My wife
stood slowly and crept across the carpet to gently twitch the
curtains aside.
“Well?”
I asked.
“They're
leaving,” she replied, “It's just Ms Wright from number twelve
left. They're bringing her wheel chair out now.”
“What
are we going to do?” I think my question was more rhetorical than
anything else, but she responded nevertheless.
“We
wait,” she said, looking at Robert's slumbering body.
“Wait?”
I asked, somewhat flabbergasted, “Mary, terrible things are about
to happen. How long can we wait?”
“As long
as we have to,” she said. “We have to have faith now. Faith in
our son,” she was stood by him now, caressing his forehead, “Faith
in his wife,” she looked at me directly, “In Raven.”
