My first ever published piece of fiction, a short story that won first prize in a Police Review short story competition in 1983. First prize was £150 (I think) and a trip to London to meet and have lunch with Dick Francis and Peter Walker (author of the 'Constable' books that became the basis of the TV series, Heartbeat) Great prize!

HOME AND FAMILY.

The house was on one of those new estates that are being erected everywhere. It was semi-detached and made of red brick, quite tastefully designed within certain economic limits, and the garden had a turfed front lawn which the builder had the audacity to call landscaping. He’d done this at no extra cost.

In all it was good, clean and pleasant, but had no character yet. I supposed that would probably come in a few years time when the meagre saplings had been given time to grow and the plot had been adapted to the individual ideas of the home owner.

Theirs was number four and had been half of the first pair of houses to be constructed, so the road to it had been made up.

Further on, the inhabitants of the newest houses were obliged to run their cars over potholes that must have wrought terrible damage to their shock absorbers. I didn’t envy them at all.

However, they weren’t my problem, so they didn’t matter.

I parked outside and paused for a few seconds to take in everything before venturing to the front door.

The woodwork – the window frames, weather boarding, eaves and front door – was all done in brilliant glossy white which contrasted strongly with the blood red Accrington brick.

The front lawn, turfed and landscaped, had been trimmed already and a flower bed planted all around with pansies and such like. The centre of the lawn had been cut out, the rich black soil turned over but nothing had been planted yet. It would probably have roses there eventually, I thought.

The garage formed part of the house. It’s door was painted white also. On the driveway was a three year old Mini, its metal work gleaming and polished. It could have been brand new.

Reluctantly I released the catch on my seat belt and let it run back on the inertia reel. Then I took my clipboard off the passenger seat, opened the door and got out.

As I walked up the short driveway I brushed some crumbs off my uniform and adjusted my clip-on tie.

I remember thinking I should look as tidy as possible, but even as it went through my mind I countered it. How absurd! If there was one thing that didn’t matter it was my appearance.

The husband answered the door and managed to smile at me. He was a good looking boy, clean shaven, with fair skin and a good head of black hair. He wasn’t much older than twenty.

I learned he was an apprentice draughtsman or architect or something like that. His eyes were a piercing blue, a sort of film star blue.

When you see eyes like those on screen you think, ‘they can’t be real.’ But then you meet someone, like this boy, and they are real.

He was wearing a pale blue sweater – one of those with a leaping panther motif – a floppy collared shirt, jeans and a pair of old fashioned zip-up slippers, which seemed almost ludicrous in relation to the rest of the outfit.

Had it been another time, another place, another incident, I would have remarked on them, made a joke perhaps, but not now.

Why did this have to happen to the best people, I thought.

He led me through into the living room and I felt cold as I glanced quickly round. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. Where was justice?

Sitting on one of the chairs was the wife, hunched over, her head in her hands, long silky hair cascading down, over and through her slim fingers. She looked lost and when she sat up and faced me, I knew she was.

She had a beautiful oval face, clear skin, uncluttered by any blemish – or she would have had, had it not been wrecked by grief and torn apart by misery.

She had put make-up on earlier, that was obvious, because now the mascara had run with tears, leaving black, ugly streaks down her cheeks.

Lipstick was smeared around her mouth. She must have known how bad she looked but couldn’t have cared. I didn’t care either and thought again, acidly, ‘the best people...’

I think she nearly said something and I would have liked to hear her voice – I knew it normally would have been bright and chirpy – but in the end she said nothing, shook her head and gazed blindly ahead, choking back sobs, almost hiccupping with the effort, but remaining silent.

I think I looked at her for almost a full minute, the husband standing just behind me. I was mesmerised, absolutely entranced by beauty engulfed in despair.

The husband coughed and I came to. He led me upstairs. Pointing to one of the bedrooms, he said, ‘I don’t want to go in.’ I nodded, understanding.

Nor did I.

I pushed the door open.

She lay there in the cot barely weeks old, unmoving. A face as beautifully formed as her mother’s, but still. Features all in perfect miniature, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, but still.

I swallowed gently and pulled the sheet over her head.

I didn’t bother calling the body removers. There was no point. I carried her out in the cot and drove to the mortuary with her in the back seat of the panda.

THE END