An Irresponsible Age. Lavinia Greenlaw

of emergency exits when in crowded or official places, and she acknowledged the briefcase left on the Tube or the van parked outside a bank. She listened.

      With some effort, Juliet began to walk. She was trying to get home but while she thought she was heading west, she was making her way south towards the river, confused by the sirens that bounced off tall buildings and made it seem as if a fire engine or ambulance were hurtling towards her round every corner. She had not been close by and had seen nothing but could not seem to get away from it either. Later, she would see in a newspaper the office block with its blown-out windows holding their broken blinds like handkerchiefs. A bomb. She did not recognise anything.

      

      Jacob had not been going to open the door but was made curious by the silence of whoever it was and the way they kept rattling the handle. He had been listening to the radio and had heard the news. Juliet looked alright, just a bit stiff. Then she held up her scraped hands. He led her to an armchair and noticed, as she sat down, that her knees were bleeding. He wrapped her in a blanket, fetched a cup of warm water and pulled off his t-shirt, which he used as a cloth as, tenderly and minutely, he cleaned her cuts. He gave her whiskey by the teaspoon, and then sweet tea. They each recognised the rituals of shock and enjoyed them. He laid her down on the army cot and when she turned away, placed a hand on the small of her back and said, ‘Breathe’. The pain disappeared instantly. Jacob sat beside her all night, one hand pressing her head to the pillow.

      Juliet woke at six, whimpering and saying that she wanted to go home. She was worried about Fred. Jacob soothed her and called a cab. He held her hand all the way to Khyber Road and when they arrived, helped her out and knocked on the door.

      It was thrown open by a tall woman with a wicked face and splendid red curly hair. She nodded at Jacob, hugged Juliet and propelled her through to the kitchen where Carlo and Fred were waiting.

      Fred threw himself on Juliet and burst into tears. ‘I thought you too!’

      Juliet was embarrassed. ‘What is this? I’m sorry if I had you all worried. I couldn’t get back. This is Jacob.’ He was standing beside her. ‘You’ve met Carlo, this is Fred and my sister, Clara.’

      The woman nodded again but did not speak. No one spoke. Juliet was bewildered. ‘Christ, Fred, I should have rung. I was close to it, I fell down and then I walked. I fell asleep.’ His greater distress made her feel strong and, her voice restored, she said firmly, ‘We’re safe. We’re all safe now.’

      Fred raised his head. She watched his mouth. He was saying ‘Tobias’.

      ‘Tobias? The bomb?’ Something deep in the earth reached up and pulled all her substance downwards.

      Fred gave a peculiar laugh, as if this were a novel idea, a connection he would never have made himself, and shook his head.

      Juliet fell into a chair. ‘Thank god for that. I think I’m going to be sick.’

      Clara knelt by Juliet, holding her bruised hands too tightly. ‘After the bomb, there was another alert. Tobias was on his motorbike, going through the Hyde Park underpass just as they cordoned off the road ahead. The traffic in the tunnel backed up. He came round the corner into the back of a car. Too fast.’

      ‘We don’t know that!’ shouted Fred.

      Juliet drew herself in. Carlo put his arms round Fred. Jacob stood in the doorway, watching.

      Eventually Clara got up. ‘I’ll make some tea. Would you like a cup, um, Jacob?’ she asked and Jacob shrugged, a gesture that in such absolute circumstances enraged Fred.

      ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled, like something small and cornered.

      ‘Leave him alone,’ said Carlo half-heartedly.

      Clara was standing at the sink under the window with her back to them and her extraordinary hair with its several reds seemed to float in the light. When she turned, Jacob found her face no longer witchlike. It was stunningly ugly.

      Jacob crossed the room and began to take cups down from a shelf and pass them to Clara as if he had been doing such things for years.

      ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Fred.

      ‘Oh for god’s sake,’ snapped Juliet.

      ‘Well what’s he doing here anyway? No one should be here now except us.’

      ‘He looked after me,’ admitted Juliet. ‘All night.’

      ‘While we thought you were dead. You should have come home. I would have looked after you.’

      ‘I couldn’t get home.’

      Everyone in the room, except Jacob, was crying while they tried to be doing something else, even if it was just looking at the floor.

      Fred saw Jacob glance at his watch. ‘Don’t let us bore you,’ he sneered and then, formally, making a point of the presence of this stranger, ‘Where are our mother and father?’

      ‘They’re with Mary,’ said Carlo, taking hold of his brother again.

      ‘They should be here with us.’

      ‘Alright Fred,’ said Clara. Jacob could see she was holding herself extremely carefully. ‘For today you can say whatever you like. And I’m warning you, the rest of us can say whatever we like too.’

      Fred looked at Jacob. ‘I bet he says whatever he likes all the time,’ which made Jacob smile and seeing this, Clara smiled too and murmured an apology as Carlo grabbed Fred and took him out through the kitchen door into the yard. Jacob kissed the top of Juliet’s head and stroked her cheek as he nodded to Clara, and left.

      

      Although this was not the hospital where he worked, Carlo knew where to go. He found the back stairs down to the basement corridor, at the end of which lay the unmarked doors. He had pulled on a white coat over his clothes, as if it might help.

      He was coming through the doors when the woman who ran the mortuary found him. She smiled and, nodding towards the row of fridges, said, ‘Lost someone?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Carlo, ‘I have.’

      She looked kind and amused. ‘You’ll get used to it. Anyway, you should be too busy to care.’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      She looked at him more carefully. ‘There’s always one who won’t let go. Regardless of how many more you lose, and there’ll be plenty, believe me.’

      ‘Yes.’ Carlo stared at the ground.

      ‘So have you got something to say to them?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Your patient. I can let you have a quick look, if you don’t make a habit of following them down here.’

      Carlo shook his head and the woman said, ‘In that case, you ought to get back to work,’ but Carlo went on shaking his head until the words rolled into place: ‘I have come to identify my brother.’

      When he looked up, a different woman was standing in front of him. Someone had ironed her face and her hands were no longer in her pockets but clasped in front of her chest. She said something about being so sorry and if only and what was she thinking of, but Carlo wasn’t listening.

      She led him into a hushed and painted world where she stopped outside a door and Carlo knew that she was about to ask whether he wanted to go into the room or look through the window.

      He pre-empted her: ‘Please, leave me to it.’

      She jumped back and Carlo realised how sensitised people become around the relatives of the newly dead. Of course. Anything. Absolutely.

      Carlo had been shown the Chapel of Rest in his hospital, with its abstract stained glass, modest arrangements of plastic flowers and pastel cubes of tissues. He knew its protocols, but had spent little time on that side of the fridges. He had not yet met a relative. Now he