Page 108 of Mad Mabel

“It’s gone viral, Elsie,” Peter keeps shouting at me when I come into the laneway. “VIRAL!”

I suspect Peter has just learned the word “viral” in this context. I too understand the context, but—call me old-fashioned—I’d prefer that people not shout the word at me in public.

“Sorry,” he says, when I tell him this. “Point taken.”

It might have made me nervous, the idea of my story being shared so widely, had Libby and Adeem not kept me informed of the correlating influx of support. I didn’t even have to take their word for it. One morning I opened my front door to find a hand-painted sign.NOTHING MAD ABOUT MABEL.

For pity’s sake.

I put it above the fireplace.

The local police station touches base to apologize for not being more reactive when the vigilantes had come to the house. I now have the sergeant’s private phone number and instruction to call, day or night, if I ever feel unsafe. I asked if he’d offer that same support to Roxanne across the road, and he went quiet. Hmmm. All very well to offer support when one no longer needs it, isn’t it, Sergeant?

In the last few days, flowers started arriving. Daisies. Freesias. Hydrangeas. Some were sent by florists; others were hand-delivered and left at the door. Each time I leave the house, I return to find more flowers. Joan says my house is like Buckingham Palace after Diana died. Many contain heartfelt notes about how sorry people are for judging me. I read each and every one.

One day, there is a knock at the door, and I open it to find Peter, looking mildly hysterical. “Else—you’ve got to see this.”

“Don’t tell me,” I say, as he drags me outside. “Sale on Whipper Snippers at Aldi?”

And then I see it. A banner in the sky, being pulled by a small aircraft.

“Did you do this?” I ask when I read what it says.

He shakes his head.

“Who did?”

“No idea.”

I look away from the sky, down at the cobblestones, but I still see the words in my mind’s eye. Words that at my age, I’d long given up on hearing.

FORGIVE US, MABEL.

76

When I wake up the next morning, Persephone is sitting on my bed. It wouldn’t have been odd had she stayed the night before, but she hadn’t. I have no idea how she got in.

“People at my school say I’m famous,” she says, the moment I open my eyes.

I yawn. “Is that right?”

“Because I live on the street with that crazy murderer-lady. You!” she says delightedly.

I rub my eyes.

“Will you give the kids in my class your autograph?”

“Which kids?”

“Rose. Lily. Ava. Ella. Delly.”

Interesting. She’s made a few more friends. I push myself up onto my elbows.

“Maybe you could come into my classroom for show-and-tell?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “When?”

She giggles.