Something Might Happen by Julie Myerson Page A

I even have one?
    Crisps are for grown-ups, I tell her.
    Oh great! she says. I get it—and kids are just minor beings, right?
    Rosa slams out of the room. Mick yells at her to come right back. Nat hits Jordan and he bursts into tears.
    Mick throws a tea towel onto the table.
    Still glad you came? he says to Lacey.
    After supper, the kids go to bed and we sit and watch the news. Lennie isn’t on it any more. Now it’s just about the government
     and war and tax. Mick seems to have run out of talking. He half does the crossword, half throws a tennis ball for Fletch.
     Each time he chucks it, the dog bounces off to fetch it, drops it at his feet, then sinks down, chin on paws, eyes on Mick’s
     face. If Mick doesn’t throw it again within five seconds, he barks.
    That dog doesn’t give up, does he? Lacey remarks at one point and I think Mick laughs.
    When Lacey yawns and excuses himself, I go upstairs with him to show him where to go and give him towels and stuff. The landing
     is dark and messy, with Mick’s papers strewn on the floor and washing hanging on the airer. The sound of breathing comes from
     Jordan’s room.
    He doesn’t exactly snore, I tell Lacey, but he’s a bit of a heavy breather. I hope he doesn’t keep you awake.
    Lacey smiles.
    I can sleep through anything, he says.
    Lucky you.
    I know. It’s a skill I was born with.
    I laugh and so does he.
    We stand on the landing together in the half-darkness and I hand him a big towel and a small one, both fat and crunchy from
     the outside washing line.
    There’s hot water, I tell him, if you want a bath.
    Thanks, he says, but I’m OK. All I want to do is sleep.
    He looks at me. We stand there a moment, with only the mess and the darkness between us.
    It’s very good of you, he says.
    Don’t be silly, I say.
    Well, it is.
    He hesitates.
    What? I say.
    Mick told me, he says. About Al—what he did.
    I feel the heat rush to my face.
    He did?
    You shouldn’t worry about it, you know.
    I’m not—I mean, I’m not worried about that. It’s just, I’m worried about him.
    He doesn’t know what he’s doing, Lacey says, not just now.
    I say nothing.
    He’s barely able to think straight.
    OK, I say. You’re right, I know.
    I smile.
    What?
    Mick wasn’t supposed to tell you—
    Oh? I’m sorry.
    It’s OK.
    We stand there a moment on the landing and then we say goodnight.
    Rosa asked me something, I say suddenly.
    Oh?
    Yes. She asked me if you had kids.
    He looks at me.
    And I didn’t know the answer. We hardly know anything about you.
    He looks at me and my heart thumps.
    Or—your life, I say.
    My life?
    Yes, I say in a whisper.
    There’s nothing to know, he says.
    Oh?
    I mean, I don’t. No kids, no wife—
    Nobody?
    Just a girlfriend.
    I blink.
    Natasha, he says.
    Ah, I say. In London?
    In London, yes.
    Oh, I say.
    Tess, he says softly, look—
    Yes?
    I’d like to talk to you—about all of this—about Alex. Are you around? Maybe tomorrow? Or the day after?
    I almost laugh.
    I’m around, I say, all the time. You know I am.
    He smiles.
    I’ll find you then?
    Yes, I tell him. Find me.

Chapter 8
    BUT IT’S NOT JUST LACEY WHO WANTS TO TALK. MAWHIN ney wants to interview me again. Alone, he says, without Mick.
    An incident room has been set up in the back of the Dolphin Diner on the pier, in the storerooms, where catering boxes of
     ketchup and salad cream, and bumper-sized tins of peeled plum tomatoes and baked beans, are piled to the ceiling. Orange plastic
     stacking chairs and Formica tables have been borrowed from the school and the murder squad have brought in filing cabinets
     and phones and a couple of computers. Each window contains a smooth grey square of sea. When the weather’s bad, the walls
     moan and shudder and waves heave and smash against the windows.
    Mick’s already been in there. He says that even with thebig doors shut, you can still smell the frying and hear the clatter of cups and hiss of steam from the Ramirez brothers in