Page 6 of 59 Minutes

MRS DABB

‘Breathe in, one, two, three; out, one, two, three.’

She cannot see, panic whiting out her vision. She is on the floor, gripping the tiles with her bitten nails. Her ears amplify the sound so it swells through her skull, crushing all her thoughts. The air riffles her clothes though she can’t feel its chill.

But she is breathing. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

‘This is a trauma response,’ her old therapist’s voice says in her head. ‘You’re not in actual danger, your body is just misidentifying risk because of …’

But this is a risk , she argues mentally, with a woman she’s not seen in years. This is a fucking siren, Miranda!

She keeps breathing, as slow and steady as she can manage, until her vision clears and she is back in her body, able to scramble to a stand. What is …? Why is …? Where is …? She tries to parse all her thoughts into separate strands, lay them out in the right order.

When she slams the front door closed, a faint siren can still be heard inside the cottage.

In the lounge, she fumbles for the TV remote.

She thinks, of course, of Devonport in nearby Plymouth.

Of the nuclear submarines still being serviced there, despite everything.

Of how fast the sea wind whips over the countryside towards Chagford, towards this little house, biting away at the soft stone, clawing its way inside.

Twenty-eight miles from Devonport to here, as the crow flies.

And she thinks of Bunny, out there in her thin coat, utterly unprotected.

Then she thinks of her daughter at some earlier point in time, carefully forging a note and doing a good enough job that no one from the school has called to check.

Why did she do it? If she actually had a doctor’s appointment there’d be no reason to keep that secret.

And if it didn’t say she had a doctor’s appointment and Jasmine was either lying or guessing, what else could it have said to allow a thirteen-year-old out of school, unquestioned?

Was she just buying time? Some kind of head start so she could run away? Does she secretly hate me?

Five hours at least before her absence was noted.

How far could she have got in five hours?

Multiple towns and cities. There’s a train station near her school, she could have easily gone to Plymouth, Bristol or Exeter.

From Exeter, she could be in London in about three hours.

Exeter St David’s to Paddington. Or Exeter Central to Waterloo.

‘Stop.’ She hears Miranda’s stern voice. ‘There’s no evidence she’s left the area. You’re spiralling and that won’t help find your daughter.’

She flips the television on, usually set to the local BBC channel, sees the ticker tape news, and drops the remote.

‘Oh my god.’

She has to find Bunny, she has to find out where Bunny has gone, and drag her back to safety.

She thunders up the stairs.

Bunny’s room is chaotic. Clothes strewn everywhere, schoolbooks dumped on the floor.

‘Bunny Dabb – French’, ‘Bunny Dabb – History’ in colourful bubble writing.

The air smells cruelly of her, a cloying mix of hair products and birthday-bought perfume, the slightly sour biscuity smell of the unmade bed, long overdue a stripping.

Heaps of dust create a new topography on every surface. Bunny is now responsible for cleaning her own room and so she just doesn’t. Oh, who cares. Why did I ever care? She is such a good girl in all other ways, so what if she wants to live in age-appropriate squalor?

There is no ‘running away’ note, no obvious signs of bags being packed but it’s such a mess, who knows?

Time is ticking, and she needs some kind of clue.

She collapses down onto her knees and then all fours to rummage under the bed.

Jigsaws they used to do together on a Sunday, piles of exercise books from previous school years, a photo album she can’t bear to open.

Nothing of any relevance to where she could be.

When she stands up again, she notices Bunny’s special teddy, Barnaby, lying on the pillow. There is no way she would run away without him. No way. This should calm her, but doesn’t.

The desk in the corner is a graveyard of mugs and glasses, totally useless for writing on but it has a drawer, which shrieks as she pulls it out.

A sound she realises she’s heard coming from this room, vaguely noted and unidentified.

Inside, amidst the sweet wrappers, old stickers and hairbands furred with brown strands, sits a bright white phone charger.

Bunny really does have a secret phone.