Page 61 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Hello.’ My voice from a lifetime ago rings out into the kitchen. ‘Please could you put me through to Samuel McLaughlin?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, Mr McLaughlin is no longer here. Shall I transfer you to his department where another member of our team can help you?’
‘Y-yes, please.’
This doesn’t make sense. Why would he leave? Why would he have left after everything he had said about his job and how he had betrayed me to ensure that he kept it?
‘Good morning,’ announces the sing-song voice of a young woman.
‘Hello, I was hoping to speak with Samuel McLaughlin. I’ve worked with him before and I would like to—’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ the sing-song has stopped and is replaced with something gentler, ‘but I’m afraid Samuel is no longer with us, just a moment.’ I hear her hand cover the receiver and urgent muffled conversations in the background. Her hand slides from the receiver as she tells a colleague that she’ll be right there.
‘I’m sorry, is there anyone else who can help you today?’
‘Could you tell me what happened to him? To Samuel?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m new here, just a moment.’ The muffled tone fills my ears again before she continues.
‘There was an accident.’ She comes back on to the line. ‘At his house, I believe. Is there anyone else who can help you today?’
‘An accident?’
‘An explosion. I’m sorry, but Samuel has gone.’ There is no song, there is only remorse in her tone. Bile rises in my throat and my hands start shaking. ‘Is there anyone else who can help you with your enquiry?’
‘No. No . . . could you tell me when Samuel, when he left?’ She’s talking to someone else again.
‘March. Is there anything else I can do to help you today?’
‘March,’ I repeat. The daffodils would have been out . . . why am I thinking about daffodils? The walls are closing in around me, my breath is being sucked out of my body and I’m finding it hard to form any more words other than a quiet ‘No’. No, she can’t help me. My shaking hands reach for the keyboard as I type in Samuel’s Washington address into the search bar, followed by the word explosion. There is a report in theWashington Post:
Authorities in DC Investigate Report of Explosion
At approximately five o’clock on March15, an explosion ripped through a property in Hangart Drive. Authorities said it appeared to be related to a gas leak.
The owner of the house, Mr Samuel McLaughlin, was dragged from the burning house by a neighbor. He is said to be in a critical condition and is being treated in the Washington Hospital Center.
I scroll down to where a picture of Samuel’s house, or what is left of it, is being hosed down by firemen.
My fingers punch in the words ‘Washington Hospital Center’ and I call them, gently stroking Bean, trying to keep my child and myself calm.
‘Washington Hospital Center.’
‘Hello? I was hoping you could help me. I’m trying to find a friend of mine.’ The memory of his face, as he held out his hand to me when I was sitting in the puddle, steals the breath from my lungs and I have to concentrate on gulping air back into my body. ‘He was admitted in March?’
‘What name, please?’
‘Samuel McLaughlin.’ His name doesn’t roll around my mouth the way it used to; it sounds brittle, fragile.
‘There is nothing on the screen to say that he is a current patient and I’m afraid I can’t give out any personal information about any of our past patients.’
‘I understand, but I know he was taken to hospital in March and I know that his injuries were severe, but I don’t know any more than that. Please, if you could give me anything about him, anything at all, I would be . . .’ I close my eyes, their surface burning inside their sockets.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more details. Perhaps if you contact his next of kin?’ These words punch me in the stomach. Next of kin.
‘I don’t know where his . . .’ I force these words out of my mouth, these words that are associated with death. ‘I don’t know who his next of kin are.’
‘I’m sorry, but there is no more I can do to help. Maybe ask his friends? They might know?’
