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under my breath. Who was so blooming impatient?
    I turned the key in the lock, suddenly all fingers and thumbs, and swung the door open cautiously. A policewoman stood on my doorstep and another waited a few paces behind. Both looked pale and stricken, and the policewoman right in front of me held her cap in her hands, turning it over and over and over.
    A lump rose in my throat and I had a terrible premonition. Something bad had happened. Something really bad had happened. Mum? Dad? Had they been in an accident?
    My knees crumpled and I swayed slightly.
    “Mrs. Jones?”
    I gulped in some air and nodded.
    “Mrs. Steve Jones?
    I nodded again and tried to swallow my rising panic. What had happened? What had happened? My mouth opened to ask the question, but my throat had dried up and no words came out.
    The policewoman took my hand and met my gaze. Her voice shook ever so slightly.
    “Mrs. Jones, I’m police constable Murphy, and my colleague is WPC Parker. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. Please…may we come in? It…it would be easier to talk inside.”
    My world disintegrated. Someone had died. Someone I loved had died, and I was about to find out who it was. My heart beat in my mouth and my head swam. Irrationally, unfairly, I found myself praying, please don’t let it be Steve. Please don’t let it be Steve! Then I realized, with a guilty jolt, that news of Mum or Dad’s death would be just as devastating. I didn’t want to lose anyone.
    Already, tears were pouring down my cheeks and I felt faint. I noticed the two policewomen exchanging a look, pointing their eyes at my bump and then at each other, and very gently, WPC Murphy took charge. She touched me on the arm and turned me around so that I could lead the way into the house. On autopilot, I showed the police officers into the lounge and sat down heavily on the sofa. WPC Murphy immediately sat down beside me, close, but not too close, and took my hand.
    WPC Parker came into the room a few seconds later, took in the scene and the blaring telly which, I noticed absent-mindedly, was showing images of ambulances and a blown up building, and she abruptly turned it off.
    “Mrs. Jones, I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your husband was killed in a terrorist bomb attack in central London this morning.”
    I looked at her blankly. Her words entered my brain and skittered around for a little while before they settled into place and made some kind of sense. Involuntarily, I let out a small gasp of relief.
    “There must be a mistake. You must have the wrong ID, or something. Steve couldn’t have been killed. He was nowhere near the city center this morning, he works in a hospital in Tooting.” My words tumbled out fast, and I was dizzy with cautious joy. Obviously it was terrible that someone had died—lots of people, probably—but at least it couldn’t have been Steve.
    WPC Murphy and WPC Parker traded looks once more. This time, it was WPC Parker who spoke.
    “Mrs. Jones, there has been no mistake. Your husband—”
    “But there must be! Steve went to work this morning, I know he did, he texted me when he got there!”
    WPC Parker swallowed hard. “You’re right. He did go to work this morning. A bomb went off in central London just before ten a.m. and there were dozens of casualties. The emergency services were on site within minutes but there weren’t enough ambulances and…”
    “No, no, no,” I wailed. “You got the wrong man. Steve isn’t a paramedic, he wouldn’t have been there, he doesn’t do ambulance shifts, he works as a nurse in the operating theater. Look, I’ll call him now and…”
    WPC Murphy took over again. “Mrs. Jones, your husband responded to the call alongside three other paramedics—”
    “But he wasn’t a paramedic!”
    Didn’t the woman understand that this detail mattered? Steve couldn’t have been there. It wasn’t his job. Therefore he couldn’t have been killed. If I could only get her to