Page 19 of Insomnia

I feel a sudden rage. I knew there had been something. Iknewit. I park. “He shook you? Why?”

He shrugs again but I don’t need to push him anymore. I’ve gotenough. I hold his hand tight as I stride through the playground gate, past the woman there who jokes to Will that Daddy must have a day off.Daddy has every bloody day off,I think as I give her a tight smile.

Will has to remind me where his classroom is—another stab of absent career-loving mother guilt—and the sight of the small tables and chairs makes my heart squeeze. Sometimes it feels like he’s growing up too fast, but in this space I’m reminded of what a little fragile person he still is.

His teacher, Miss Russell, looks like she’s not long out of the classroom herself as she glances up from her worksheets and smiles.

“Mrs. Averell. Good morning.”

“My husband told me what happened yesterday,” I say. “I’m very concerned.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it was an accident. These things happen.” She looks at Will. “Why don’t you go and hang your coat on your peg? Then you can help me sort out the colors, if you like?”

I crouch and kiss his face before he heads off and he gives me a half-squeeze back. “He said that Ben Simpson shook him. We’ve had problems with Ben before.” That’s an exaggeration, but I’m going with it. “There was an incident between them on Saturday.”

“Oh, really?” She looks confused. “Ben can be a handful but not normally a bully.”

“Or perhaps you haven’t noticed because you’re in here while they’re out there?”

“The children are always supervised and—”

“I’d like Will to stay in the classroom for break and lunch today until you get to the bottom of it. He’s clearly not himself, and while I obviously don’t expect you to know the children as well as we parents do, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

“He has been quieter, yes.” She concedes as she stands. She’s very tall. Even in my heels, I’m having to look up at her. “And I will look into it of course. But please don’t worry, Mrs. Averell. I’m sure it was—”

“Just find out what happened and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” I’m small but formidable. “I don’t want to have to file a complaint.”

“Of course.” She’s cowed, and as I turn to leave, I feel bad. A bitchy, demanding spoiled school gate mum is how I’m coming across—just how I did to poor Caroline, who brought back my purse—and I’ve never wanted to be that.

“I’m sorry for being so snappy,” I say, more gently. “I’m hectic at work, and didn’t need this on top of everything else. I’m having one of those days.”And several of those nights.

She smiles, happy for a truce. “I can tell.”

I must look confused, because she nods at my thin sweater. “I think that’s on inside out?”

I see the label at the side and force a light laugh. “Oh. Thank you.”

Another memory whispers inside me, the misty rotten breath of it filling my head. Coming down the stairs with Phoebe on that last day, clutching my mother’s fortieth birthday card. Looking down, my school sweater on inside out.

I give Will another quick kiss on his return and then I’m in the corridor yanking the sweater off and putting it on right. Something is wrong with me today. Not just tiredness.The numbers.Not just Will.The broken milk bottles.Something else.Bitch. Slashed tire.I’m tired and my patience is gone, but it’s more than that.Inside out.I’m filling with a quiet dread. She’s in the hospital. My birthday is ticking closer. Phoebe was right. I am afraid. I don’t want tobe like her. I don’t want to do what she did. I don’t want to go mad like her. I don’t want to have the bad blood.

I’m out of the playground and heading back to the car when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Hurry up, Matthew, don’t dawdle. I’ll be late for hot yoga. And for god’s sake, tuck your shirt in, Ben.”

I dart behind a tree and watch as Michelle, flustered, ushers the two boys into the school, before glancing at her watch and rushing back to her own car, up on the curb. I stay where I am for a second. Matthew has run straight inside, but Ben is loitering, wandering down between the building entrances that a century ago divided the girls and the boys.

“Sorry,” I say to the cheerful woman at the gate. “Left my car keys in there.”

She doesn’t turn to check that I’m going back into the building. Which is good. Because that’s not where I’m going.

17.

I startle awake with no idea where I am or evenwhoI am. Bright light. Hard chair. Blank computer screen.Shit.I sit up suddenly straighter. Work. I’m at work. When am I at work? What day is it? What time? Is this a dream? Before I have time to gather my thoughts—my twelve thirty canceled and I was using the time to catch up on billing, it’s all coming back to me now—and peel my dry tongue from the roof of my mouth, a voice cuts through my haziness.

“Emma?” Angus Buckley is standing in my office doorway, looking confused. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, sorry, yes. Was caught up in my own thoughts.”

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