A high-pitched squeal compels them both to bolt instinctively to the living room, where their eldest son is mounted on the youngest’s back, forcing his face into the sofa cushion while pulling at his hair and grabbing a toy from his hand.

Parental zombies.

It’s their last day on this job. They explain that he should not do this to his younger brother, that he is supposed to protect and look after him. This is normal, regular discussion, but today is given weight by their future actions.

They want to say, ‘Soon you will only have each other to rely on.’

But they don’t.

They can’t.

They play the role of concerned parents.

The boys are coerced into mutual apology. They continue with their exuberant toy-box bulldozing while the adults sink into the sofa with a hot drink and allow themselves to be entertained by boyish antics, losing time in a moment of thoughtlessness and enjoyment. Momentarily compartmentalising their fate. They project their love in the same direction. Letting the boys know, without words, that they matter to their parents and that they are important.

It is a perfect moment for tenderness, for one of them to put their hand on the other one’s leg. To softly, affectionately, squeeze a knee, not even looking at one another. A simple touch would convey some contentment with life. That they got one thing right.

They know, they have been told, that it is the small things like this that could save them.

All of them.

But there is no subtle graze of the other’s knee.

There’s no glimpse from the corner of the eye to register the gratification they both feel in this moment.

No emotional reciprocation.

And the moment passes.

Another one.

So close.

16

231 – UNGRATEFUL

She holds her breath under the water for nearly a minute. Her hair splays outwards on the surface like a peacock tail. The torn credit-card bill swims over and gets caught up in her curls. But that’s as close to sinking into her brain as the situation gets for today. Any day.

She could’ve tried to hold on longer.

Her eyes open and gaze at the bottom of the tub. It’s the way she would look if the rope snapped, it’s how they’d find her, washed up on the stones further east by the MI6 building.

Her lungs full of water.

Her banks empty of funds.

Drop. Splash. Cold. Shock. Gasp. Lungs. Burn. Panic.

That is no way to die.

Wake. Read. Cry. Sulk. Drink. Spend. Party. Sleep.

This is no way to live.

Just one more day.