ALEXANDRA CALLED BY THE morgue. Ned had company now. A metal trolley on wheels had been placed next to his. A small group of shocked relatives stood and stared at the body of a thin, elderly woman. Her jaw was bound to keep it closed. It was strange, thought Alexandra, how few people seemed to die, considering everyone did; how few dead bodies a living person encountered; how shocking it was when they did.
Alexandra had never hit Ned in life: though he had hit her once, during the herpes episode. But she hadn’t taken it badly; rather she had taken responsibility for his state of mind. She had assumed he was part of her, she an extension of him. She thought perhaps women minding men hitting them was a recent cultural innovation: in the past women had never tried to be separate from their husbands, or claim their separate personality. The aim was to incorporate, not stay distinguished. His flesh yours, your flesh his. But Ned’s death had put a stop to all that. So far as she was concerned, his part of the union was dead, hers went on living. Separation, individuality, had been forced upon her. She would have hit him now but could hardly do so in front of the old lady’s relatives. One was meant to respect the dead, unless the Government declared them an official enemy, in which case you just shovelled them into common graves so you didn’t get the plague. Alexandra aimed a quick kick at the trolley wheels instead: the trolley clanged into the end wall. Ned’s body shuddered, but stayed in place. She walked out. The others stared after her, further bewildered.