Ninepins by Rosy Thorton Page B

be here soon.
    To stop herself from going outside again to wait in the cold and dark, she went to check the dining room, adjusting the clusters of balloons she had tied to either end of the curtain rail, counting again the twelve red candles which lined the perimeter of the chocolate torte. Maybe she should lay the matches out ready. It could only be in imagination that she heard the release of air, the hiss of a bus braking. Still, she found herself waiting and listening as she resumed her place at the kitchen table – five minutes, eight, ten – until it was too late for the sound of voices or the thud of the front door.
    They’d been there again on Friday when she picked up Beth from school: she seemed always to be with them, now. Outside again, they were perched on the iron railings this time, in front of the main front doors, instead of inside in the warm. It was strange how different girls could look in the same school uniform. Rianna and Caitlin were slim-legged, the stretch black trousers hugging fashionable, longbow thighs; the collars of their polo shirts were turned up at exactly the desirable angle beneath their school fleeces. Even their regulation trainers (‘plain black, no logo’) were subtly chunkier than Beth’s, the top tab undone and studiedly flicked back. Beside them Beth looked both too tidy and at the same time gawky, lumpen, aching Laura’s heart; she looked like a kid.
    At seven, she picked up the phone and called her daughter’s mobile. Too bad, if her friends thought she was checking up on her; she was a mother and entitled to her concern. If the bus hadn’t come, if it had broken down or been delayed, she could run into town in the car and pick them up. No reply; after one ring it switched to automatic voicemail. Where are you, love? It’s getting late . She hesitated just a second, then replaced the receiver without speaking.
    For something to do, she put the kettle on; then, once she had her cup of tea she realised she was hungry, too, and cut herself a slice of bread and cheese. It was ridiculous to be anxious. Beth was with her friends; what could happen to four of them together? Her mouth, though, was dry of saliva; the bread felt lumpy in her throat. Why was her daughter’s phone switched off? She never switched it off . But if there were a problem, she would have phoned, for sure. There were three other girls there, with three other mobiles. She took a swig of tea and swallowed.
    If only Beth were with Alice, or her other old friends from the primary school – Joanne or Ellie or Gemma. People whose mums she knew; children she had known since they were four. It was doubtless perverse: they were just as un-streetwise as Beth. Rianna and Caitlin were probably far more resourceful: more use in a crisis, more aware of danger. But she couldn’t help wishing for the old friends, anyway. They were such nice girls.
    At twenty past seven and again at half past, she tried Beth’s mobile, with the same result as before. At a quarter to eight she cleared a shelf and put the cake in the fridge. The Mascarpone was drying out and beginning to look crusty and tired. She should cover it, really, but it was difficult to see quite how, without taking the candles out again and having the cling film stick to the topping. They were with Willow, she reminded herself, and Willow was seventeen. An adult, or practically. The idea, which should have been a comfort, she found was nothing of the sort. How long ought she to wait before she rang someone? At eight, at nine, at ten? And actually, she realised with a cold clamping of the stomach, she had no idea whom to call. Not the police. Not yet . She had no number for Rianna’s parents, nor Caitlin’s – unless she could find them scribbled down somewhere among Beth’s bits of paper. The plan had been to drop them home, and let them give her directions. Longfenton was all she knew – not even