Ruth looked at the windows, the coming night. She did not seem at a loss, only waiting for some boring and pointless noise to end.

Rachaela felt fury then.

It was a fearful rage, in which everything became abruptly mixed, the aversions and angers of twelve years.

‘What are you, you horrible little beast?’ Rachaela shouted.

Ruth looked at her after all.

The white, black, red face was surprised, just for a moment, then it settled into a closed mask. Rachaela remembered this from long ago. She had seen this expression, this lack of expression, this closing in and down, on the face of the demon baby Ruth had once been.

‘It wasn’t a game,’ said Rachaela. ‘It was something disgusting that came out of your foul head.’

‘Lucile will be all right,’ said Ruth, flatly.

‘I don’t care about Lucile, that revolting little fool. I don’t care about you, either. If you want to act out this sickness you’ve got then I suppose you must. But why bring it here? Why involve me in it, you bloody filthy little beast!’

Ruth wriggled, like a child embarrassed in class. Then she was entirely still, passive again, almost inanimate.

‘Look at me,’ said Rachaela.

And Ruth fixed her eyes on her mother.

For a second there was a peculiar juxtaposition. It seemed Ruth’s eyes were scarlet and her mouth black.

‘Have your bath and go to bed,’ Rachaela said. ‘If you’re hungry you can make yourself a sandwich. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to see you.’

‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Ruth.

And picking up her nightshirt from under the pillow, she went into the bathroom.

In the morning Rachaela left Ruth to get her own breakfast. Ruth poured cornflakes and milk, and ate them sitting at the table where Rachaela drank her coffee.

Ruth did not attempt to speak to Rachaela.

She took up her satchel and went without a word.

Getting to her feet, Rachaela saw her from the window, dawdling off along the road towards school.

At twenty past nine the telephone rang. Usually there were no calls save the occasional wrong number.

This was not a wrong number.

‘I’m Mrs Keating, Lucile’s mother.’

‘Yes?’

‘I suppose you know why I’m phoning.’ Rachaela did not reply. She heard Mrs Keating bridle at the other end of the line. ‘Your child attacked Lucile yesterday. I wondered what you had to say about it.’

‘Nothing, really. Lucile wasn’t hurt.’

‘If you call that awful black bruise on her neck not being hurt—what is your child, some sort of monster?’

Yes, how clever of you, Rachaela thought.

She said nothing.