Later, when the world around him was collapsing and deadly crows were nesting on the monkey bars of the school playground, he became annoyed with himself because he had forgotten the name of that BBC journalist who had told him that his old life was over and that a new, darker existence was about to be born. She had called him at his home, on his personal line, without explaining how she had found the number. "How do you feel," she asked, "learning that you have just been sentenced to death by Ayatollah Khomeini?" It was a sunny Tuesday in London, but that question extinguished the light. That is the answer he gave, without fully realizing what he was saying: "Not so pleasant." In reality, he was thinking: I am dead. He wondered how many days he had left to live and thought that the answer was probably a single-digit number. He hung up the phone and ran down the stairs, leaving behind the room where he worked, at the top of the narrow house where he lived, in Islington. The living room windows had wooden shutters, and, completely illogical, he closed and bolted them. Then, he also locked the front door.
It was Valentine's Day, but he was not getting along well with his wife, American novelist Marian Wiggins. Six days earlier, she had told him she was unhappy with their marriage and that "she no longer felt good being near him," even though they had just celebrated their first year of marriage, and he had already realized that the decision was a mistake. Now she looked at him bewildered—as he nervously wandered around the house, pulling the curtains and checking if the windows were locked, as his body seemed to be hardened by the news, as if it was electrified—and he had to confess what was happening to her. She reacted well and began to discuss what they should do. She spoke in the plural. It was a brave move.