand while her actual person made breakfast the other side of the bathroom door, she vowed that whoever this little baby turned into would never know how he or she came to be.

It seemed simple. Bunny would never be his, but now he’s got to her anyway.

As she swings around the bend, a truck up ahead slides into view.

Whoever it was had an old truck, that’s all I know. They called her over to them but I didn’t see who was inside.

She presses harder on the accelerator.