When she’d stumbled on the body, she bolted around the nearest dumpster but be messily and noisily sick. Adrenaline, terror screamed through her as she dialed the emergency number and somehow very calmly explained the situation to the operator who told her police were on their way and to stay on the line until they arrived.
She went to the nearest stoop and sat down, trying to breathe through the shakes and the stink of sick in her mouth. Spitting didn’t get rid of it. “Oh, God,” she mumbled into her fist.
The world zeroed down to the concrete under her butt, the biting London wind, and the phone pressed against her ear.
She looked up surprised when a police car finally did pull up to the curb.
“Hi,” she croaked, “I was the one who -- uh, called.”
