Page 72 of Insomnia

I head back into the corridor and drop the wine bottle, but it doesn’t break, landing with a deadened thump by the understairscupboard. I ignore it as it slowly dribbles its contents onto the wood. There’s more wine in the fridge.

Look, Look, a candle a book and a bell...

Maybe I’ll get a little top-up now. There’s time. The night is mine. I open the fridge and grab a fresh bottle of their posh piss, twisting it open and taking a long gulp. It makes my eyes sting. I put it back inside, cap off, and take out the eggs. Now that I’m letting myself go, I feel like a child again.You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.That’s what my dad used to say, often apropos of nothing and entirely in the wrong context.

I’m making an omelet now, Daddy,I think. I stare out at the brilliant storm and open the box. As the music plays, I take an egg and hold it in my outstretched hand. It falls and smashes on the ground. Much like Daddy’s body smashed. I try to time the crack of the next one with a crack of thunder.Crack. Crack. Crack.When I’ve finished, the floor is a mess. I wonder what the police will make of that.

Maybe they’ll think I’m mad. That might not be a bad thing. A psych ward could be preferable to a prison. I’ve made my peace with prison, but that could be an upgrade, even though prison would be quite comfortable. And a lot more relaxing than my current life.

The song starts again, and I sing along. I suppose I should get this party started. I go out into the hallway, the music loud in my ears.

I’ll start with the boy.

58.

Emma

It’s one forty-five as I screech to a halt, abandoning my car in the street, and run through the hard rain to the front door. My mind is clear. The impossible made possible as time merges around me. My mother, me, and Caroline. All here. We’ve always been here.

The future, past, and present colliding.

This is the apex. The everything. The moment I can’t lose. Time hangs in the storm. Lightning and thunder, in unison, threaten to break open the sky as my key fails, the door deadbolted from the inside, and I hammer at the solid wood. Ring the bell. Nothing. No answer. Robert’s car is here. He’s home. They all are. I run back into the street and see Caroline’s car parked past the next house. She’s inside. I know she is. I know, because this night has leaked through time, a warning seeping into my mother like a brain bleed, driving her mad, and seeping into me too. The bad thing is here on the night of my fortieth birthday. It’s come for my family.

And I have to stop it.

I call the police, shouting through the rain, saying who I am and that there’s someone in my home, trying to hurt my family, and I then hammer on the front door again. “Open up, Caroline!” I shriek up at the bricks. “I know what you’re doing!” The storm sucks away my screams and drowns them in thunder. It’s futile. I scream once more and then take a breath. I need to think. There is no way in from here. I have to get to the back.

The side gate is high, nearly seven feet, and I’m only five foot three and there’s no way I can just pull myself over. I look at the space beside the garage, where we keep the tall green garden waste recycling bin. I drag it to the side gate and haul myself up onto the thick lid, the plastic surface slippery with rain and the hard edges scraping my hips. I grunt as I climb, out of practice at these activities of childhood, and then grab the top of the gate. I immediately yelp and bring my hands back. They’re bleeding. I pull out shards of pain. Broken glass—is that another milk bottle, Caroline?—has been balanced along the top. How can that be, in this weather? I reach out carefully and touch it. The glass is held in place with something thick and sticky. I bring it to my nose. Even in the storm, the sweetness is there. Honey. Robert’s manuka honey.

I pull down my sleeve and push as much of the glass away as I can and then throw one leg over the gate, the remaining glass pricking sharp through my top as I lean forward and then close my eyes as I swing my other leg over and drop hard to the ground. My bones clatter up from my spine with the impact, but I stay upright and stumble to the back door. I grab the handle and rattle it, but it’s locked and I kick it hard twice, but nothing gives. I need help. Where the hell are the police?

I pull my phone out of my already sodden jeans pocket and dial them again. “Police. Police, please . . . I need help. My name’s Emma Averell. I called five minutes ago. My family. There’s a woman in my house . . .” The line crackles and I shout some more down the line and then it cuts out. I go to dial again, but all I hear is dead air. I’m on my own. I have to get inside. My children. I have to get to my children. I have to get to Will.

59.

Caroline

The boy is not in his bed.

The hot chocolate cup is empty beside it as it was when I checked on him earlier, but I can see now where he tipped the contents down between the corner of the bed and the wall. Sneaky, sneaky little boy. He drank some of it, I know that for a fact because I made sure of it, so wherever he is, he’s going to be sleepy. There’s nothing under the bed but a plastic dinosaur staring back at me. He’s not in the closet. I search every corner, but he’s not in his room. More lightning flashes outside and I murmur along to the song as I search.

Can I have an opinion / To trigger this loop...

Look, look, A candle / a book and a bell.

Are you allowed music in prison? I reluctantly take the earbuds out, the music now tinny around my neck. I listen hard. Nothing. I come out into the hallway and peer into Chloe’s room through the open door. She’s slumped on her bed, still dressed, the dregs of her drink spilled on her duvet. Judging by the patch of spit and messon her top, it looks like she may have been a little sick. She’s lucky she’s sitting up. Gets to breathe a little longer. Underage drinking perhaps. Not a good mix with sleeping pills.

I leave her to her stupor and go around the corridor away from the children’s bedrooms. Where would that surly little shit go? To Daddy? I go to Robert’s room and I can hear him snoring already. Sleeping like a baby, hugging one pillow like a teddy bear. The other lies cold on the empty side of the bed. It’s tempting. Maybe I should do him now? No. The plan was smallest first, and I don’t like that I don’t know where the boy is.

I look in his parents’ bathroom, and he’s not there. The same with the family bathroom and the spare rooms. The house is beginning to annoy me. How much space do these people need? I go back to Robert’s room to do another sweep and look in the laundry basket in the corner. No missing boy in there. He can’t have got outside, because I locked the back door behind me and kept the key with me just like the front door keys.Come out come out wherever you are,I whisper and sit on the edge of the bed. I’m getting irritated now.

As if in response, I hear a heavy thud from the other end of the corridor. I frown. Too heavy for a small boy, surely. I come back out and peer down toward the large window. A small moan wafts toward me, carrying self-pity and confusion in it. I must have disturbed Chloe when I went in there.

I watch as she comes into view, leaning against the wall to keep herself upright. Her head keeps lolling down, but she shuffles forward. She’s clearly determined to make it to the stairs, and I’m wondering whether I should stand out of view and let her fall and break her neck, but then her hazy eyes see me. They widen momentarily with alarm as I smile at her, and she lets out a sob. Iwonder how I must look. Soaking wet. My long hair hanging over my face from looking under beds. Smiling at her in the darkness.

Her knees give way slightly, but she keeps herself upright and tries to turn back. She stumbles toward the window as if there can be help that way.

“Oh Chloe.” I sigh. “You really are a troublesome teenager. Just give up. You’ll be asleep again in a minute. I can see it from here and if you think I’m going to drag you back to bed, you’re very much mistaken.”

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