Until they reached the morgue.
That was where the trio waited to greet her, two men - one in a suit - and a WPC who smiled efficiently and took a step towards her, eyeing the bloodstained handkerchief that Donna still clutched.
The man in the suit also stepped forward, introducing himself as Detective Constable Mackenzie. Donna looked at him blankly and followed him through into the morgue.
The WPC took her arm as she moved into the small room beyond. It was grey and white, bare except for a single slab in the centre of the room. On that slab lay a shapeless form covered by a green plastic sheet. The room was barely twelve feet square, but it might as well have been the size of a football pitch. The slab seemed to grow in Donna’s mind until it was the only thing she could see. The antiseptic smell was even stronger now.
She felt sick. Felt faint.
The other man, dressed in a sweatshirt and trousers, said that he was the coroner, his name was Daniel Jordan. Something like that.
Donna felt a sudden feeling of light-headedness, thought she was going to faint. The WPC shot out an arm to steady her, sliding another arm around her waist, but Donna shrugged it off, pushing the offered support away from her with her cold hands.
No, don’t look. Turn and run.
A tear forced its way from her eye and trickled slowly down her cheek.
‘It won’t take a second, Mrs Ward,’ said Jordan, holding out a hand to beckon her closer.
And now every part of her mind centred on that shape in front of her. Moving like an automaton she stood beside Jordan, looking down at the sheet.
She clutched the handkerchief more tightly.
‘All right,’ she whispered.
He pulled back the sheet.
‘Oh, no,’ she gasped. ‘No.’
Jordan looked at her, then at Mackenzie, who merely shook his head slightly.
‘Chris,’ murmured Donna, her eyes transfixed on the face of the corpse.
The corpse of her husband.
‘No,’ she said again, tears pouring down her cheeks. She studied his features, the awful gashes in his forehead and cheeks. She saw how the blood had soaked his jacket and shirt.
‘Is it your husband, Mrs Ward?’ Mackenzie asked.
Donna nodded and reached for her husband, touching one of his lacerated cheeks.
His skin was white, those areas that weren’t discoloured by bruises or hideous cuts, as if all the blood had been drained from him. She smoothed one of his eyebrows, then touched his lips with her index finger.
She touched her fingertips to her own lips and kissed them, then pressed those fingers to his cold lips once more.
She shook her head again, allowing herself to be eased back by the WPC, allowing herself to be guided towards the door.
She saw Jordan replace the sheet.
It was then that she collapsed.
How many tears could the human eye produce?
As Donna sat sobbing she wondered.
How much pain was it possible to feel at the death of a man you loved? Could pain be measured, calibrated and categorised like anything else?
She felt a hand clasp hers; it seemed to exude strength and feeling.
The nurse who sat beside her was in her mid-thirties
(
and she had the most piercing blue eyes Donna had ever seen. But in those eyes there was only concern now. The small room had yellow walls, two or three threadbare chairs and posters which bore slogans like
SAVE THE NHS
OVERWORKED DOCTORS ARE A DANGER TO EVERYONE: CUT HOURS
On the small table beside her there were tea cups; one was still steaming.
‘Drink it,’ said the nurse, holding the cup towards Donna, gripping her other hand firmly.
Donna looked at her, then at the WPC who sat opposite. She took the cup and sipped the tea.
‘Good girl,’ said the nurse, still holding her hand.
Donna swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then put the cup down. She sucked in a deep breath, as if to replace air that had been knocked from her, then sank back in the chair, one hand over her face, her eyes closed. Her sobs subsided into a series of quivering inhalations and exhalations. She could feel how wet her own cheeks were.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered, swallowing hard, aware for the first time of the heavy silence in the room and of the ticking of a clock above her.
11.06 p.m.
‘What happened?’ she asked, looking at the nurse and the WPC in turn.
‘You fainted and we brought you in here,’ the policewoman told her quietly.
‘Oh God,’ Donna murmured again. The words were like a litany.
The room was lit by a sixty-watt bulb that cast thick black shadows. Outside, beyond the closed curtains, she could hear the wind. The hospital seemed very quiet. Donna sat for interminable minutes just staring ahead, wondering why her mind was so blank. It was like a blackboard wiped clean of chalk, all feelings wiped away. She just felt a terrible emptiness, so intense it was almost physical, as if a hole had been gouged in her soul. Could so much emotion be expended that a person was left without feeling? When Donna looked down at her own body she saw only a shell, with nothing left inside. Just a husk, devoid and emptied of feeling.
She put down the teacup, touched the nurse gently on the back of the hand and released her grip, resting both arms on the worn arms of the chair. Tilting her head back she closed her eyes and took another deep, racking breath.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked finally, her voice low.
The policewoman looked at her and then at the nurse, as if for permission to speak.
‘How was Chris killed?’ Donna had no recollection of Cobb telling her about the accident.
‘A car crash,’ the WPC said quietly.
‘When did it happen?’
‘I’m not really sure, Mrs Ward,’ the policewoman told her apologetically. ‘I wasn’t on duty when it happened.’
‘Is there anyone here who could tell me?’ Donna asked, smiling thinly. ‘Please.’
The policewoman got to her feet, excused herself and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.
The clock continued to tick loudly above Donna’s head.
‘You must have done this so many times,’ she said to the nurse, ‘comforted the grieving relatives.’ Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ the nurse told her, clutching her arm warmly. ‘Don’t apologise for the way you feel. I was the
