The Year of the Rat Read Online Free PDF Page A

thinks
they’re just being nice, that they’re like that to everyone, regardless of whether they happen to be tall and blonde and extremely attractive. Mum always used to worry that it would
bother me.
You’re beautiful too,
she’d say.
Just in a . . . different sort of
way.
But it doesn’t bother me. People assume there’s nothing more to
Molly than being pretty. That’s why we’ve always been best friends: I’ve always known different.
    ‘I can help you?’ the waiter says hopefully in an eastern European accent, even though everyone else has to order at the counter.
    ‘Don’t fuss, Molls, I’m fine,’ I say, clenching my teeth to stop them chattering.
    ‘You’re not,’ she says, full of concern. ‘You’re wringing wet. Look at you. You’re shivering.’
    ‘You want me to bring a towel? It’s no problem,’ he says.
    ‘No.’
    But he’s not even listening to me, he’s transfixed by Molly.
    ‘Could you?’ she says. ‘Thanks so much.’
    ‘I said I’m fine,’ I say too loudly. A man on the other side of the cafe looks up from his plate of egg, bacon and beans and I huddle down into my wet clothes, trying to look
inconspicuous. ‘Just a cappuccino thanks,’ I mutter and the waiter drags himself away, still grinning stupidly at Molly, though she’s far too busy fussing over me to pay any
attention.
    ‘I’ve been so worried about you,’ she says. I can’t think of anything to say. I’m still half thinking about the house, the girl in the window, the figure I thought
was Mum. I was so sure it was her.
    ‘I wanted to wait and speak to you after the funeral, but Mum said we should just go,’ Molly carries on. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all the time. What you must have
been going through.’ She shakes her head. ‘It must have been so awful, Pearl. I’ve been so desperate to speak to you.’
    ‘Well, sorry,’ I say harshly, thinking of all the times she’s phoned and I haven’t answered, all the texts I’ve ignored, sitting on my own in the house waiting for
Mum. ‘I’ve been kind of busy.’
    She stares at me and goes red.
    ‘I know . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ she stumbles, confused. ‘I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do . . .’
    Water is still trickling from my hair, cold down the back of my neck.
    ‘You can’t do anything,’ I say.
    She watches me, her eyes big and puzzled.
    ‘I thought you might want to talk. I know I can’t change anything, but it might make you feel better to talk about how you’re feeling.’
    We’ve always talked about everything. Right from when we were little kids. But how can I now? What would she say if she knew what I was really feeling?
I
hate the baby. It
should be her that’s dead.
Even lovely, kind, understanding Molly might find that a bit hard to take.
I saw my mum at her funeral and now I’m waiting for her to come
back again?
I don’t think so.
    ‘I was going to come round, but I didn’t know . . .’ She trails off and her eyes fill with tears again. I look away. I know I’m being cruel, but I don’t seem to be
able to stop.
    ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she says again.
    The smiling waiter brings our coffees. I make patterns in the top of my cappuccino with my spoon.
    ‘How’s the baby?’ Molly says at last. My heart thuds. I knew she’d ask eventually.
    I shrug. ‘Dad thinks she’ll die.’ I hold a sugar cube in the coffee and watch the brown stain climb till it almost touches my fingers. ‘She won’t though.’
    ‘No.’ Molly pounces on something she can be positive about. ‘Course she won’t. She must be a fighter, to have survived till now. Every day she’ll be getting
stronger.’
    The sugar cube disintegrates and falls into the coffee.
    ‘How long will she be in hospital?’
    ‘Dunno. Weeks. Months probably. That’s what they told Dad.’
    ‘It’s like a kind of miracle, isn’t it? That she’s alive.’
    I knew I shouldn’t have come. I want to just get up and