Free Just What Kind of Mother Are You? by Paula Daly Page B

fag breath .
    What the fuck does she think she’s doing getting this near to him?
    He shifts slightly. His palms are itching furiously now. It’s a deep, crawling sensation beneath his skin. He tries to step away from her, but she’s oblivious. She’s running her fat index finger, the one with the fleck of polish near the cuticle, along the text. Suddenly she’s talking at break-neck speed about freehold leases and mains water and private drainage. His head is scrambled and he can barely breathe because this disgusting woman is taking up all the oxygen .
    He swallows. ‘Please move away from me.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Move away.’
    Affronted, she does as he asks .
    ‘Is something wrong? I can assure you this house is priced very competitively, if you look at other lakeshore properties you’ll find very little difference between—’
    He’s holding up his hand, signalling for her to stop. He closes his eyes and takes one long, slow breath. ‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘but I’m finished here,’ and begins making for the door. Before he reaches it, though, she speaks, and what she says makes him pause .
    ‘You can’t afford this house.’
    He turns, tries to make sense of what she’s saying .
    She continues: ‘You’ve wasted my time. Jesus! It’s not like I’ve not got enough to do.’ She clenches her jaw and looks him up and down, disdainfully .
    Which sadly leaves him no alternative .
    He walks towards her and, pulling back his arm, he forms a fist. It gives him no pleasure at all to do this; he’s not a natural when it comes to violence, but when he hits her square in the face, the force knocks her to the floor three feet away from where she was standing. She comes to rest by the American fridge .
    She’s too stunned to make a sound and perhaps she couldn’t even if she wanted to, because her nose has exploded across her face. Her grotesque mouth is now so full of blood it’s possible she’ll drown in her own juices .
    She lifts her hands to her face in horror, gagging on the secretions in her throat .
    He shakes his head. ‘You are not the right person for this job,’ he says resignedly, and walks out, his bloodied hand thrust deep inside his jacket pocket .

10
    I LOOK AT MY WATCH . It’s only twelve twenty. I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes already this morning. Joe has gone to join the search. Local residents have arranged three different parties. One in Troutbeck, covering the fields between the school and Kate’s house. This is a few square miles, but they’re using quad bikes, the ones the shepherds use for dealing with sheep high up on the fells. The next search party is covering the school grounds, playing fields and the wooded area that runs down from the school to the shores of Lake Windermere. The last is covering the area between the school and Windermere village itself. Plenty of students walk back to Windermere village after school, calling at Greggs, the Co-op, the library (if they’ve not got Broadband at home). It’s just over a mile, and the thinking is that Lucinda could have headed this way if she had in fact decided to run away.
    But I know it’s all fruitless.
    Lucinda didn’t bunk off and go into Windermere. Lucinda has been taken to a place and raped. Just like Molly Rigg.
    I think of Lucinda, and my insides coil tight. She would never run away and put her parents through this. Not in a million years. Sally often complains that Lucinda can be such a goody-goody. It upsets her, the fact that Lucinda never gets told off, that she never comes to lessons unprepared, that she always wins the prize for neatest uniform.
    Lucinda would never leave of her own accord. Never.
    Suddenly, I’m filled with a blind panic and a deep need to have my own children right where I can see them. I run downstairs, my heart pounding, frantically searching for my car keys. I need to get my children and have them at home with me. Safe where no one can touch them. Screw school; they