No Harm Can Come to a Good Man. James Smythe

home tonight as well. Like I say, no crap today, okay?’

      ‘Jesus, okay.’ Lane doesn’t stick her head up to look at Deanna the whole exchange; but she reaches up, to itch her head as it stays still on the pillow. She scratches at the bit where the neck meets the skull, through her hair; and Deanna sees the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, the logo of one of the bands that Lane is obsessed with: three intersecting geometric shapes, a block of symmetrical color in the center of them. It looks like a puzzle, but it’s not (or at least, it’s not one that Deanna’s been able to solve). The tattoo was the first real mark of rebellion from Lane: the lie that she told to be able to get it, and the months of hiding it to pretend that it didn’t exist. But, she promised no more.

      Deanna hears the bathroom door slam shut, meaning that one of the twins is doing as they’ve been told, and she tells Lane that she’s next. Lane won’t shower: she’s started cutting back on that now, letting her hair get greasy. It’s a thing, and Deanna knows it’s only a matter of time before she cuts it off. That’s what the kids in her school are doing now, her friends: shaving their hair right back. Deanna’s begged Lane not to, simply because of Laurence’s impending campaign. They have a deal: she won’t be made to wear floral dresses as long as she covers up the tattoo and does her hair for the cameras every once in a while; and as long as she smiles when the cameras are out. It won’t be forever, but Deanna used the words consideration and family a lot, and eventually Lane agreed. Still, her second act of rebellion was to shave the underside of her hair on the sides over the summer, and then argue that she could hide it by wearing her hair down if she was ever at a public event. Besides which, Laurence – she calls her parents by their first names, a stupid and totally forced gesture which makes Deanna’s skin prickle – hasn’t formally announced yet. They have spoken about vacation and the cabin that they have bought and spending time with the children. There’s no press to worry about for just yet, she reasons. Another few months, they can have that argument all over again. I’ll even pay for the dresses we end up forcing her to wear, Deanna thinks.

      She goes to the kitchen and puts the eggs into the poacher and starts the cycle. She hears the crack of their shells, the splash as they hit the water. Perfect every single time: no shell in there, no mess. It does it all for her.

      ‘Television,’ she says loudly. The set reveals itself in the corner of the room, the screen turning from its camouflaged setting – matching the wallpaper behind it, making it as inconspicuous as possible – and automatically boots onto the news channels, showing the four that Laurence watches most in its different corners. They’ll all be covering the announcement; they’re already hyping it, talking about what they can expect. They know, of course they know; there’s an embargoed press release already gone out, she’s sure. She hears everything from here, because you do in these old houses: the sound of the showers switching off; of feet padding across the floors; of drawers and wardrobes opening and shutting. And still, there is that feeling of the sun on her face; still, something that she will never ever tire of.

      Alyx is first down, and she walks to the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of juice. Deanna passes her a glass from the cupboard, and she puts it on the breakfast bar before climbing onto a stool and pouring the juice for herself. She watches the news (not understanding it, necessarily, but it’s something to occupy her) while Deanna puts bread into the toaster and pops it early so that it’s barely browned. She puts the eggs directly onto one slice for Alyx and deposits it in front of her. The little girl breaks one with her knife and the yolk sluices down onto the bread, soaking through it. She tugs it apart with her nearly blunt kids’ cutlery, using the spork to scoop the sodden bread and egg into her mouth.

      ‘You’re so messy,’ Deanna says. She gives her a paper kitchen towel, and Alyx wipes her mouth with it, and her hands. ‘Mucky pup.’ Sean runs in then and sits next to Alyx. No ceremony: he just waits to be fed.

      ‘I don’t want eggs,’ he says.

      ‘No? So what do you want?’ Deanna asks.

      ‘Can I have a Pop-Tart?’

      ‘Fine. But if you have that today, you have eggs tomorrow. Deal?’

      ‘Deal,’ he says. There’s a trade-off in the house, Laurence and Deanna constantly trying to do what’s right by the kids, to balance and manage their food, their exposure to TV shows and music. They want to do this right – that’s their motto. She puts the pastries in the toaster and clicks it down. She stands and looks at the kids, both of them watching the news now, as if the world is something that they even comprehend yet. The toaster pops, and she puts the tarts on a plate.

      ‘They’re hot,’ she says, so Sean blows on them. She thinks about how cute he is; how she should relish these moments. Everybody tells her: this is all too fleeting.

      ‘Deanna?’ Laurence calls, from the top of the stairs. She finishes loading the dishwasher and heads out to the hallway. He’s wearing the suit that he had custom-made earlier this year; the first outing for it, having saved it for a special occasion.

      ‘How is it?’ he asks, raising a leg as if he’s a catalogue model. It’s something he’s always done when he should be taking himself seriously, a deflection. And it’s always made her smile. He opens the jacket at the sides, to show off the shirt that he’s wearing, and the lemon tie, and he twirls, posing again at the end. He sucks in his cheeks. She’d bought the tie for him, knowing how good it would look; how it would complement his complexion, his salt-and-pepper hair, the almost gray core of his eyes. He walks down and towards her and stands on the first step, even taller than usual next to her.

      ‘Perfect,’ Deanna says. ‘The tie is lovely.’

      ‘You would say that.’

      ‘It’s joyous. It makes me happy. It’ll make other people happy, and that will make them want to vote for you.’

      ‘Good. I’m stressing and I need to not stress.’

      ‘This is true,’ Deanna says. ‘Not-stress is always better.’ She reaches up and straightens the tie for him. She thinks about what she’s doing, and how many times she has done this. How many more times there will be, if the future that they are working towards all goes to plan. ‘You’re going to be amazing,’ she tells him.

      ‘You always say that.’

      ‘That’s because it’s always true.’ Lane comes down behind him, and he steps aside to let her through, pulling a face at her as she goes. She is wearing one of the band tees that she near-as lives in and jeans that Deanna’s never seen before, and she’s got a beanie carefully balanced on her head, her hair tucked up inside it. ‘Right,’ Deanna says to Laurence, beckoning him down, ‘food time. In there, sit down. Today, you relax.’ She stands and points, watches as they both go into the kitchen, then follows them. Sean finishes his breakfast and gets down from the table, and Deanna sends him to get his bag. ‘Leaving in three,’ she says.

      ‘I hate school on days like this,’ he says.

      ‘Only a few weeks until the summer,’ she reminds him. ‘Then you can have days like this over and over and over, until I’m sick to death of you.’

      ‘Mom!’ Alyx says. ‘You won’t get sick of us.’

      ‘I will. I’ll be on Xanax by the time you go back.’

      ‘What’s Xanax?’

      ‘It’s nothing,’ she says. ‘And you,’ she says to Alyx, ‘bag, now.’ They disappear, and Lane walks off, clutching an apple in her hand. Deanna turns to Laurence as he eats his toast. ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘Knock ’em dead, you hear?’

      ‘If they’re dead they can’t vote for me,’ he replies.

      ‘Then knock ’em into a coma until the election.’

      ‘Better.’ She kisses him, and she tastes the butter, the marmalade. The same taste every morning for eighteen years.

      ‘Right,’ she says, pushing away