Ruby

Around 8.30 a.m., still in bed for once, I heard the front door go, and then someone in the bathroom.

Shortly afterwards, the door of Zach’s bedroom banged shut gently, and I rolled over, glad he was back home. Glad I didn’t have to worry about his whereabouts this morning.

I’d taken the call in the early hours from Marcus, who’d said it was fine for Zach to stay there; saturated and muddled with sleep on the sofa, I’d agreed, before stumbling to bed.

Now I dozed for another half an hour and then got up slowly, revelling in having a day entirely to myself. Revelling in actually not having to go help Nella do anything at all, hopefully ever again. I padded about the flat, making eggs and coffee.

Around 12.30 p.m., finishing my second mug and flicking through the news online, someone knocked at the door.

Without even thinking who might be on the other side, I opened it, Sunday Brunch chattering in the background, still wearing my faded tracksuit bottoms, my old glasses, Jonny’s favourite T-shirt.

‘Mrs March?’

Not again. My legs felt like water. Or jelly, and I could feel an actual pain in my chest as I desperately clutched the door, a strange rushing in my ears. ‘Please – oh God – is it, is Ali—’

‘Are you all right?’ The policewoman, young and solid, looked concerned. ‘Perhaps you better sit.’

‘Is it Ali?’ I stuttered out. ‘Is Ali…?’

‘I’m sure Ali’s fine. Whoever Ali is,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve come about your son.’ She glanced down at a pad. ‘Zach March, is it? Can I come in?’

Initially, I couldn’t take it in, what was being said.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I kept repeating, like someone had wound me up like clockwork and thrown away the key. ‘There’s no way this can be true.’

‘Is he here?’ The woman cast a look down the hallway.

I went to wake him. He was sleeping: a deep sleep by the looks of it, rolled on his side, his head flung back, pushed far into the pillow, and I just stood, gazing at him.

I had the sense that if I woke him, everything would be over: the life we knew together; everything we’d cobbled together since his father was killed, would stop. The damage would be irreversible.

‘Mum!’ he mumbled, as I gently shook him. ‘G’way. Sleepin’.’

‘Zach, you need to wake up!’ Fear sat above me; crouched above me like it was about to jump down and destroy me with its weight; push me through the floorboards. ‘Now.’

‘Why?’ He opened one eye.

‘There’s – there’s a policewoman here to see you.’ And push me into hell itself.

‘What – what do you mean?’ Now he did sit up; dragged himself up, eyes puffy with sleep, hair on end, still wearing that rumpled T-shirt I’d scrubbed yesterday afternoon. A lifetime ago. ‘A policewoman?’

‘She wants to talk to you about – about last night.’