Free Close Your Eyes by Michael Robotham Page A

London. We saw
Matilda
. The little girl who played
Matilda
was the spitting image of Maddie Hayes, a girl in my class, only Maddie has darker hair and she can’t sing. Not even a note. You should take your pills. Your arm has gone all jerky.’
    This is how Emma talks, barely pausing to inhale. Sometimes I think she must cycle breathe like a didgeridoo player. Either that or she streams her thoughts directly from her brain without any filter. I take my medication and wait for the tremors to stop. Emma flits around me, a skinny little thing with a mop of curly hair and an oversized mouth with two rabbit-like front teeth.
    ‘I’ll stay home today,’ she says.
    ‘But you have school.’
    ‘It’s my last day. We can go for a bike ride. You’ll have to pump up my tyres and fix my bell. Justin Barclay broke it when he rode my bike into the river.’
    ‘Why did he do that?’
    ‘I dared him.’
    She makes it sound so obvious.
    ‘I have work today. You should go to school.’
    ‘OK, but you’ll be here when I get home. Mummy said you weren’t coming till the weekend. You’re sleeping in my room, so don’t make any bad smells. You’ll have to look after Oscar.’
    ‘Who’s Oscar?’
    ‘My goldfish. Charlie doesn’t want him in her room because he sucks rocks and spits them out, but he’s a goldfish, right, he’s supposed to suck rocks.’
    ‘Right.’
    Julianne rescues me and tells Emma to get ready for school. Grudgingly she obeys, stomping noisily up the stairs. She yells over the banister, ‘I know you’re talking about me.’
    Julianne rolls her eyes. ‘Tell me she’s not a narcissist.’
    ‘What ten-year-old isn’t?’
    My wife –
can I call her my wife?
– is wearing a two-piece business suit and heels, with her hair pinned up. She looks great, like some fashion editor’s idea of a career woman. She speaks four languages and works part-time as a court-appointed interpreter in Bristol.
    ‘Do you have a trial today?’ I ask.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Meetings?’ I ask.
    ‘A doctor’s appointment.’
    ‘Is everything all right?’
    ‘Under control.’
    What sort of answer is that? I want to press her on the details, but she hates me meddling. That privilege was lost to me when we separated. She’s already gone to collect two bottles of milk from the doorstep, along with the local newspaper, the
Somerset Guardian –
an august organ of record for locals interested in births, deaths, marriages and bicycle thefts.
    Charlie is the last to arrive downstairs, her hair wet and half-brushed, wearing black jeans and her Doc Martens. She grabs the newspaper and begins turning pages.
    ‘You’re up early,’ I say.
    ‘Job hunting.’
    ‘What sort of thing?’
    ‘Part-time. Pays a fortune. No experience necessary.’
    ‘Good luck with that.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘How about some cereal?’ Julianne asks.
    ‘Not hungry,’ says Charlie.
    ‘At least take a banana.’
    Emma interrupts. ‘Can Daddy walk me to school?’
    ‘You can walk to school by yourself,’ says Julianne.
    ‘I can do it,’ I say.
    Charlie has stopped turning pages. ‘Hey, that’s you!’
    The headline reads: RIPPER WILL KILL AGAIN . Underneath is a sub-heading:
Profiler Accuses Police of Incompetence.
    The photograph shows Milo on stage, arms spread, face raised to the lights, looking every inch the evangelist. I’m visible in the background at the side of the stage.
    ‘So he’s your competition,’ says Julianne. ‘He’s rather handsome.’
    ‘Very tasty,’ choruses Charlie. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘One of your father’s old students,’ replies Julianne.
    Charlie bites into a banana. ‘I’m going to enjoy university.’
    ‘You have to be careful of the good-looking ones,’ says Julianne.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Other girls will try to steal them away.’
    ‘What about Daddy? Did girls try to steal him?’
    ‘I had to beat them off with a stick.’
    Emma looks up from her cereal bowl. ‘Who did you hit with a