He nodded. The redness around his neck and throat had puffed out alarmingly, like landmasses on a topographical map. But his face stayed pale, now taking on a bluish tinge. I ran into the adjoining room, picked up the phone, and stood for a moment, just listening to what was happening in the bedroom. I heard another zipper being opened, then a soft thwumping sound. I put the receiver gently back onto its handset, slowly counted to ten, then walked to the doorway, peered toward the bed. Eric was laid out, one hand still at his neck, but he was no longer scratching at it. His hand was just lying there, still. I watched him for long enough to know that he wasn’t breathing, then, just to make sure, I waited a minute, then crossed the room and placed two fingers along his throat and felt for a pulse. There was none. I went back to the phone and dialed 999, gave my name and address, told the woman with the chirpy voice on the other end that my boyfriend was in anaphylactic shock.
After making the phone call I moved quickly. I took the few whole cashews from the paper towel in the refrigerator and put some in the chicken korma that was still in Eric’s bowl (and still warm from the microwave) and some in the take-out container. Then I flushed the paper towel and washed my hands. In the bedroom, Eric hadn’t moved. I slid my hand beneath the mattress and pulled out the plastic Baggie with the two unused EpiPens. Eric’s belongings were spread around the room. I wiped my prints off the Baggie with a pair of socks, then pushed the entire thing into one of his running sneakers. It seemed like a place where someone might keep emergency medicine. Eric never would have, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that. And he wouldn’t tell anyone that I had said the chicken korma didn’t have nuts in it. I would tell them that he was drunk, and that he must have just decided to eat the chicken anyway, and I was in the bedroom, and then we couldn’t find the EpiPens. I tried to think if there was anything else I needed to do to set the scene. I thought it might look good if I pressed on Eric’s chest a few times, just to make it look as though I had tried CPR. Would a coroner be able to tell that sort of thing? I was about to start when the buzzer sounded again.
I ran up the stairs to let the medics in.
Three days later, after Eric’s family had been notified, and arrangements had been made to have the body shipped home, the constable who had arrived after the medics that Friday night came to my door to tell me that there would be no inquest.
I was pleased, of course, but surprised. I had read so many English mysteries that I just assumed that any slightly unusual death would result in an inquest, one in which all the evidence would point toward an accidental and tragic death. In a small way, I was disappointed.
“Okay,” I said, making my face look confused. “What does that mean?”
“Just means the coroner deemed the death accidental and doesn’t see the need for further review. It’s the right decision, I’d say, although an official inquest might have called into question the Bottle and Glass and that pub challenge of theirs. I might pop over there myself and talk to them about it.” The constable had kind eyes and a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Twice now, I had told him all the relevant facts. How Eric was drunk, and how I had let him know about the nuts in the korma and how he ate it anyway, and then he didn’t remember where he kept his medicine.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m thinking I might go round that pub and talk to them some more,” he repeated. He lingered briefly in the doorway, then turned to go. He had told me his name, but I didn’t remember it.