Richard
When Elizabeth and I arrive at the hospital, James is still in surgery. Charlotte and Michael, silent and strained, sit out in a waiting area. A couple of dozen seats accommodate a sketch of humanity: a small crying child, perhaps a girl, although it’s hard to tell through the snot and tears, with her mother trying to comfort her. A couple of old ladies sit talking and laughing raucously, sharing tea from a flask. Two young men try to control a comrade who yells and struggles, clearly much the worse for drink and with a head wound bleeding down his face and clothes.
Michael looks rough, sitting with one arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding hers.
Charlotte looks appalling. Her eyes, dark-rimmed, are bloodshot hollows. Her hair and clothes, while she’s obviously made some attempt at cleaning up, still carry traces of James’ blood. As we arrive, she looks up and then away again, lost in tears and misery.
They don’t belong here….