RACHEL

SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
MORNING
I’m not really sure what to do, so I just ring thedoorbell. I wonder whether I should have called first.
It’s not polite to turn up early on a Sunday morningwithout calling, is it? I start to giggle. I feel slightlyhysterical. I don’t really know what I’m doing.
No one comes to the door. The hysterical feelinggrows as I walk round the side of the house, downthe little passageway. I have the strongest feeling ofdéjà vu. That morning, when I came to the house,when I took the little girl. I never meant her anyharm. I’m sure of that now.
I can hear her chattering as I make my way alongthe path in the cool shadow of the house, and Iwonder whether I’m imagining things. But no, thereshe is, and Anna, too, sitting on the patio. I call outto her and hoist myself over the fence. She looks atme. I expect shock, or anger, but she barely evenlooks surprised.
“Hello, Rachel,” she says. She gets to her feet,taking her child by the hand, drawing her to herside. She looks at me, unsmiling, calm. Her eyes arered, her face pale, scrubbed, devoid of makeup.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“I rang the doorbell,” I tell her.
“I didn’t hear it,” she says, hoisting the child uponto her hip. She half turns away from me, asthough she’s about to go into the house, but thenshe just stops. I don’t understand why she’s notyelling at me.
“Where’s Tom, Anna?”
“He went out. Army boys get-together.”
“We need to go, Anna,” I say, and she starts tolaugh.