Demons by Wayne Macauley

in—Megan, honey, what were you thinking, telling me to
drink all that wine? Where did you get that idea from? He was hugging her from behind;
she kept looking out at the rain falling on the stand of acacia trees on the hill
behind the house.
    You’re a fuckin’ alcoholic, Evan, honestly, she said. He turned to Adam and widened
his eyes. But she still loves me, doesn’t she? He buried his face in her neck. Fuck
off, she said. Adam opened the fridge and took out a carton of juice. Me too, said
Evan. He poured them both a glass. They leaned on the bench and drank. A flock of
rosellas screeched and landed in a flurry of wings.
    That story did my head in, said Evan. Sweet innocent hippie, then out of nowhere
she’s telling us about some gruesome murder. I mean, what the fuck was that? Do
you think that one had a moral to it? said Adam. About that girl being allergic,
to her house, her parents, her life. Could those allergies, multiple chemical sensitivity
and all that, chronic fatigue—could they, quod vide Sontag, be metaphors? They’re
clinical conditions, Adam, said Megan, I think that’s been pretty well established;
sadly what that girl in Hannah’s story didn’t have was proper professional and parental
support.
    Evan gave Adam his cartoon look again. And you can fuck off, said Megan, without
looking at him. Everything with you guys is always so cynical, isn’t it? She turned
back to the sink, closed the dishwasher and turned it on. Evan did his look again—a
watered-down, furtive version—and took his glass of orange juice out into the living
room.
    Morning all! said Marshall. He was dressed, his hair wet and combed; he must have
used the shower downstairs. He poured himself a juice. Tilly’s got herself a cup
of tea, he said. I took it down earlier, said Megan. That seemed to deflate Marshall;
he didn’t know what to do with his hands. So what’s to eat? he said.
    The walking party came back upstairs.
    Breakfast’s here! said Hannah. Free-range eggs, organic bacon, sourdough bread, freshly
squeezed orange juice and special sweetie treats for later! They were all wearing
hats and coats and scarves. Leon was last up, carrying the papers. Did you find some
umbrellas? said Megan. It was nice in the rain, said Lauren, the air’s beautiful
out there. Leon’s got a story, said Hannah. Lee?
    They started taking off their things and hanging them over the chairs near the fire.
Everything smelled faintly of the sea. Lauren took a pebble from her pocket and put
it in Adam’s hand. She smiled, a big smile, maybe a false smile, but a loving smile
too. He kissed her cheek—it was getting warmer—and put the pebble in his pocket.
Lauren turned to Marshall. Tilly’s got herself a cup of tea, she said. Marshall?
Tilly’s got herself a cup of tea.
    There was a piercing noise. What the fuck is that? said Evan, holding his hands out
away from his ears, ready to clamp them down. It’s the fire alarm, said Marshall,
the fire alarm’s gone off. Is there smoke? Did someone burn something? Marshall had
only just finished yelling when the fire alarm in the living room stopped as quickly
as it had started. There was silence again, aside from the rain on the roof and the
water gurgling in the pipes. Well thank Christ for that, said Evan. Is there smoke?
said Marshall, looking around. Can anyone smell smoke?
    They set the dining-room table, got the breakfast ready. They made a good team. There
were lots of jokes and banter, light-hearted arguments about the best way to do this
and that, whether there should be milk in the scrambled eggs, whether the toast should
be light or dark, whether there should be oil in the pan before you fry the bacon.
Adam laid the cutlery; Lauren brought the warm plates out. In a low voice she told
him how when they’d come up the driveway and passed Tilly in the car with her cup
of tea they’d heard her phone go ping .
    I heard it too, said Leon, from behind. He was carrying a big plate of bacon.