The knock on the door was loud. My sleepy gaze shifted abruptly from the television to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after 10pm.

My wife, Maureen, was due home at any moment but she had a key so why knock. I leapt from my chair wondering who the hell would visit at this time of night. My brother-in-law was staying with us so perhaps it was one of his friends. A singer in a rock band, he kept strange hours and strange acquaintances, so anything was possible.

I opened the door and there stood Maureen. She had a harried look on her face and was quietly shaking.  Grabbing my arm, she led me from the doorway, bare feet and all, and out into the cool night air.  Before I had the chance to ask her what she was doing, we had reached the front gate. We lived in a quiet suburban street but the main road was just six houses away.

The blue flashing lights on the corner were the first thing I noticed, then the yellow tape spanning the width of the street. All traffic into our small tree-lined thoroughfare had been blocked off. Maureen held my hand tightly. She still hadn’t spoken but there were a few incoherent murmurs. Slowly, we made our way towards the T-junction and the blue flashing lights that lit up the dark sky.

Further we walked, before seeing the motionless shape slumped on the road in the foetal position. It was veiled in a white sheet.

Suddenly, I felt terribly ill.

Two policemen were soon sighted; one was busy taking down an eyewitnesses’ statement while the second officer was directing traffic. Was a car involved? Was it a motorbike?

Maureen now spoke for the first time. Where was her brother Jack? He wasn’t home. He rode a motorbike. Maureen’s anxiety was growing.

We kept walking, slowly and deliberately, our eyes on the white sheet. The leather boots belonging to the deceased were protruding from under the sheet. They could have belonged to a motorbike rider. God please, no! Our palms were very greasy by now, but her hand was firmly in mine. I wouldn’t let go, and I knew Maureen wouldn’t. A small crowd had gathered but the throngs were being kept at bay. There were children on their bicycles riding round in circles chatting incessantly and not taking in the full impact of what had occurred. Such excitement! Their parents, however, were less enthusiastic and looked on grimly.

I looked into Maureen’s sullen blue eyes, and she mine. We didn’t speak but we both felt the same empty feeling in the pit of our stomachs. Our steps were short, timorous. Tears began to flood Maureen’s eyes.

Trying to reassure her, I said we were over-reacting to a road accident that had happened at the end of our street. Tragic, yes, but it wasn’t her brother Jack. He was out on the town with his hippie, fun-loving friends, dancing and drinking the night away. This I told to Maureen.

The sheet-covered body was only 10 metres from us now. Our minds were numb. It was akin to looking through a glass bowl and seeing undefined, fuzzy shapes.

We stopped, hesitated briefly, then continued.

We ducked under the yellow tape and proceeded towards the body. Our apprehension was growing. We knew we were being stupid, but our emotions were spiralling out of control. Maureen’s face was ghostly white while mine was flushed. My wife’s love for her brother was without question. They had a genuine and deep affection for one another.

We could almost reach out and touch the body now, but our presence came to the attention of one of the policemen. The order to get back behind the ribbon was said in a forceful but kindly manner. Before we turned to go, we looked for a motorbike but there was none. There was no smashed vehicle to speak of either; no glass and no debris – just the body.

Soon we had the answer.

The shoulder bag with the broken strap two feet from the body gave us the clue we desperately yearned. Slight relief showed on our faces, and I rubbed Maureen’s back and she reciprocated with a faint smile.

A pedestrian had been knocked down by a car but it wasn’t Jack. It was a woman.

We were more ebullient as we walked back to our house, even chiding one another for being so foolish. Of course, it wasn’t Jack. How could we think such a thing? Half-an-hour later Jack waltzed into the house. Sitting together on the couch, we shared his cheerful demeanour. The agony and the fear were not shared. 

Only after welcoming Jack home did we think of the woman who’d been killed. Tonight, there would be grieving friends and relatives. They would shed tears. Their pain would last a lifetime.