Dead Babies

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There were five bedrooms.

In the master suite, on knees and elbows, Giles Coldstream was crawling around the floor in search of the telephone, both hands cupped tightly over his mouth. The curling green cord eventually led him to a heap of spent gin bottles beneath his desk. With his left palm still flat over his lips Giles tugged at the wire, hobbled into a crouch, and dialed two digits.

"Get me Dr. Wallman. Quickly. Dr. Sir Gerald Wall—"

But even as he spoke, a tooth the shape and hue of a potato chip slopped over his tongue and fell with a hollow rattle into the bakelite receiver.

"Please, quickly."

"What number do you want?" asked a female voice.

"Please. I'm — they're all—"

And now, in strips, like an unstrung necklace or rippling piano keys, they begin to cascade from his mouth.

"What number do you want?" the voice repeated.

Giles dropped the telephone. His hands fidgeted frenetically inside his mouth — trying to keep them there, trying to put them back. His face went glossy with tears as a bubble of blood welled from his lips.

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