Thursday's Children by Nicci French Page B

ago. Someone managed to get into my room without anyone noticing them. You were downstairs. Is there nothing you saw or heard?’
    ‘The police asked me all of this.’
    ‘I know. But now I’m asking you.’
    ‘What are you trying to prove? Is this how you’ve spent your adult life, storing up grievances against me?’
    ‘It’s just a simple question.’
    ‘I have a simple answer. I don’t know. I didn’t believe anyone raped you, and the police agreed. I think you were an unhappy, angry teenager and you made up a story that got out of control. That’s why you ran away. What I don’t understand is why you’ve come back.’
    ’You didn’t go out at all, or fall asleep?’
    ‘You always blamed me for Jacob’s death. Is that what this is about?’
    ‘No.’ Freda thought, but didn’t say, that in fact she’d always blamed herself.
    ‘And for recovering from it.’
    ‘Did you recover?’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not your patient.’
    ‘I think it was someone I knew.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘The rapist. I think I must have known him. It wasn’t just opportunistic. It couldn’t have been. He knew where I was. He knew this house.’
    Frieda looked at her mother’s grey, weary face.
    ‘Sometimes you just have to get on with life. That’s what I’ve been doing.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going out in a few minutes. With my bat group.’
    ‘Bat group?’
    ‘We look at bats. It’s like birdwatching. But with bats.’
    ‘I’ll be gone by then. There’s someone else I need to go and see.’
    ‘Are you married?’ Juliet asked abruptly.
    ‘No.’
    ‘No children?’
    ‘No. Can I look at my old room?’
    ‘It’s my study now. You know the way.’
    It had been twenty-three years. Not a trace of Frieda remained. Just a long narrow room, whose window overlooked the garden. There was a flat roof underneath; perhaps someone could have used that. Or walked inthrough the door and up the stairs while her mother sat watching television. Standing by her bed. Looking down at her while she slept. She frowned and ran a finger along the windowsill, collecting a thick ridge of dust. The study didn’t feel used: it was too neat and the computer and Anglepoise lamp were unplugged. On the desk there was a large pile of letters addressed to her mother, some handwritten, others utility bills. None had been opened. Frieda leafed through them, looking at the postage dates. They went back over six months.
    She went downstairs. Her mother was in the hall, tying a scarf over her hair, fumbling clumsily with the knot, a puckered look on her face. She glanced at Frieda and her eyes seemed to flicker.
    ‘How are you feeling?’ Frieda asked.
    ‘It’s a bit late to start sharing feelings.’
    ‘That’s not what I meant.’
    ‘I am a doctor,’ said Juliet. ‘I don’t need to talk to another. If you count as a doctor.’
    ‘Doctors make the worst patients,’ said Frieda.
    ‘Have you got what you came for?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘You know what you can’t stand? You want to think you’re like your beloved father, but really you’re like me.’



14
     
    When Becky opened her front door she gave a look of surprise that was almost comical.
    ‘Have you come all the way here to check up on me?’ she said.
    ‘I come from here, remember?’ said Frieda.
    ‘But I thought you hated this area with a passion.’
    ‘I’m just visiting. I’m showing a friend where I grew up. And while I was here I wanted to see how you were. I really expected to see your mother. I thought you’d be out with friends.’
    ‘What you mean is that I
should
be out with friends.’
    ‘I just wanted to say hello.’
    Becky thought for a moment. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea or coffee?’
    Frieda smiled and shook her head. ‘I’ll be five minutes and then I’ll go.’
    Becky led Frieda through the tiled hallway to a rustic kitchen with copper pans hanging from a rail above an Aga. ‘Let’s go into the