Thanks to those who read the last chapter and the reviews were much appreciated.
They've just left. I hardly said anything. What could I say? They already knew she's dead. She's dead. And I as good as killed her. Whatever anyone says to the contrary, and the police certainly didn't accuse me, that is the truth. I'm to blame. I could have prevented it. That final letter told me that today was the day, but I ignored it, decided it was a false alarm. I chose to think that because it was easier, simpler. I preferred to ignore the possibility that it was for real, anything rather than relive last year. I simply couldn't face coping once again with her anxiety, her nightmares. I was a coward, and now, because of my stupidity she's dead. God I can't believe it, but I must because she is. I saw it for myself as the final flicker of her heartbeat collapsed into a dead straight line on the monitor, extinguishing that final hopeless hope. I knew she'd die when they brought her in. No possibility of survival, not with that degree of burns. All they could do was make her comfortable and wait. How often have I seen that, done that, ministered the medication, sat with the relatives during the final breath, assuring them that it was for the best. Maybe it was, is, but nothing hides the basic fact, she's gone and I could have prevented it.
How can this happen? How? I know we are all just one heartbeat, one breath away from that ultimate oblivion but even so how? She left the house alive and calm, her last look at myself and our daughters, the usual early morning expression, a combination of love shot through with mild irritation at being delayed. A mind set operating on the expectation that any difficulties could be smoothed over when she'd returned for our usual quiet family evening. A normal morning with a normal routine, barring the one small change to which she shot that curious glance, my final - it won't happen but just in case - check under the car. I didn't really believe it. Why should I, all the earlier warnings had come to naught, a fuss about nothing that had died down leaving just a mild ripple of apprehension to haunt me. I thought we were safe, that she was safe. With no sign of anything alarming to be seen beneath the exhaust I made an excuse to her for my unexpected action, heaving with inward relief as I watched her back away from us secure in the knowledge that I'd been right not to warn her.
Then the car exploded, our lives exploded.
My wife, my dead wife. Whatever anyone says I as good as killed her. If only I'd faced down Karen's worries and told her about the new threats. If only I'd held Sarah tighter, run after her and caught her as she followed Karen's car. We were four, a happy and contented family, normal, ordinary. Now we are three, shortly we may become just be two. I don't know how I survive this and yet I must. I need to hold together. I can't collapse, Karen is gone, I want to scream and shout but I have to strong, controlled. I need to be with Sarah, talk to her, she may still be able to hear. She needs to know that she is loved, that we want her to return to us. And then, when I finally make it home, somehow I have to comfort Clare.
God how do I tell Clare that her mother is dead, she saw everything that happened and at four she's old enough to be worried, frightened. What is she feeling after seeing her Mum and sister taken away by ambulance. As a matter of necessity I had to leave her with a neighbour, dump her as she was crying. I know Margaret will take good care of her, but Clare needed me, her father, cuddling her, reassuring her, telling her that it would be alright but I couldn't. Instead I had to walk away. How can she understand why? One thing Karen and I vowed was that we would never lie to our children, but how can I tell her the truth? How can she understand that some faceless unknown person hated her mother for what she does - for what she did – so badly they wanted to murder her. I had to be with Karen. Now I must stay with Sarah. I also ought to be with Clare. Split myself into two and be strong when instead I'm falling apart. I don't know how I can cope with this, and yet I must. I have no option. I don't know who needs who more. The girls need me and I need them to give me purpose. I want to cry, throw things but I can't because if I once collapse I don't know if I will ever pull myself together again.
I keep seeing the sight of the car rolling over and over. Who, I know why but who? People die every day but this is faceless and useless, because nothing will stop or prevent abortions. They claimed it's God's work. That they are the instruments of his commands. If that is so then their non existent God is a bastard.
The police are keeping guard outside. Too late, the damage is done. The plain clothes man, elderly, sympathic and unobtrusive, he kept me informed of the lies being told, that the cause of her death was being reported as an unfortunate accident, due to the unexpected detonation of an ancient bomb, not the truth that it was a deliberately plotted hate crime. Then later he returned with another officer – I think they recognised what I was going through. Like me they cope with the bereaved every day, unlike me the deaths they deal with are usually unexpected, horrific, terrifying. They were polite, they didn't linger, but they had to ask, "Why hate mail?" What could I say? I told them what I knew. Which was nothing, other than my wife had been killed. I was past being angry that the truth is not being told. Karen is dead so does the provenance of the bomb that killed her really matter? We thought we had all the time in the world together, to grow old together, watch our children as they grew, guide them, see them marry, play with our grandchildren. An entire future gone, literally in a flash. Her sole worry this morning was that she was late, running out of time. Now she is late. And has time no longer.
She's dead, the end of her, but God what is this the start of? I killed my wife by not warning her, by keeping the threats a secret. Will that useless effort to protect her mean that I'll eventually have to face up to the further knowledge that through my well intentioned silence I've killed countless others by proxy? That I've not just paved my own road to Hell but laid down a footpath for others to follow behind me. The road of grief that I will tread endlessly for the rest of my life.
The threats, the literature we received, illustrated with vile pictures told me that we were both servants of the anti Christ. Called us both murderers. I am now. The officers came to see me because they need to find the culprit. I virtually told them that I know who the culprit is, who was responsible for the death of my wife.
They were looking at him.
Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be acceptable.
If you were expecting Harry's Operational Notes worry not, they will continue to be scattered through the story.