Escape

For the first two months of the first year, immediately following his sudden and incomprehensible end, John left Mrs. Hudson with a phone number and the rent, took part of his strange new wealth, and traveled. He carried a camera instead of a gun and took photo after photo-The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the Acropolis. Unoccupied photos of things, with no traveling companion to mug or point or grin as he snapped the shutter. Not that he would have done any of that, have stood for having his snap taken at all. "Pointless!" Still, John imagined him in every image, as he flipped through them over his small cafe meals.

He walked for miles through European streets in cities with names he could not now remember, and sometimes his leg ached, but he ignored it knowing it was only grief and not pain he could alleviate with a cane or a paracetamol. He talked to no one, sent postcards back to the flat. He bought Mrs. Hudson a scarf in a tiny shop in Paris, the same color as the one he always wore, that deep and variable blue. He would fall into this or that hotel bed, exhausted, sure that this would be the night that sleep took him-but it never did. He lay awake for hours, slept fitfully, woke sweating from terrible dreams of falling men coming to sudden halts on pavement.

When he returned, Mrs. Hudson wept over the scarf. "Such a lovely color," she said, smiling through her tears. " It's beautiful. Thank you, dear. Shall I make you a cuppa? Just this once?"

He let her, but only so he wouldn't have to go up alone. He sat at her kitchen table as she puttered around with the teapot and cups, his coat still on, his bag under his chair. "Have you done anything?" he said, and she knew what he meant.

"Not a thing. I've no idea what to do with any of it. I dusted, but that's all." They drank their tea and made small talk about the things he had seen, the places he had been, and by the time the cups were empty he felt more ready to face what was, or was not, at the top of the stairs.

"Remember," she said, "not a single thing. His bed not even made...I just couldn't bear it. You understand?" She looked up into his face as they walked up the stairs.

He hoisted his small bag over his shoulder. "I do. It's alright. I'll manage."

"Are you going to stay? You're going to stay, aren't you?"

She looked terribly fragile, though, really, she was one of the strongest women he had ever known-how could she not be to not only put up with him, but even, John guessed, love him. "Yes," he said. "I'm going to stay, and I'll take care of the things. It's fine. Fine."