Free Ninepins by Rosy Thorton Page B

daughter, too.
    â€˜Tessa heard him coughing, up in his room last night after he was meant to be asleep. She went in and he’d made himself purple, trying not to breathe.’
    â€˜Oh, God.’ She’d heard things about children who did this: children who held their breath in distress or stubborn resistance, until they went blue and passed out. But wasn’t it usually toddlers? Alfie was six. ‘And the little ones, Jack and Roly?’
    â€˜Oh, they were joining in, too, but they seemed less taken with it, thankfully.’
    â€˜Well, it sounds like …’ What? Harmless experimentation? A normal thing for kids to try? Beth was only eleven.
    â€˜Beth says Willow has been coaching her. They’ve practised and practised, she says.’
    Just a phase. Beth was only eleven. But Willow was seventeen .
    â€˜And it’s what she says about why, as well – about why Willow likes to hold her breath. She told Beth that she taught herself when she was young. And she keeps insisting it’s not a game, Beth says; she keeps insisting that it’s important.’
    Laura felt strangely conscious of her own breathing, of keeping it shallow and regular.
    â€˜She says Willow used to have to do it all the time when she was a kid. Apparently, she used to hold her breath when bad things were happening, to make them go away.’ Simon pushed his beer aside and leaned towards her. ‘What’s she like, Laura? That’s what I’m wondering. I mean, of course, I trust your judgment. I know you wouldn’t let Beth hang out with someone you weren’t certain was all right. But, well, she does sound rather odd.’
    She groped for an answer that she could give him. ‘Willow is … She’s – ’
    With a crash, the front door slammed open against the hall wall, and the sound of feet and paws and high, chattering voices seized the house. First into the kitchen was Alfie, dragged on a red nylon lead by a small but determined-looking dog, which pulled him straight to its water bowl and began to slurp noisily. Then came Tessa with two-year-old Roly on her hip and finally Beth, hand in hand with an extremely muddy four-year-old.
    â€˜Jack fell over, Dad,’ she said. ‘In that bit by the pond where the ducks all stand and there’s no grass left. He had Dougie’s lead, and Dougie tried to chase the ducks, and Jack got pulled over. Tessa told him not to let go, and he didn’t. He was really good not to let go, wasn’t he? But now he’s got mud and duck poo all over him.’
    â€˜Duck poo,’ repeated Roly gleefully, as Tessa desposited him on a chair and began to prise off his wellingtons.
    â€˜Laundry room,’ said Simon, with a cock of the thumb. ‘Straight in there, please. Clothes off and in the machine.’
    Beth obediently led away her charge while Simon rose to rescue Alfie’s glove, which he had taken off and dropped and which was now in Dougie’s mouth, being shaken like a rat.
    â€˜Dog towel,’ said Tessa, pointing to a ragged cloth on the radiator. ‘Would you mind?’
    Not entirely sure whether she minded or not, Laura took it and grabbed for the terrier, rubbing rather ineffectually at his pads while he engaged in a fight to the death with the towel, growling furiously and twisting like an eel. It was a bit late, anyway: the grime of the kitchen floor was already criss-crossed with an overlay of dirty footmarks, human and canine. How could anyone live this way?
    â€˜Dougie ate my football,’ announced Alfie. ‘He was chasing it and he caught it and bit it and it went hiss and then it was all flat and soggy. Can I finish this sandwich, Mum?’
    â€˜No, you can’t, sweetie,’ said his mother, removing it from his reach and tipping it in the bin. ‘I’ll make you a fresh one in a minute.’
    â€˜I’ll do it.’ Beth had re-emerged from the laundry