Page 18 of Insomnia

“You okay, monkey face?” I ruffle Will’s dark hair. My boy, not blond like Chloe and Robert.

He nods but stays hunched over his notebook. He’s drawing with a red pen and his hand moves fast. I don’t try to peek, despite my curiosity. Robert tried a couple of minutes ago and Will had slammed the book shut, turning his shoulder angrily to his daddy. Robert still looks hurt, so I bite my tongue instead of reminding him to speak to the teacher at school about Ben as he pours Will’s cornflakes out. I put some toast on, claiming a small parentingtask. I don’t know their routines, not really. Being here for breakfast is a once-a-month thing if I’m lucky. I sometimes feel guilty about not feeling guilty enough.

“Can you pass the milk?”

There’s only dregs in the bottle I hand over as I grab the butter and jam. “That’s it for in here,” I say. “It’s milkman day, isn’t it?” Robert must know I’m worrying about what happened at school, especially given Will’s mood. Why can’t he say he’s not forgotten and he’s going to speak to them? And then it dawns on me and I get an actual rush of—halleflippinglujah—energy that pings me awake.I’vegot time to do the school run this morning. Problem solved. I’m not a fan of confrontation, but someone messing with my kid on top of no sleep and I’ll either get to the bottom of it or at least make sure that Will is safe for the day.

There’s a refreshing morning breeze as Robert opens the back door to get the milk in and I’m wondering how best to broach the subject with my husband when there’s a yell of surprised pain from outside, followed by “Shit, fuck!”

“Stay there.” Will has looked up, alarm distracting him from whatever he’s drawing, but by the time I get to the back door, Robert is already hobbling back into the house.

“What happened?” His jaw is clenched and I help him to a stool. He’s gone out barefoot as usual and he leaves a trail of blood from where his foot is bleeding. I crouch and pull out a large chunk of glass as he swears some more.

“Daddy?”

“I’m fine.” He wheezes. “Why don’t you go and watch some cartoons on the iPad for a minute?”

Will may be in a funny mood, but he doesn’t need telling twice when it comes to extra screen time, and he give us one last concerned look before taking his notebook and scurrying off to the sitting room.

“Hang on.” I scrabble around in a cupboard for the first aid kit. The cut looks worse than it is, but it’s still not pretty.

“The bloody milk,” he says between gritted teeth. “One of the bottles was broken. The glass was all spread on the other side of the gate. Like it had been put there.”

“What do you meanput there?” I hold his foot tight and he flinches as I dab antiseptic on it. It’s going to be sore, but it won’t need stitches.

“I mean it was fucking put there.”

“You think it was those kids again?” If he’d got the cameras sorted, then we’d know for sure. And I’d know who slashed my tire. Maybe now it’s affectedhimhe’ll sort it out.

“Probably. Little shits.”

“You stay here and rest.” I carefully wrap a bandage over the pad and plaster and then lean forward and kiss my husband’s hurt foot as if he were a child. “I don’t have to be in till after ten. I’ll take Will to school.”

He’s right, though, the broken milk bottle had been laid out right by the gate. My mother’s ghost shifts in my head, unfurling a little to get a closer look.

So many milk bottles in our house then, weren’t there? Piled high from when the milkman used to come. Remember what I used to say? We wouldn’t want to break them. You might get glass in your feet. And then you wouldn’t be able to go to school.

Coincidence. That’s all it is. Drunk teenagers and coincidence.

16.

“Don’t worry about Daddy.” Will’s quiet in the back seat. “He’s fine. Sometimes cuts look much worse than they are.” He nods, but he’s looking out the window. This is not my bouncy, chatty boy. How can his teacher not have noticed? He does get quiet moods, that’s true—anold soulPhoebe once called him when he was two—but this one has lasted a couple days now.Fuzzy head.

“Are you feeling poorly? You’re very quiet.”

“I’m okay.” He’s still not looking at me.

“No fuzzy head?” He doesn’t answer. “Will?”

“No.”

“If you’re not sick, what’s the matter? You know you can tell me. That’s what mummies are for.” I wait but get no response. “So what happened yesterday? At lunchtime?”

“I had an accident.”

He still won’t look at me, but at least he’s speaking. “That’s not like you.” We’re nearly at the school. Thankfully we’re early, so we’ll avoid the scrum. “Was Ben there? He’s your friend, isn’t he?” My tone is light as I try to con information out of my reluctant son.

“He shook me.”

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