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challenge that excuse; they shut up quicker than a squeamish chauvinist at the mention of ‘women’s troubles’. Unless they’re Esther. I cut her off mid-protest and take the battery out of the phone so that she can’t ring back.
    ‘Sally, don’t . . . Why did you do that? I’m waiting for a call about cycling on Saturday.’
    ‘Ssh!’ I hiss, staring at the television, trying to focus on the voiceover, what it’s saying: that Mark Bretherick, Geraldine’s husband and Lucy’s father, found the bodies on his return from a business trip. That he is not a suspect.
    Nick turns back to the screen. He thinks I’m eager to watch this because it’s the sort of news I ‘like’, because it’s domestic and not political, because the dead woman is a mother who looks as if she might be my twin, and lives near us. And the dead girl . . . I check the caption again, trying to use as many facts as I can get my hands on to beat down the horrible haze that’s fogging up my brain. Maybe I got it wrong, maybe the shock . . . but no, it definitely says ‘deaths’. Lucy Bretherick is dead too.
    The girl in the photograph looks nothing like Zoe, and I can’t explain the relief I feel. Lucy has long dark hair like her mother’s, and she’s wearing it in two fat plaits, one with a kink in it, so that it turns halfway down and points back towards her neck. Her two hair bobbles have white discs with smiling faces on them. Her grin reveals a row of straight, white, slightly prominent teeth. Geraldine is also smiling in the photograph, and has her arm draped over Lucy’s shoulder. One, two, three, four smiles—two on the faces and two on the bobbles. I feel sick.
    Geraldine. Lucy. In my head, I’ve been on first-name terms with these people for a little over a year, even though they have never heard of me. Even though we’ve never met.
    The voiceover is talking about other murder-suicide cases. About parents who take their children’s lives and their own. ‘Little girl was only six,’ says Nick. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Mother must have been fucked in the head. Sal, put the battery back in the phone, will you? Can you imagine how that child’s dad must feel?’
    I blink and look away. If I’m not careful, I will start to cry. I can feel the pressure at the back of my eyes, in my nose. If I do, it won’t occur to Nick that I have never before been reduced to tears by a news report. Usually if children are involved I shudder and order him to change channels. It’s easy to put horror to one side if one isn’t personally involved.
    At last the picture disappears. I couldn’t take my eyes off it and I’m pleased it’s gone. I don’t want to see those faces again, knowing what happened. I nearly ask Nick if any of the news reports he’s seen have explained why—why did Geraldine Bretherick do this? Do the police know? But I don’t ask; I can’t cope with any more information at the moment. I’m still reeling, trying to make it part of what I know about the world that Mark Bretherick’s wife and daughter are dead.
    Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry. I want to say these words aloud but of course I can’t.
    When I next focus my attention on the screen, three men and a woman are talking in a studio. One man keeps using the phrase ‘family annihilation’. ‘Who are these people?’ I ask Nick. Their faces are solemn, but I can tell they’re enjoying the discussion.
    ‘The woman’s our MP. The bald guy’s some pompous wanker sociologist who’s helping the police. He’s written a book about people who kill their families—he’s been on telly every night since it happened. The guy with glasses is a shrink.’
    ‘Are . . . are the police sure? The mother did it?’
    ‘It said before they’re still investigating, but they reckon it’s a murder by the mother followed by suicide.’
    I watch the bald sociologist’s pale lips as he speaks. He is saying that female ‘family annihilators’—he makes