He’s lying on the couch, sobbing. Great. Did I forget to put the toilet seat down again?
(You’d think that wouldn’t be an issue with two men in the house, wouldn’t you? Well, there you go)
“Geordie, what’s wrong?” I try again, kneeling next to him.
He thrusts a piece of paper at me.
GEORDIE, DARLING, YOUR TIME’S UP. YOU KNOW WHY.
Er. This doesn’t look as though it could have any good interpretations.
“Geordie? Is this a threat of some sort?”
He lifts his head from the couch cushion and wails.
“Only the worst kind!” I make out.
“You mean – someone’s threatening to – kill you?”
Geordie nods and buries his head in the cushion again, sobbing.
Oh dear. Geordie’s melodramatic, but I don’t think he’d descend to sending himself death threats.
I finally get him calmed down enough to talk coherently.
“Darling,” I say carefully, “There’s one thing that’s confusing me a little – you don’t know who sent this, but you know it’s a death threat – does that mean you know what they’re talking about?”
His eyes slide away from my face, and he wrings his hands.
Well, bugger. This isn’t going to be fun, is it?