They’re all awake. In a line, contemplating a television with legs in the corner. ‘It means it’s really, really old,’ Tidge says solemnly. None of them can get it to work. Your TV junkie can’t understand the cruelty of one blank. ‘Maybe there’s a hidden camera in it.’ Tidge comes up close. ‘Maybe the three of us are in some freaky experiment and Mum and Dad are watching, to see how we cope. You know, a reality TV kind of thing.’ He flashes his smile that melts everyone but his family and holds a hand flat to his heart. ‘I must stop saying I’m hungry all the time. I must be kind to my sister and brother. I must share all my chocolate. I must blow the TV kisses. A lot.’ He gives it a big smooch.
‘I don’t think so,’ Mouse says. He lies in front of the screen staring in. ‘Maybe they’re dead,’ he says softly, and you shut your eyes and hover your love, in the vivid air; imagine lying along the length of their backs, pressing into them calm and strength.
‘The dead help, Dad says so,’ your daughter responds, in that strangely dispassionate way kids sometimes have when talking about death; as if so what.
‘No!’ Tidge cries. ‘They are not, they are not. Maybe they’re being tormented by us here. Imagine that? And there’ll be no food ever and they’ll be watching us as we turn on each other and then get quieter and quieter, and close our eyes, and … stop … finally. Maybe it’s the way to get them to talk.’
Everyone quiet. Thinking of that.
And God will say, ‘Taste ye your own doings.’