Page 66 of 59 Minutes

MRS DABB

‘I know there’s stuff we need to talk about,’ Bunny says, cautiously, chewing her nails.

‘It can wait, Bunny Rabbit.’

‘It really can?’ Oh, her voice. She is still a little girl, deep down. Still the same child who would strike out on some caper and then need picking up and carrying home. Still cuddly even now she’s at secondary school.

‘That can all wait. I’m just so glad you’re home and safe. Especially …’ She swallows, the words hard as marbles in her throat. ‘Especially on a day when so many people didn’t make it home.’

The television screen cuts between carnage from around the country and the preparations for a service from St Paul’s, just about to start. A BBC voice-over sombrely reads the numbers, the accidental deaths, the suicides, the murders. Mary’s chin trembles with the effort of containing her despair.

Outside the cottage, an engine growls past and Bunny sits up, alarmed.

‘Who is that?’ Her voice is the same as when she was little and woke with a gasping nightmare.

Mary eases herself to a stand and pulls the curtains open a crack, peering out.

‘There’s no one there now.’ She smooths the curtains back together and sits down with a sigh. ‘It was someone just driving past.’

The screen shows politicians and dignitaries picking their way to the doors of St Paul’s in long black coats. Many of the same grim faces who stood at the Cenotaph last Sunday, the poppies are still in their lapels. No king, of course, he is in Greece, where he will stay.

Mary isn’t watching. She is staring at her granddaughter, who flinches and looks behind her, just quickly. ‘Bunny,’ she says, putting her mug down with a slop onto the carpet. ‘Bunny, look at me.’

Bunny turns her head slowly but avoids her grandmother’s eyes.

‘I think there’s something you’re not telling us.’

‘Mary, don’t …’

Mary keeps her eyes on Bunny, who is paling like she could vomit again. She suddenly flinches again and whispers, ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’

Bunny is rigid with fear again but then she shakes her head. ‘Nothing,’ she says.

‘Bunny,’ Mary says, ‘what’s going on?’

‘I’m just scared,’ Bunny says. ‘Because the bad people are still out there.’

‘You locked the back door after I came in, didn’t you?’ Mary says, a wave of panic spreading through the room.

Did I?

Bunny catches her expression and looks terrified, burrowing deeper into the corner of the sofa but Mary has already bustled out into the kitchen. The sound of the key being turned and the bolt sliding across is audible even over the horrifying television commentary.

‘The whole house is locked up now, Bunny. I promise, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘Are you sure, Mum?’ she says, her voice small. But before she can reply, Mary comes back into the living room and sits right next to Bunny.

‘Listen,’ Mary says, so firmly that Bunny shrinks back and closes her eyes.

‘Bunny, look at me.’ It takes ten, maybe fifteen seconds before Bunny slowly unscrews her eyes and looks at her grandmother. Her expression is steeped in shame and fear.

‘What aren’t you telling us, girl?’