The house was quiet and dark when Sasha stepped through the door, the only noises to be heard the creaking and groaning of the pipes and the faint, uneven dripping of a tap somewhere in the house. She really must talk to her daughters about that, Sasha thought vaguely as she slipped off her coat and boots, it really was a waste of water. 

She paused for a moment, leaning against the hallway wall that had once, before the children, been white, reliving the night's events in her mind. It had been an enjoyable evening, all things considered ; she had known most of the people there, good people whose company she enjoyed. She didn’t get evenings to herself like this often, what with her daughters and her job - not that she was complaining. Her life was pretty good, all in all, and she knew it. 

And wasn’t she lucky, having such a kind and selfless boyfriend to babysit her girls whilst she was away. She wouldn’t normally ask, but she had really wanted to go to this event, and she had been dating Nick for a while - she knew how trustworthy he was. The girls were familiar with him, too, and he was always very good with them, even if Emily, her eldest, did insist on harbouring such a ridiculous grudge against him. Her sister was beginning to copy her too, mimicking her sister's angry glares and keeping her distance, when she used to be the first to come and greet him. So ridiculous! Sasha sighed and ran a hand through her limp, brown hair. 

It struck her suddenly that the TV wasn’t on, which was odd. Nick loved watching TV, always had it on whenever she went round to visit. Still, she supposed he was probably just reading, or mucking around on his phone to pass the time. Or perhaps he had fallen asleep on the couch. That would explain, too, why he had not come to greet her at the sound of the door opening, for their door was old and creaked loudly when used. Sasha had been meaning to get it fixed for years, but had never quite got round to it.

When she entered the lounge though, treading softly so as not to disturb the girls, it was dark and empty and seemed as though it had been that way for quite some time. The only sign that he had been there at all was a discarded grey hoodie lying crumpled on the shadowy sofa. He was always leaving his things lying around the place like this, she had fondly teased him about it many a time. She crossed the room to pick it up, intending to return it to him when she found him. 

She decided to check the kitchen next. Perhaps he would be in there, preparing dinner for himself. It was quite late, after all, and he would be hungry. She had brought him a ready meal casserole since she knew it was his favourite and told him to help himself to anything else besides. Now, though, as she made her way along the darkened hallway, she saw the lights in the kitchen were out, the room seemingly empty. 

Frowning slightly, she moved forwards to inspect the room closer, and it was then that she became aware of the faint, sobbing noise coming from within. It sounded young and scared. More worried than confused now, Sasha gently pushed the kitchen door open to its full extent and stepped inside. It looked much the way she had left it, the plastic white surfaces littered with plates, cups and utensils from dinner that she had not had time to tidy away. The large oak table that dominated the room also bore traces of the family’s last meal, the surface littered with bits of grated cheese and spilt blobs of sauce. The air hung heavy with the scent of it - and another scent, too, a scent that Sasha didn’t recognise but that kindled a sense of fear in her the likes of which she had not felt for a long time.

It was the fear felt by a child who has lost a parent somewhere unfamiliar or is alone in a new place, a fear that, as we grow older, we tell ourselves we have lost yet one we never truly lose. It was that primal fear that we first developed long ago when we ourselves were prey, the fear that has stayed with us all this time, the fear that tells you, when there is no proof, that something is wrong. And there was no proof, Sasha told herself, just her mind weaving stories from the most innocent of happenings, from that strange smell, from that noise and from her boyfriend’s odd absence. But, all the same, there was caution in her movements as she made her way across the kitchen and worry and fear mingled in her eyes.

The stairwell was in a small room just off the kitchen, one of the many things that thoroughly irritated Sasha about the house. It meant that the kitchen frequently became a motorway, with the girls running back and forth, often carrying toys or blankets and usually dropping them on their way through, yelling as they went. Still, it wasn’t to be helped ; it was a nice house generally and moving the stairway would be far too expensive and too much hassle for her to even consider it. Now, as she made her way towards it, for it seemed the noise was coming from there, the strange and inconvenient placing of the stairwell once again occurred to her, and what on earth was the architect even thinking? It was a ridiculous thought to have at a moment like this and she knew it, but she held onto it all the same, for it kept the darker, more concerning thoughts at bay.

The moment she entered the stairwell, she knew something was very, very wrong. Her eldest daughter, Emily, knelt on the floor, her tiny, petite frame shaking. She was dressed in her pyjamas, the blue ones with the birds on (it was strange, Sasha thought distantly, that this mundane detail would strike her so clearly now) although her hair was not yet mussed up from sleep. And on the floor beside her - Sasha’s body stiffened and her stomach convulsed at the sight of it, as though her very self were trying to remove the image from within. 

Nick’s crumpled form lay spread - eagled on the ground, unmoving, his head tilted towards her at an unnatural angle. There was blood on his forehead and matting in his hair, congealed and sticky but not yet dried. His eyes stare unseeingly towards her, vacant and empty. There was no need to check for a pulse : that he was dead was quite obvious. She suppressed retching, fought to stay on her feet. 

“Emily!”

Her voice sounded wrong even to her, far too high pitched and as though it was coming out of its own accord. When the child did not respond, she reached and grasped the girl’s shoulder, shaking it a little too roughly.

“Emily! What happened? Tell me!” 

Her voice was too harsh and she knew it, regretting it almost instantly. Emily’s shoulders almost immediately began to shake harder, tiny, gasping noises coming from her mouth. 

“Oh honey … I’m sorry. It’ll be okay”

She pressed her daughter’s tiny body to her, wrapping her arms around her protectively. The child melted into her embrace, gasps giving way to sobs.

“It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay”

She repeated the words over and over, like a mantra or a prayer, though whether they were to reassure herself or her child she knew not. She gently cupped Emily’s chin in her hands, studying the girl’s face with concern. The child’s expression was strangely blank. There was no grief or terror there, certainly, just a trace of something that looked oddly like relief. Or triumph, perhaps - but no, that was silly. The girl must be in shock. 

“It’s okay honey, Mummy’s going to sort this all out. Nick here has had a nasty accident, that’s all, and I'm just going to call some nice police people to help. You know all about the police, don’t you, from your emergency services book? If you could tell me what happened here it would help the police a lot.”

Emily seemed to consider this for a moment, her head tilted to one side. She had always been a quiet child, always lost in her own world. Sometimes Sasha worried she needed some friends. It wasn’t normal, was it, for a seven year old girl to be so silent?

It was a few seconds before Emily spoke, and when she did her voice showed the same strange array of emotion as her voice.

“He fell, Mummy. He fell down the stairs, and there was a crash, and I came to see what had happened, and he was lying here.”

Sasha smiled encouragingly at her daughter.

“Good girl. Now I’m going to take you up to bed and get you all nice and warm and tucked it. Then I’m going to call the nice police people, and they’re going to come and sort it all out.”

Emily nodded, a smile ghosting her lips. It occurred to Sasha distantly that the child’s face was dry and free of tears, but she brushed the thought away as irrelevant. She forced herself to smile back at her daughter, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural on her face, then scooped her up and carried her up the stairs. She shielded the little girl's view of Nick with her body as she climbed, not wanting to put her through any more trauma that night. 

As if on auto pilot, she tucked Emily in, checked her youngest daughter was soundly asleep in the bed next to her sister and said goodnight, keeping the smile plastered on her face throughout. As soon as she was out the door, though, she crumpled against the nearest wall, shaking with silent sobs. Sadness and regret were tangled up inside her, jousting with each other for her attention. She should never have asked Nick to babysit, should never have been so selfish and gone out with her friends, and now he was dead because of it … But no, she mustn't think like that, she had her children to care for - they were relying on her to fix this. Afterwards, the awful events of the night would come crashing down on her in stark reality, and she would collapse onto the nearest seat and cry, forced to acknowledge the truth. But for now she must stay strong and do what had to be done, ignoring the actuality of it, at least for the time being. 

First she must call the police, she told herself firmly. One step at a time, that was the way to do it. Unable to face going downstairs, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and began dialling 999. Or was it 101, since it wasn’t technically an emergency? It was funny how these numbers had been drilled into her head her whole life, but now deserted her when she really needed them. When she really needed them… It dawned on her for the umpteenth time that evening the awfulness and bizarreness of events, and with this realisation came a tidal wave of guilt and grief. She pushed the thought away, however - she had to focus. Hands quivering ever so slightly, she decided on 999 and drew in a deep, steadying breath as the automated voice began to play.