Once at home I kicked off my shoes and headed straight to the spare bedroom.  I climbed, fully clothed, into bed and closed my eyes but the images of my boys seemed more real than ever.  Thinking the chances of sleep were minimal, I was surprised to wake several hours later to the sounds of the neighbourhood children heading off to school, their lively chatter coming up from the road below the bedroom window.  In my first few seconds of wakefulness the events of the previous evening weren’t immediately apparent, and then, as if being bludgeoned with a hammer, they suddenly and painfully flooded my thinking.  My breathing rate escalated, my heart pounded, and for a weird few seconds I thought I was going to die; not that I really cared.  What did I have to live for?

Over the next few minutes I slowly began to compose myself, and as I lay in the spare bed I could just hear the 8:00 a.m. news broadcast, barely audible, coming from the alarm clock radio in the master bedroom.  During the weekdays we’d always woken to the 7:00 a.m. news on Radio 4, and the alarm had still to switch itself off.  The Prime Minister was in India, a policeman had been stabbed in Manchester, and there were job losses at a midlands car plant.  There was no mention of a hit-and-run killing five.

After thirty minutes of wallowing I willed myself out of bed.  Struggling to summon the strength to move, it felt as if I’d aged fifty years overnight.  In discrete stages I headed for the bathroom, all the time giving myself commands and encouragement: bed covers off, sit up, feet over the edge, standing position, right foot forward, left foot forward.  I shuffled past the open door of the bedroom that my beautiful sons had shared, and the enormity of the loss was overwhelming. I repeatedly felt that an emotional rock bottom had been reached; but then a memory or thought would be triggered and the bar of desolation would be lowered further.

I showered trying to cleanse myself in the near-scalding water.  I’d read how rape victims spent hours in the shower attempting to purify themselves of their attacker, and as I stood with the water pounding my body I could identify with those emotions; I felt violated, if not physically, then psychologically.  After thirty minutes I stepped out of the shower with my skin reddened and close to blistering in places.  I struggled to decide what clothes to wear, before settling on a suitably subdued navy blue top and jeans.

In the empty and unnervingly quiet house I headed downstairs to the kitchen.  I made tea and slowly drank it while listening to the radio and waiting for the next local news bulletin.  We never used to listen to local radio, with the banal approach of the presenters making even the most serious issues appear trivial, but it was different now; may be they’d pick up on the story more quickly than their national counterparts.  Though part of me couldn’t bear the prospect of my life story being played out in the media, I held onto the hope that it would, in some way, be therapeutic.  Of course, I was deluding myself.

At 10:00 a.m. the news bulletin began, and the hit-and-run was now the main story.  Very few details were provided.  No names, no ages, just the time and the place followed by an appeal for witnesses from a Detective Inspector Patel.  As the news moved onto the next item I turned off the radio just as the phone started to ring.  Not ready for conversation, I was sorely tempted to let the answering machine pick up, but then thinking that it might be news from the police, I answered.  I recognised the voice immediately, it was Debbie from work. “Julian, what are you doing at home, we’re waiting for you and Bob’s …”

Debbie generally meant well but was intrusive at the best of times, and I was in no mood to give details.  I cut her off mid sentence. "I’m sorry but I've got some kind of stomach bug, I won’t be in today but I'll speak to you later.”  I put the phone down without giving her any time to respond, but before I’d a chance to sit down, it rang again. Jesus, Debbie, what the hell do you want?

Irritated, I picked up the phone but said nothing and waited for her to reprimand me for my abruptness.  “… Hello, this is DI Patel from Otley Road Police Station. Could I speak to Mr … I’m sorry, Dr, Julian Scott, please?”

“Yes, erm … Yes, I’m Julian Scott.”  I answered falteringly.

“Sorry to bother you, Dr Scott, I’m the lead investigating officer on the case involving the death of your family.  I know that this is a terrible time for you but I’d like to ask you some questions if that’s okay?”

I struggled to connect brain and mouth in synchrony, “Erm … erm yes, yes. Okay … though I’m not sure how much more I can tell you but ... erm ... anyway I’ve got some questions myself.”

“When is convenient for you?  I can come and visit you today at home, or if you prefer you can come to the station – whatever’s best for you.”

I was surprised that he wanted to meet so soon, though in a way I suppose I was grateful; at least it would give me something to do.  But the thought of having police, or anybody else for that matter, in my house didn’t appeal. “Yes, that’s fine, but I’d prefer to come to you if that’s okay?”

“No problem, can you make it around noon?” responded DI Patel, and continued without giving me time to answer, “Make your way to the front desk and ask for me there.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll see you then.”

I put the phone down and slowly made my way back to the sofa.  The clock on the mantelpiece indicated 10:30 a.m., though I knew it was running a couple of minutes fast.  The police station was only ten minutes’ drive and I had well over an hour to kill.  I lay on the sofa staring at the light fitting on the ceiling.  My emotions were in turmoil and I wasn’t used to the out-of-control feeling.  I’ve always liked order.  Even as a child I’d driven my mother mad; the night before school, my uniform had to be ironed and neatly stacked at the end of the bed along with polished shoes.  As an adult my obsessions only got worse and I’d always thought I had some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder, though this wasn’t formally diagnosed.  Perhaps that’s why I’d been drawn to a career in science and research, with its firmly established rules and logic.  But with everything that had happened I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings, sadness, anger, frustration, guilt, all at the same time.  Nothing made sense anymore.  I’m sure a psychologist would argue it was completely normal given what I’d been through, but it certainly didn’t feel normal to me.

The time dragged by and I still had another thirty minutes before the meeting with DI Patel but I desperately needed to get out of the house.  I briefly considered walking to use up time and in the hope that the fresh air would breathe some life into me.  But almost immediately I realised that the route on foot would go past the church and the site of the accident.  There was no way I could face it, at least not yet.  In the end I decided to drive, and, with little traffic on the road, and even taking the long way around, I pulled into the police station car park still twenty minutes early.

I’d driven past Otley Road Police Station numerous times on the way to work, though never had cause to go inside.  It was the divisional headquarters, an imposing six-storey building with numerous massive radio aerials on the roof.  Surrounded by a ten-foot metal fence topped with sharp spikes, it was clearly designed to withstand a serious public disturbance.  I parked in one of the many empty spaces of the public area of the car park and then made my way to the entrance marked “Enquiries”.  I gave my name to the PC sitting behind a glass security screen on the front desk.  My presence seemed to be expected: he made a brief phone call before asking me to take a seat in the waiting area.