Friday, March 27, 1953
“All right,” said Robbie. “I’ll take one end, and Saul, you take the other.
Ready, so, on my count of three. One, two, three.
That’s it.” Christ, he thought, he’s heavy.
He’d always thought of Jimmy as weightless, graceful.
Like a ballet dancer. “Me, a ballet dancer,” Robbie heard him say. “You’re having a laugh.”
George, seeing Robbie and Saul struggling, came and supported the middle of the rolled-up rug as they inched toward the door. Robbie muttered thanks. The familiar smell of George—flowery scent, unwashed hair, alcohol-tinged breath—mingled with the coppery smell of the blood-soaked rug.
Robbie’s stomach rose into his throat. He feared his knees might buckle.
“His foot!” cried Mina suddenly. “Oh God, his foot is sticking out.”
“Calm down, for goodness’ sake,” said Honor. “Let’s just get him into the Anderson shelter for now so we can clean up in here. Then tomorrow we’ll decide what to do.”