217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Where are you? Harry shouted in his head, pulling her close. Where are you? For God's sake, Margaret, I don’t understand. She lay, strangely heavy in his arms, yet he knew, he knew. She was gone. There was no question.
The front room window flexed in the wind. The automated operator kept asking him to please replace the handset and try his call again. The phone had probably fallen with her - perhaps she'd tried to ring him, desperate, in pain. Oh God, oh God. And where had he been? On that quiet street, watching Miss Young Lovely in his rear-view mirror - his one, his only infidelity - at the very time Margaret needed him most.
He felt sick, winded, like he'd taken a blow to the gut.
No need to call Dr Vine - not yet, not yet. He knew all he needed to know. The light of her - the Margaret-ness of her - had drained from her face. The gleam was gone from her eyes. He closed them gently with the flat of his hand, then reached for his hankie and wiped the dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. Mary, mother of Jesus, nothing was enough.
Careful not to jostle her, he slipped free of his car-coat - her gift last Christmas, she'd been so pleased, genuine sheepskin lining - and covered her with it.
Then he saw it: the sheet of scented stationery just visible below her hip.