IT was late when the earthquake struck. They were in the kitchen at the time, arguing. Annabel was dreading the bedtime routine to come: brushing, undressing, reading under the lamplight, all conducted in a pregnant silence, a hair’s breadth from another conflagration. But then the glasses started clinking. The crockery rocked, doors rattled, wine rippled in the bottle. When it finally ended, they beamed at each other. ‘Wow,’ said Patrick. ‘The kids will be sorry they missed it,’ said Annabel. Together they checked on the children and found them dead to the world. They went to bed, their anger subsided.