Saturday mornings are supposed to be elongated moments of succour after a busy week, for all the family. A time to come together and rest. But at three o’clock this morning, I was still pacing around my bedroom, having moved there to try to get some sleep. Then James came home and woke me by rooting around in the fridge looking for snacks and then he put something in the microwave. Ewan wasn’t far behind him but I was in no mood to argue, faced with what I have to tell them all today. I couldn’t wake Jeremy, he was stuck in the middle of a deep blackout. Instead, I sat in the garden watching the sky turn from black to purple, like the bruises on Monika’s body that I’ve been dreaming about.
I’ve set the table with the usual cereal and healthy granola, and muesli with yogurt, juices and various seeds, knowing it will go mainly untouched. Jeremy has fixed coffee and read the same newspaper a thousand times. His hands shake more than yesterday. I told him about Monika ten minutes ago and I’m amazed he hasn’t poured vodka over his granola. I see death everywhere, from a bird crashing into the pool house window, to a slab of meat in the fridge waiting to be consumed.
The children are oblivious because I guess Jeremy and I always look as though somebody has been murdered.
James eats toast, perched on the windowsill, overlooking the garden. Apart from our soiree in the utility yesterday, it’s the longest I’ve been in the same room as him for weeks, and I study how he’s changing before my eyes. He senses something is up, but then discord is our new normal. He told me as much. I catch him eyeing his father and watching his hands shake.
‘Can’t you sit at the table like the rest of us?’ Jeremy demands.
‘Like the rest of who, Dad?’ James asks back, indicating the lack of any cosy unity around the breakfast table, so lovingly laid by the lady of the house. If I didn’t feel so wretched I’d do a twirl.
Jeremy looks to me for support, which isn’t forthcoming, and then he tuts, going back to pretending to read the paper. James gulps juice and leaves, after kissing me. Then it’s Lydia’s turn to join the family get-together. She emerges, pale and waiflike, clutching a book, plugged into TikTok or some other electronic god. It might be my imagination, but she looks brighter than she did yesterday. And I’m going to destroy that shortly.
‘Morning!’ I say breezily. ‘Muesli? We’ve got some of those strawberries left, they’re so sweet.’
Lydia fills a glass with water and takes a dry cracker from a tin, and wanders off, chewing it.
Ewan appears as I’m washing pots, trying to find something to do with my hands. I can’t let everything fall apart because we’ve had dreadful news. I can’t get a stain off a pan, and I rub it vociferously as if everything is all its fault.
‘Sore head?’ I ask Ewan, who Jeremy doesn’t know crept in as it was getting light. He shades his eyes and squints and I can’t help mourning his youth. If I hadn’t been a seasoned drug-taker myself in my university days, I might think he was simply tired.
‘I feel a bit tired,’ he says, as if reading my mind.
‘You were in late?’ Jeremy asks. He has no idea. He’s tetchy because I was able to answer the phone to Tony, and not him. Now the thunder from his missed opportunity to play a role has been stolen.
Ewan takes a piece of bread and smothers it in butter, then stops to watch the TV. The bread slips out of his hand, along with the butter knife, and I follow his stare. Jeremy hears the clatter of the knife and puts down his paper angrily. I forgot that the discovery of Monika’s body might be on the TV and we haven’t told the kids yet. But it isn’t about Monika.
A report on a local boy is being played over. Police tape seals a field near the rec. My stomach hits the floor and I examine Ewan’s face for tell-tale signs he was indeed there last night.
I turn up the sound.
‘Brandon Stand, the son of a respected Cambridge headmaster, was rushed to hospital in the early hours of this morning, and died at around five a.m. of a suspected overdose of MDMA, more commonly known as ecstasy. The prevalence of the drug is a worry for local police, who have appealed for witnesses. They told us this morning that it is suspected that the drug taken by the young man was bought locally, and probably contaminated with other substances. Teenagers in the area have been warned not to buy suspect pills from drug dealers. It raises the question once more in our community about the scale of the problem in Cambridge, and local MP, Tania Foden, has been asked for comment. The parents of the boy have appealed for privacy at this very difficult time.’
Ewan looks as though he has seen a reincarnated devil. I catch him as he falls and shout at Jeremy to get me wet cloths. Ewan’s body is limp against mine and I lay him on the floor. I check his pulse. He rouses, embarrassed. Jeremy is glued to the TV, as is Lydia. James comes back in and whistles. The family rallies suddenly, but it’s a fraudulent assembly.
‘Holy shit,’ James says.
Ewan holds on to me and pukes all over the floor. It stinks of booze. I use my dressing gown to wipe his mouth.
I stay on the floor, as the gravity of the news report hits us. Brandon Stand is dead. How do we break it to the kids now that Monika was found murdered? For a fleeting moment, I see my life as a giant puddle of sick.
Ewan struggles against me and gets up, then he darts away from the kitchen, followed by Lydia.
Jeremy and James are still watching TV.
I begin to wipe up the mess.