George de Graaf paced nervously around the room of his apartment. For the first time in his life, he found it difficult to breathe. When his son was young, he used to have asthma. Now he wished he had one of his inhalers that were forever lying around the house.
His chest felt tight and constrained, as if someone held him in a bear hug, trying to stop him breathing. George stopped to support himself on the cupboard and ran his hands over his head to the back of his neck. Something caught in his fingers. He quickly stopped to look at is hand. Tufts of hair covered his palm; he stared at it in shock.
"Jesus Christ," he moaned, and headed for the door, terrified. "Better call a doctor," he whispered to himself.
Gasping for breath George struggled down the stairs and collapsed on the last step next to the small mahogany telephone table. He reached for his old-fashioned telephone and dialed the emergency number. They answered almost immediately.
"Emergency services," the female voice on the other end said.
"My name is de Graaf." He muttered as he could feel his head beginning to spin. George clutched the balustrade, just in time to stop himself from falling. The telephone dropped to the floor.
"Which emergency service do you require sir." The calm female voice asked on the other end of the line. George de Graaf lay next to the telephone, dead. The voice on the phone carried on.
"Hello sir, I need to know which emergency service you require?"
Chapter Ten