Our double buggy teetered with gifts as my husband Ian and I lifted it off the train onto the platform. ‘It’s got more presents than Santa’s sleigh,’ I said, laughing as I stifled a yawn. It was 8 pm on Christmas Eve 2019 and after visiting relatives, Ian, then 39, and I were keen to get home. But bouncing excitedly around our feet, our kids Penny, four, and Casper, two, showed no signs of flagging. Even Rufus, then 20 months, just visible under piles of glittery paper, was still babbling away. ‘Will we see Rudolph?’ Penny grinned, skipping along. ‘You never know,’ I smiled.
Out on the street, we started the 10-minute walk home. I spotted a couple of rowing in a nearby bus shelter but paid little attention, desperate to get home and get the kids to Ebed, and thinking about the presents I was yet to wrap. Suddenly, I heard a sickening thud. 'What was that?' I gasped, turning to Ian. Only, he wasn't there.
Then I saw a man unconscious on the pavement a few yards behind me and heard people shouting for help, forming a = circle around him. It was lan. Heaving our laden pram around in a panic, I ran with the children toward him. 'Somebody hit him, one man told me, as I dropped to my knees beside Ian. A kind woman took my pram, steering it away and distracting Penny and Casper with Christmas chatter. I heard her ask the children what Santa was bringing them, as the sound of sirens echoed and I stared down at my husband. I'm here, I whispered.
His eyes opened, but he stared straight ahead, making a stomach-churning gurgling sound. There was no blood, but he quickly closed his eyes again and I knew he wasn't aware of what was going on.
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