Free The Girl in the Red Coat by Kate Hamer Page A

know who the rabbit is, and the rabbit is me.

14
    DAY 2
     
    I fell asleep for about an hour, sitting on the sofa with my head tilted sideways on a cushion. God knows how I managed it, but then it wasn’t really like sleep. Sleeping should be forgetting and I didn’t forget at all. Not when I was asleep or when I woke up. I felt gratitude I’d been spared at least the terrible painful jolt of remembering.
    When I opened my eyes the police liaison officer – Sophie – was sitting in exactly the same place, on an opposite chair, reading texts on her phone. She looked neat and tidy despite being up through the night; her blond bun hadn’t come loose, even a little bit.
    ‘Hello,’ she said.
    I threw off the blanket and swung my feet to the floor. ‘Any … any news?’ I asked, my breath coming quick and fast.
    ‘Not yet.’ She leaned over and briefly touched my arm and went to fill the kettle.
    Then I was suffused with a kind of pain I’d never experienced before. It ran through me, as if I was made of fibre-optic wires, flowing into my hands, my throat, everywhere. I sat for a few moments, wondering how it was possible to function with such pain and dread.
    Stand up, I told myself and amazingly my body obeyed.
    Behind me I could hear Sophie filling the kettle, pouring milk. I went to the back door to breathe in some fresh air. The fog from yesterday had lifted completely. It was early, but already it was the most glorious sunlit morning. The tree shone with drops of dew and a scented steam rose from the grass as the sun dried it out. It seemed incredible to me that the world had turned once again on its axis and carried on as if not one thing had happened : the sun had risen and the birds were singing and bees and insects were busy buzzing away in the trees and grass.
    On the washing line were the clothes I’d hung out the morning before, just before we’d left to catch the train. Carmel’s striped pyjamas, her T-shirts and a row of her knickers – candy pink, white and yellow – danced about in the breeze. My head hurt, the sunlight sliced bright curved beams into my eyes and the clothes seemed to perform a jig in the wind – where’s Carmel? they mocked. Have you lost her? Is she gone? Have you lost her? Wha-hee.
    A wave of nausea engulfed me and I doubled over, there by the back door. There was a startled shout and the sound of the kettle banging down and Sophie was beside me and one arm was going round my back and the other one cradled my head and she gently, gently helped me to stand up again.
    She looked out into the garden. ‘Shall I get those things in?’ she asked.
    I nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll help you.’

15
    When I wake up for the second time it’s properly light but I’ve got trouble remembering where I am. I blink a lot on purpose which is the trick I do when I want to wake myself up properly.
    The room is huge with a high ceiling and bare floorboards, like I’m ill and in an old-fashioned hospital except my bed’s the only one in here. There’s no curtains and the sun shines right onto me and feels warm on my face. On the windowsill there’s a lot of dust and black bits mixed in with chunks from the ceiling fallen onto it.
    Bits of yesterday start to come back to me in flashes. But they’re jumbled up: the black-and-green shiny face looking down at me; the man with owl eyes jumping up out of nowhere; the long dark time in the car; the giant book; Mum on the train saying ‘nearly there, nearly there’; biting into a hot dog and snapping off the head of a long red worm of ketchup.
    Mum’s brown boots sticking out from under a truck.
    I don’t need to blink any more when I remember that. I sit up straight and a scream comes out of me I didn’t even try to make. It jumps out of me like a sneeze does.
    The scream goes, ‘Oh no, no.’ And the sound flies up into the air and bounces around the ceiling. My legs kick up and down and the horrible thick blankets fall onto the floor in a