Page 51 of 59 Minutes

MRS DABB

The lanes are empty, she cannot see or hear a helicopter now and even the siren seems to have stopped. As if all those official efforts are being packed up and folded away while she is still out here, legs shaking with adrenaline and terror. For herself, for everyone else, but mostly for Bunny.

If Bunny is not at home, there is nowhere to turn. Anyone in a uniform will be far too busy. Any potential Good Samaritans will likely be tucked up inside, eyes glued to the screen, or arms threaded through other arms in the village church, candles lit.

Her pulse is liquid in her ears. Her fingers drum on the wheel in agitation.

She can smell her own fear, sour and curdling.

In the back of the car, something works loose and clatters back and forth across the seat as she swings into the bends.

An old coin or a token for something, something snapped off from an old gadget or purse.

Things just fall off Bunny, inky pens soaking into upholstery, cheap earrings stabbing bare feet from the middle of the rug, bus passes wedged in unlikely places.

The driver always lets her on anyway, she knows that and is grateful, although it was no help today.

She glances at the dashboard clock and taps the pedal to go just a little faster.

She pictures Bunny at home, Mary too, tucking into the piles of food without waiting.

The fire is on as the clock counts down, Bunny wears her pyjamas and precious dressing gown, a gift from her late godfather.

Soon, she will be home too. Please, please let Bunny be there.

And if she is, when she is , have faith – maybe they can just batten down the hatches, switch off the lights and eat scones and cakes until they run out, then ransack the cellar shelves.

Maybe they can hide forever, maybe they never have to have a conversation about the phone, or the bunking off, or Bunny’s biological father.

Never have to look this one in the eye. What will it matter, so long as Bunny’s home?