His heart was in his mouth as he approached the bench. The traffic noise and wailing sirens seemed very distant here, in this quiet, dark, lonely place. During the day, this would be busy with families and joggers, skateboarders and dog-walkers. Now it was just the two of them.
She was so still. When he was three or four metres away, not wanting to surprise her, he scuffed his feet a little on the tarmac. She didn’t react, her figure motionless, slumped almost. The tartan trolley was parked next to her on the tarmac. He tried again and cleared his throat. No reaction. There was a low thudding sound now, getting louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a light moving across the sky – a helicopter tracking across the estate where smoke was still billowing up. In his panic, he’d almost forgotten it – forgotten that his life was going up in flames. All that mattered in this moment was the woman in front of him and the secrets that she held.
He took another step towards her. And another.
‘Mrs C,’ he said. ‘Kath.’
He drew level with the bench, then walked in front of her and crouched down.
Her eyes were open.
‘Mrs C,’ he said again and put a hand over hers.
She blinked.
Her mouth was working but no sound was coming out. Den leaned a little closer.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’