18
Rachel woke in the dark.
Mopoke. Mopoke.
The bird called from somewhere in the garden. What time was it? She turned over and squinted at the luminous hands of the clock on the bedside table. Quarter past two.
How many days had she been sleeping? She forced her mind back. After the man had told her to go home, Alice had walked her to the train because she couldn’t stop trembling. She’d gone home. Had it been two or was it three days at home? She couldn’t remember. It might have been four. She’d sat in the dark, hugging her knees to her chest, and cried. And cried. And cried, like the plug on some vast subterranean lake had been pulled out. How could one body contain so many tears?
Then she’d collapsed.
Rachel turned over. The darkness pressed in around her, hemming her in. She had
