What Can Happen In A Second? # amwriting

'I'm just coming' he yelled. We were late, and I was getting agitated. I'd been pacing the floor for 15 minutes. 'We're going to miss the train' I had warned. It was 17.23 and the train was in 10 minutes and we needed to leave now. no. we needed to leave 5 minutes ago. But that's just how it was, how it had always been. He was born late, refused to come out when he was meant to, no matter how much curry I ate, and he had been continuing in the same vein for the last sixteen and a half years.

I usually built in extra time, told him that we need to be somewhere half an hour sooner than we did, but the invite had come as a surprise and we had only just agreed to go last night. The opening night of a West End play wasn't to be sniffed at - not when you were mates with the leading actor and had been promised box seats and and invite to the after show party. 'Hurry up!' I pleaded, leaning round the hallway door to make sure he heard me this time, my call echoing off the smooth wooden floorboards and polished bannister. 'Ok mum', dismissing my fuss, knowing I always made us arrive half an hour early to everything. 'Down in a sec'.

How could I have known he would be so true to his words. A sudden thundering, thumping roar filled the house, followed by silence. What the hell was that? 'You ok?'

Nothing.

'Robbie?' A wave of dread roared through me as I rounded the corner, back in to the hallway. A rag doll with my beautiful boy's face on was lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs, limbs in the wrong order and a surprised look on its face. Its neck, I remember, looked strangely graceful, elongated, like a swan. So out of place on this solid, rugby playing frame.

'robbie', I whispered, frightened to startle him. I knew, even before I got to him, I knew, but I checked anyway. No pulse. My baby boy had no pulse. I crumpled, Rosie to his Jim, the floor rising up to meet me. What had just happened? And what was that noise?

I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dimly aware of hitting the emergency call button. When the answer came 'emergency, which service', I realised that the noise had been my raw scream as my heart tried to climb up and out of my mouth. 'ambulance' I muttered.

'My son is dead'.