Making Marion by Beth Moran Page B

initial panic gradually subsided and I inched up the bed, rustle by rustle, until I was in a sitting position. I carefully leaned over to peep through the chink at the edge of the curtain. A pale face loomed at me from the glass, sending me careening out of the bed into the tiny space by the door. I realized, too late, that the face was my own reflection. Furiously swiping at the tears on my cheeks, I scanned the darkness for a possible weapon.
    Two fifty-three. Ten minutes crept by on the digital alarm clock. For most of those I stood, braced against the door, Supervalu hairdryer in hand, wondering if I should stay there until the sun rose. But it is incredible how quickly fear can turn into boredom.
    Propelled by an urgent need to empty my bladder, and pretending what had woken me must have been a bird on the roof, I whipped open the bedroom door. I charged into the kitchenette, hollering like Grace O’Malley, the Pirate Queen of Ireland. Bouncing off the sink I stumbled forwards into the living area. Here I crouched,jerking the hairdryer from side to side in front of me as if I was going to blow-dry the intruder back to where they had come from.
    There was nobody there. I collapsed onto the brown sofa, my legs shaking so hard they tap-danced the rhythm of my panicked heart on the lino. Placing my hands flat either side of me, I concentrated on sucking air back into my lungs. Only as my body stopped trembling did I notice the tiny stones under my palms. Not stones. Chips of glass.
    Jumping up, I half fell over to the light switch. Squinting in the glare, I found what had caused the crashing noise. Somebody had thrown a rock the size of a tennis ball through my window. It had bounced off the sofa and landed underneath the table. Wrapped around the rock and held on with elastic bands was a piece of A4 paper. On the paper was written, in harsh capitals, the words “BACK OFF”.
    After the hastiest possible visit to the bathroom, I swept up the glass, wrapped the rock and the note in a carrier bag found in the bottom of my wardrobe and went to bed, where I stared at the ceiling until morning.
    At six-thirty I dragged myself into the shower, managing to swallow down half a cup of black coffee before leaving the van. I stuffed every precious possession into my bag as a precaution against further intrusion, but had no real plan. I just needed to get away from the ugly, jagged scar in my window; somewhere I could quieten the angry swarm of bees that had built their nest in my skull during the night.
    I hurried up the path to reception, nodding hello at the occasional camper making an early morning trip to the wash block. A baby cried in one of the tents, and the scent of frying bacon wafted through the trees. Business as usual at the Peace and Pigs. Chickens scratched, pigs oinked and birds tugged at worms in the dewy earth. The air was mercifully fresh and light, in stark comparison to the dread dragging at my shoulders and squatting in my stomach, as cumbersome as the bulging bag slung across my back.
    I planned on waiting at the bench until Scarlett showed up, but as I rounded the top of the slope to the main block, I saw a police car parked on the gravel. Confused, wondering how word could have reached the authorities so soon even in this close-knit community, I went straight into reception.
    I found Scarlett inside, pacing up and down in the small space. She had scooped her hair into a rough ponytail. I hadn’t seen her without make-up before. Her eyes, heavy with purple shadows, stood out in her pale, drawn face. A policewoman sat at the counter, nursing a mug of steaming tea.
    I stopped in the doorway. Scarlett sighed, closing her eyes briefly.
    â€œHi. Brenda, this is Marion, who stepped in for Jenna Moffitt. Can I fill her in?”
    Brenda stood up and placed one hand on Scarlett’s arm. “I’ll explain. You go and check on Valerie, and phone that list.”
    Scarlett hesitated, but Brenda