by Naomi Kryske
She approached the bed and folded the sheet down from the person’s face. Oh, God – it was Colin. Her relief evaporated, her legs felt suddenly weak, and she leaned against the bed to keep from falling. No, no, she wanted to scream, but her throat was too tight for even a moan to escape. Colin, her beloved Colin, but he didn’t look the same. His eyes were closed, and it was immediately clear to Jenny that he would not wake. Something was missing that had been a part of his expression even in slumber, an essence so tangible that its absence made his face slack, as if his blood vessels had contracted slightly when his spirit had left. The bandage covering part of his temple looked like a foreign thing, and she removed it. The wound was nasty, far worse than the one which had scarred her cheek, and this wound would never heal. His color wasn’t right, and there were smears of blood from the scratches on his face. No one had cleaned him up. He would hate looking such a mess. She straightened, found a paper towel, and dampened it. Gently she stroked his nose and cheeks, and then his lips, though it was not necessary. She kissed him, her silent tears cleansing his face further.
The hospital sheet still covered the rest of his body. She moved it aside and then was sorry she had. His shirt had been cut away, and she closed her eyes briefly against the horror. Blood-soaked bandages covered his chest and abdomen. In times past she had rested her head on his chest, sometimes for comfort after a bad dream but more often to prolong the closeness she had felt after they’d made love. His hands were cold. She rubbed them but couldn’t make them warm.
It hit her that never again would she lie next to him. Stifling a sob, she climbed onto the hospital bed and nestled beside him, her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest in a last embrace. So many times he had held her, and she had been reassured by the sound of his heart. Now, although his shoulders and chest were still warm, the only heart beating was hers. He didn’t even smell the same. To counter the strange metallic and medical odors, she tried to find the place behind his ear where he splashed his aftershave. A trace lingered, and she began to talk to him.
“Colin, where are you? I can’t find you! You can’t be gone! I love you so much. I need you. How could this happen to you? How can I go on without you? I’ll always need you!”
A sob escaped her. “I’m sorry for the times I hurt you, the times I wasn’t patient. The times I resented how much time your job took. I take it all back. I know your work is important, really I do, and I’m so proud of you.
“Colin, I wish I’d told you more often how much your love means to me. I wish – ” She began to cry in earnest, because always before he had responded to her wishes. He had listened, he had done his best to make them come true, and even when he couldn’t grant them, he had respected her feelings. Wanting to shut out the sight of the soulless equipment that surrounded them, she closed her eyes and gripped him more tightly. She had never thought that the last bed the two of them would share would be in a hospital.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A nurse approached the group of officers in the corridor. The number had grown since word had got round. “We need to take him,” she said to no one in particular. “But Mrs. Sinclair is still with him.”
No one answered at first. Andrews realised that Higham didn’t know her well. “I’ll speak with her,” he said. He followed the nurse to the door, but when he pushed it open, he could hear Jenny’s soft voice and left without disturbing her. “I couldn’t do it, sir,” he reported to Higham, “but I believe there’s someone here who can.” He gestured at Casey, who had arrived with Davies and another firearms officer. Higham agreed, and Andrews explained to Casey where Jenny was and why.
Casey swore under his breath.
“We have a car and driver on standby,” Higham added.
Casey nodded grimly then gestured to Davies to accompany him. Through her sobs, Jenny was speaking, but not to them. “We shouldn’t be hearing this,” Davies said.
“Jenny,” Casey said, interrupting her. He cleared his throat. “It’s time to go.”
Why did he sound so rough? She pushed herself up on one elbow.
“He’s gone, love. Say good-bye.”
It was an order she did not intend to obey. She and Colin never said good-bye to each other. Good-bye was too final a word, and she had hated the idea of separation that was inherent in it. Hasta la vista or any of the other equivalents for “until I see you again” had been their practice. Good-bye? Good-bye? Panic rose in her chest. “No! If I leave him, I’ll never see him again!”
Casey’s tone was a bit gentler. “Come with us. We’ll see you home.” He and Davies approached the bed, their eyes drawn to the tears on her cheeks and the smudges of blood on the front of her clothes. She was wearing Sinclair’s wounds, his blood like patches of faded poppies on her shirt. Casey held out his hand, but she didn’t take it. It was Davies who put his arms around her waist and helped her down.
Forensics officers would be coming to examine Sinclair’s body and the Coroner’s Office to collect it. Casey wanted to spare her those sights, at least. “The nurses will look after him now,” he lied.
She was trembling. “Colin, I love you. Colin, I don’t want to go! Colin – ”
Casey leant toward her. “Jenny, shut off your mind. Just breathe.”
“No! No!” she wailed. “I won’t leave him, and you can’t make me!”
Casey stepped forward and put his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. He felt her struggle to free herself, and he hated what he had to do. “Jenny! Listen to me! Breathe! In. Out. In. Out.”
She fought him. “I can’t,” she gasped.
He relaxed his hold on her a bit and felt her take a shaky breath. “Again,” he commanded. “Deeper.”
“I’ll faint,” she objected.
“No. It’ll calm you.” He stepped back and nodded to Davies to open the door. Before he guided her through it, he allowed her one last look in Sinclair’s direction. Davies had covered him.
She swayed slightly. Casey put his arm around her waist and waited for her to regain her balance. “Walk with us.”
She didn’t move. Casey’s repeated instruction seemed to startle her. “One step at a time,” he said.
Davies held the door while Jenny exited, Casey beside her. The large crowd in the corridor became suddenly and unnaturally quiet at the sight of her. Casey and Davies’ footsteps echoed in the silence as they escorted her to the waiting car.
CHAPTER 2
Jenny felt numb. She didn’t know whether the drive to Hampstead took two minutes or two hours. If the driver used his siren, she didn’t hear it. Nothing registered except the rhythmic motions of Simon’s fingers on her palm. Somehow her legs carried her from the car to the flat, but she had lost the fine motor coordination necessary to unlock the door and had to give the keys to Simon. Entering, she felt the weight of exhaustion cover her like a mantle, and without a word she crept upstairs to the master bedroom to lie down.
Davies checked the fridge. “Not much useful here,” he informed Casey. “We’ll need some food. I’ll ring Beth, and I’ll be back.”
Casey nodded. “I’ll deal here.” He scaled the steps and called to Jenny from the bedroom door. “Would you want some tea, love?” No answer. He tried again. “Before you get your head down, you need to ring your mum. Sinclair’s mum. Possibly others.”
She stirred. “My mobile’s in my purse.”
He retrieved it.
She sat up and punched in the number. “Mom – ” Her voice broke. “Mom, I need you. Colin – Colin – Simon, I can’t!” Her hand shook, and the phone fell into her lap.
He picked it up. “Mrs. Jeffries, Simon Casey here. I’m afraid I have news of the worst sort.” He hesitated. “Sinclair was – ” He realised he needed to rephrase. “Jenny’s husband was killed today in a terrorist attack. You’ll need to make travel plans immediately.”
Jenny could hear her mother’s exclamations and Simon’s responses. “No de
tails are available yet, but he’s gone.” A pause. “You’ll let us know when you have reservations? Good.” Another pause. “She’s in shock – like someone’s run her over.” He listened. “No, ma’am. We’ll not leave her alone. I can promise you that.” He ended the call.
Jenny took a deep breath and called her mother-in-law. “Joanne, it’s Jenny. I have some awful news about Colin. He – he – ”
Again Simon had to deliver the news. “You saw a report on the telly? No, the Met won’t release his name until they’re certain all family members have been notified. You’ll ring his sister? Yes, I’ll tell Jenny you’ll be arriving first thing tomorrow.” He turned to Jenny. “Anyone else?”
She was trembling. “Father Goodwyn. Will you do it? His number’s in my call list.”
Goodwyn, a former Royal Army chaplain who now worked for the Met, had counselled Jenny during her time in witness protection. Simon rang the priest. “He’s on his way,” he reported.
CHAPTER 3
The next twelve hours passed with only odd moments lifting Jenny above the fog. Beth arrived and gently suggested that she change her clothes.
“Why?” Jenny asked. She looked down, and in a flash saw what Beth saw: spots of dried blood clinging to her shirt and sweater. Even her jeans were stained. She hugged herself tightly. “The blood is Colin’s. It’s all I have left of him,” she managed to say.
“We’ll not wash them,” Beth soothed. There was fear behind the compassion in Beth’s eyes: Brian’s job was more dangerous than Colin’s. “I’ll help you choose something else.”
She opened the wardrobe, but Jenny couldn’t decide about anything she held up. Finally she chose a silk blend blouse because it was one of Colin’s favorites and a clean pair of jeans. They walked downstairs.
Simon rarely left her side, even when Father Goodwyn arrived. The priest sat down across from her and took both her hands in his. “Jenny,” he said, “I received a call about Colin. I’m so very sorry.”
When she didn’t respond, he added quietly, “I’m reminded of the first time we met. You were being protected by police, but you had become ill and filled with despair. Colin brought me to visit with you. I’m afraid this trauma won’t pass as quickly or be as easily treated as that previous one, but I want you to know that I’ll walk with you for as long as you need.” He paused. “Can you tell me anything about the events of this day?”
Again there was no response. “I’ll just sit with you then,” he said, “until you’re ready.”
After a few minutes he released her hands, rose, and walked toward the bookcase where the music system rested. He selected a Mozart CD then returned to Jenny. “Silence can be oppressive sometimes, can it not?”
“She’s not hearing it,” Simon noted.
“Perhaps not consciously,” Goodwyn agreed. “But I found during my time with the Royal Army that music did more than shield us from the sounds of warfare. When I played it in my tent, it lifted me out of my surroundings for a bit. Made me feel less alone. Provided a respite from what we were facing. For some, music brought a sort of peace, because it spoke of happier times.”
Again he addressed Jenny. “Were you taken to see Colin? Were you able to say good-bye?”
“I was,” she whispered. “But he wasn’t.”
Goodwyn would have taken her hand, but Simon was already holding it, stroking her fingers.
Brian, in the kitchen making spaghetti, was glad for the music. Although usually confident in the kitchen, he had felt self-conscious breaking the silence by opening cabinets, using utensils, even stirring the sauce in the pan.
Jenny frowned slightly, unable to focus on either the music or Brian’s movements. In witness protection, when she had been waiting to testify at the trial of the man who had attacked her, he had done most of the cooking. She hadn’t known Beth then; she and Brian weren’t seeing each other regularly. But Colin had been alive. At first he had come by with questions about the case or to keep her informed of their progress. Later he had come for her company, romancing her with poetry and wine, because his integrity had kept him from expressing himself physically. She remembered her surprise when he had admitted his feelings for her; how flattered she had been; how touched by his patience; and the joy they had shared when she told him she loved him.
Brian’s spaghetti sauce needed only to simmer. He set the water to boil for the pasta. Casey and Beth were sitting near Jenny, but Brian didn’t think Jenny heard any of their conversation. Sinclair’s death had knocked her for six. It wasn’t like her to be so still and quiet. And the blank look she had on her face – she wasn’t seeing anything either. He never wanted Beth to be in Jenny’s shoes. Tonight when they got home, he’d reassure Beth about his safety, how careful he was. Give her a cuddle. More.
Beth’s voice interrupted Jenny’s reverie, jarring her back to harsh reality. “Dinner’s ready.”
The CD had ended, and the meal was quiet. After Father Goodwyn’s blessing, no one spoke except Beth, who tried from time to time to encourage Jenny to eat.
When the meal was complete, Goodwyn started another CD then had a word with Jenny. “I’d like to pray with you before I go.” He began to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, hoping she would find some comfort in the familiar words.
Goodwyn’s voice seemed far away, but when she heard the phrase, “Deliver us from evil,” she cried out. “No! Stop! God didn’t deliver Colin from evil! Don’t say any more!”
The priest had intended the prayer for Jenny, not for her husband, but he did not correct her. “Of course. I understand,” he soothed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Night seemed to come early. Jenny showered and then wondered why she should put on a nightgown that Colin would not see. The jeans she had worn during the day were clean enough, and a sweatshirt would cover her sufficiently. In bed and exhausted, she found she couldn’t sleep. She and Colin had never slept apart in their marriage, and now she didn’t even know where his body was. Simon heard her gasping cries and brought her tea which he had spiked. Through the blur she could feel his arm around her, and the presence of a warm, living body and the brandy lulled her into slumber.
On Saturday Goodwyn visited again. “Jenny, I’m aware that things must seem very dark to you just now,” he said. “I would encourage you not to run from the darkness. If we do that, we let the darkness win. I prefer to stay in the darkness but bring a light to it.”
What light is there? she frowned. The flat was fraught with dark shadows, and the table lamps shed only small pools of illumination.
“Jenny, I’m referring to the light of understanding, of fellowship. That’s why I’m here,” Goodwyn said, hoping to engage her, but she did not reply.
Later Simon admitted the Family Liaison Officer, who brought the newspapers with her. He glanced at them. “Met Officer Killed in Blast,” one headline read. “Terrorist Attack on Bond Street,” said another. “Bomb Takes Life of Police Officer,” screamed a third. “Heroic Action by Met Policeman Saves Many” was a gentler rendering of the event. “She shouldn’t see these,” he said.
“Of course not,” the FLO replied. “She’s likely in a daze now, but later she’ll want them.” She introduced herself to Jenny. “Mrs. Sinclair, I’m PC Compton, a Family Liaison Officer. I’ve come to help you however I can.”
A specialist officer, Jenny thought. That means she knows what to do. Police always know what to do. Automatically she thought of Colin and how proud he was of the training given to members of the Metropolitan Police. She missed the rest of PC Compton’s introduction and wondered if the young officer had asked her something. She blinked and tried to focus. PC Compton had sympathetic brown eyes, but no one, she argued in her mind with Colin, no one with cherub cheeks could know anything about death or grief, the quality of her training notwithstanding.
“I’d like you to call me Tracy.”
She had short hair, too short, Colin would have said. Colin. Colin. Jenny felt the first stirring of panic rise
like a wave from her stomach to her chest.
“ – Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Jenny,” she replied automatically. Colin had begun calling her Jenny early in his investigation. Was that something all officers were taught? To achieve rapport quickly, use first names?
“ – checklist.”
Jenny frowned. Checklist. The word had no meaning. Was she supposed to make a list of some kind? Colin would want her to be courteous, but he would understand her shock and grief. She could not smile; should she admit she didn’t understand? She looked at – she’d forgotten the officer’s name.
“We’ll have to wait for the coroner to issue a temporary death certificate, thereby authorising burial.”
Death certificate. Burial. “I can’t,” Jenny gasped. “I can’t do this. Simon – Father Goodwyn – make her stop.”
“Perhaps a postponement would be wise,” Goodwyn suggested.
“Of course you’re upset,” the FLO replied softly. “I’ll make some tea, and we’ll have a chat later on.”
Time passed. She was aware of nothing until Simon touched her shoulder. “Your tea,” he said, nodding at the tray. The other cups were empty. “Have a taste before it gets cold.”
She stared at him. Her husband was dead, and they expected her to drink tea? Tea? She wanted to laugh hysterically – or cry hysterically – but couldn’t decide which. Dead. She had seen his blood, his lifeless body. She began to tremble. She felt Simon take her hand. His fingers were kneading her palm. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his touch. She didn’t want him to stop. If he let go, she’d drift away like an astronaut severed from his lifeline. She turned toward him and gripped his arm.
