Look Down and See What Death is Doing

Monday morning began normally. Harold J. Wiseman got out of bed, swinging his legs with a fluid, practised motion on to the ground and into his slippers. After completing the first of his daily duties in the bathroom, he dressed: grey suit, white shirt, twin tone tie. Executing a Windsor knot with the tie, he crossed to the window and drew back the curtains. A grey day, with a slight drizzle and what Harold J. Wiseman perceived to be a heavy build up of Cumulonimbus.

He descended the stairs at 8 o’clock and entered the kitchen. His place was laid for him, with the two boiled eggs (pointed ends upwards) sitting in their egg cups and the toast arranged on a plate, three slices overlapping slightly. Harold J. Wiseman sat down and used the butter knife to make a small incision at the top of the first egg: where the hairline would be, he imagined, although eggs did not have hairlines.

It was as he began scooping out the contents of the detached portion of the egg that Harold J Wiseman made his discovery. He became aware that there was something different about the room: not so much something added, but something subtracted from the general appearance of the kitchen. He made several mental checks to assure himself that there had not been a burglary in the night. But no – the farmyard clock (a present from Harriet’s uncle at their wedding) was still atop the dresser, and the blue china vase (a present from his own mother) was still standing firmly on the windowsill. Then it dawned on him. Harriet was absent.  Harold J. Wiseman gazed about the kitchen in mild surprise. He couldn’t recall the last time he had actually conversed with his wife above the generic formalities of breakfast and dinner, but even so, he was accustomed to her passive yet tenacious housewifery as he ate his breakfast.

Having finished his first mouthful of egg (which he noted with vague irritation was slightly softer than the average viscosity of his breakfast eggs), he uttered a tentative cry.

“Harriet?”

Receiving no reply, Harold J. Wiseman got up and walked through the hall to the lounge. No one there. He continued to the dining room, which was also empty.

“Harriet?”

Something that Harold J. Wiseman could not describe began to send panic signals through his brain. He hurried upstairs and assessed the contents of each room. No wife. It was as he glanced out of the spare room window that he noticed the car was missing. The unthinkable began to occur to him. Harold J. Wiseman had never imagined that the unthinkable was thinkable, but as he entered the master bedroom and found that his wife’s assortments of feminine articles were missing from their position on the dressing table, he realised just that. She had left and, what’s more, she had left without consulting him. He returned to the kitchen: the eggs were getting cold. He sat down. He ate the rest of his breakfast. He exchanged slippers for shoes. He took his hat from its peg by the door.

And with that, Harold J. Wiseman went to work.