On she went, her speech salvaged, her composure just about recovered. Outwardly, at least. Because inside she was on fire with the terror and mortification of what had just happened; she had gone hurtling straight back to the bad old days, to the bleep and whirr of the hospital machines, to the policeman taking notes and asking her to sign a statement, to the stony-faced jury in the courtroom.

Somehow she was still talking on automatic pilot, she was saying all the right things in the right order, she had drawn her audience back so that they were rapt, hanging on her every word. But oh boy, this was it – she was done, she thought to herself as she paused for breath. Just as soon as this was over, just as soon as she was allowed to leave, she was driving back home to Dave and safe anonymity. And whatever Margaret said, however coaxingly she pleaded, Bunny was never doing this again, never, and that was that.

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Something strange had happened to Alison since the night of the thunderstorm. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact moment things changed, it was more that there had been a gradual dimming of her usual ebullience, as if her happiness dial had been turned down low. After finishing work on Monday, she found herself driving the long way home and stopping for petrol, even though she still had half a tankful. She paused to chat to the lad at the cash desk, until she realized he was glancing behind her apologetically to the customers waiting their turn, at which point she turned bright red and stuffed her purse back in her bag.

‘Some of us do actually want to get home tonight, you know,’ somebody muttered unkindly as she scuttled past.

It was only when she was sitting at the wheel of her car again, key slotted in the ignition, that the words resonated fully. Because unlike the grumpy woman in the queue, Alison didn’t feel her normal enthusiasm for going home. In fact, when she thought about walking in there and sitting down in her usual spot in the living room, she realized with a start that she felt almost . . . well, depressed, at the prospect.

Depressed, she scoffed to herself in the next moment, starting the engine and driving away, rolling her eyes at her own melodrama. Her, depressed! It was ridiculous. Of course she wasn’t depressed.

But then when she was inside and the front door was closed behind her, the feeling descended upon her again, this sort of gloom, settling like soft, chilly snowflakes in her hair, on her shoulders. She’d always thought of her house as cosy, her little refuge from the rest of the world, but tonight the walls seemed to be closing in. The very air seemed to be smothering her. Knowing it was irrational, knowing that she was overreacting, she found herself walking straight through to the kitchen and out of the back door, where she sank down onto the doorstep, breathing heavily.