So, I just want you to know that I don’t blame you. I did for a while. Even after the coroner said it was an accident and the police didn’t take any action, I still hated you. I had to. I was so angry with you, with the police, with Robbie, but mainly with myself for not keeping my baby safe.

But I’m not angry now. And I know none of this was your fault. Robbie just ran out. There was nothing you could do. In fact, it was a miracle more people weren’t hurt.

I don’t suppose it makes much difference to you – maybe you have forgotten all about us – but I wanted to tell you that. I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault.

Please don’t write back. I don’t want that. But I just had to do this for myself.

Yours sincerely,

Karen Smith

Pip looked up from the letter, stunned. She couldn’t register any emotions at all. It was as if someone had just wiped her mind clean, like a blackboard in a classroom. The words were clear enough; she understood their meaning, but she was numb. She could find no response to them.

The boy’s mother did not blame her. The mother of the child she killed could see that it had been an accident, a horrible, tragic accident. Pip knew she would blame herself for the rest of her life, but maybe her guilt would be easier to bear knowing that the one person who had the most reason to blame her did not.

Suddenly, Pip needed her own mother. The desire to be with her was so strong that she swept the letter up in one hand and ran from her room, shouting for her as if her life depended on it. Her mother appeared in the hallway at once, her eyes wide.

‘What is it, Pip?’ she asked, anxiety clipping her words short. ‘What’s happened?’

Pip hurtled down the stairs and threw herself into her so hard that her mother took a few steps backwards before she could regain her balance. She wrapped her arms tightly around Pip without asking any further questions and Pip began to sob hard into her shoulder. She could feel her mother’s hand stroking her hair in a gentle repetitive rhythm, like she had done when she was a little girl. There, there, Pip. There, there.

‘She says it wasn’t my fault,’ Pip blurted through her tears. ‘The accident wasn’t my fault.’

‘Well, of course it wasn’t,’ her mother replied softly. ‘You know that.’

‘But she said it,’ Pip sobbed.

‘Who said it, Pip? You’re not making much sense.’

‘The woman. The mother. Of the boy. Robbie. She said it. She sent the letter and she said it.’

‘Ah,’ replied her mother, as if no further explanation were required. ‘Good.’

Pip stayed there, cocooned, until she finally stopped trembling.

48

48