The Rain Before it Falls Read Online Free Page B

Advertisements had been placed, repeatedly, in every newspaper and magazine. Gill had contacted the Royal National Institute for the Blind, but they had no record of Imogen. Searches on the internet threw up tens of thousands of results, all of which turned out to be irrelevant and misleading. Gill’s ideas were about to run out, and she was beginning to wonder if it might still be possible, even today, for someone to vanish without trace, into the ether. Finally she had decided (with her daughters’ eager collusion) that it would now be sensible to listen to Imogen’s tapes, if only in the hope that they might contain a clue to her whereabouts.
    She checked into her hotel and then walked across Regent’s Park towards Primrose Hill, where Catharine had recently found a small flat to rent. When she arrived, slightly shell-shocked as usual by the traffic noise and the pace at which everybody in London now seemed inclined (or compelled) to live, both sisters were waiting for her.
    ‘Did you bring it?’ Elizabeth asked, answering the door without even saying hello.
    ‘Of course I brought it. Lovely to see you too.’
    They kissed, and Elizabeth led her up four flights of stairs to the attic rooms, where all Catharine’s familiar chaos was laid out. Gill looked around approvingly, still enjoying a thrill of recognition – more than that, of inexplicable relief – whenever she saw these books again, these pot plants, the scattered clothes and magazines, the music stand and flute left lying carelessly by the window, the old pine desk strewn with sheet music and scraps of manuscript paper. Taking it all in with a rapid, expert glance, she also scanned the flat for signs of Daniel, the boyfriend she instinctively mistrusted, for no reason that she could explain to herself or anyone else. Although she could hardly stop Catharine from seeing him, she was firmly against the idea (which had more than once been mooted) of him moving into this flat. But there were no stray underpants or electric razors or textbooks on literary theory; none that she could see, anyway.
    ‘Hi, Mum,’ said Catharine, coming over from the sink in the corner, with soapy hands. ‘Did you bring it?’
    ‘Is that the only thing you two can think about?’ Gill reached into her bag and took out the manila envelope. ‘It’s here, OK?’ She laid it on the coffee table, and both her daughters leaned over to inspect it, as if they suspected their mother of trying to deceive them. ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ she added.
    While Elizabeth attended to this, Gill asked her elder daughter: ‘Are you nervous about tonight?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Catharine. ‘I don’t get nervous any more. Besides, it’s only in front of friends.’
    But Gill didn’t quite believe her.
    ∗
    The afternoon light soon faded. It took Catharine a long time to prepare what seemed to be quite a simple lunch, and at three o’clock they were still sitting amidst its debris, beneath the muted, greenish glow cast by an overhead lamp. Gill, who did not normally drink wine at this time of day, felt her perceptions beginning to dull, and found herself staring intently, for no reason, at the gleaming bell of her wine glass, mesmerized by the peculiar paleness of the golden liquid as she swirled it gently in her palm. Outside, an ochre sun would soon be washing its last tired light over the North London rooftops, and the sky would purple into darkness: the topmost branches of the plane tree in the front garden pattered feverishly against the windowpane. Another kind of light began to glint: the flash of Elizabeth’s blade as she deftly peeled and quartered an apple. She wordlessly passed the pieces around. It was some minutes since anybody had spoken. London seemed quiet this afternoon: even the inevitable police sirens were distant, unaffecting, like rumours of war from a country you knew you would never visit. Finally Gill rose to her feet and fetched the manila envelope from