217 Babel Street | Apartment 8
He wouldn’t stop bleeding. Emma lifted the wad and dabbed his head with more disinfectant. "You might need stitches, Tom. I can't see though your hair. You should go to A&E. I’ll bandage you up as soon as..." Where was James with that First Aid kit?
He shook himself. The sense of deja-vu was spooking him. "I'm fine, really. I should leave." But he knew he wouldn’t. He remembered the view from her window; he remembered the sight of the inhaler on the coffee table; he knew her words almost before she spoke:
"So you can fall down the other three flights of stairs?!"
He looked up. "You didn’t find anything, did you?"
"Anything like? God. You haven't lost your wallet?"
"No." All that waiting, all that careful handling of the fragile Julietta, and for what? The box was gone. He'd ask the caretaker if there was a Lost & Found, but what were the chances? And now, weirdly, this feeling... He wanted to snap out of it, whatever it was. He also didn't want it to end. Focus. Make small talk. He spotted a framed photo on the shelf ahead: Emma and her man at someone’s wedding. "That’s James, I take it."
"Yes. He was here when you… Not that I have the best memory for faces either when I’ve cracked my head open. He’ll be back any -"
He opened and closed his fist. He felt hot suddenly, like steam would blow from his ears. "I recognise him..."