The white dot slowly vanishes

"That's right Sarge, thirty thwee, Upcwock Close," John smiled, he knew that one would go down well on the team.  Wait for it.  A garbled cough sound came over the radio.  There would be much laughing amongst his team.

As he turned into the street, he glanced at his watch, 1.35 pm.  It was slightly irritating to him to be given this task, at this time.  But sudden deaths, and how next of kin are informed has always been, in John's mind anyway, one of those tasks that should be done with care, and well.  This was why he had been given this particular one to do. 

A young lad of 21 had just died in a collision riding his motorbike.  Jake Longley was his name.  Bit of a sad story all round really, John thought.  A Community Officer had informed them that Jake's Mum died of cancer when he was only 17.  But Jake's Dad, Ian Humphries, had taken it so badly: the illness had come on at pace; that he left the family home and his son Jake, and has not been seen since.  The police do suspect that Ian has taken his own life as there has been no activity on bank accounts or any signs of him still being around.  But until his body is found, they have to treat him as a missing person.

That's why the team Inspector has requested that John attend to speak to the parents of Ian, grandparents of Jake.  It was a bit of a sensitive one.  John would have liked to have a young officer to tag along with him, as these kinds of tasks don't come up often, so it would have been a good experience for someone young in service.  But time was pressing, and there were only 25 minutes of this shift to go.  John needed to crack on, as someone had to attend the hospital to confirm the identity of Jake formally.

Upcrock Close, John tried to think if he had ever had any cause to come down this street in his 22 years on this patch.  It was funny how that happened.  There are some streets that just don't cause the police any bother at all, ever.  

"Just pulling up," John radio'd through.  

"Thank you Sarge, sowwy about this."

John winced at the obsequious remark.  It's part of the job.  I'm getting paid for doing this.  He was finding that far too many youngsters coming into the job now expected to be thanked for doing their job.  People were too quick to be apologising for aspects of the job that are just the job.  Shit happens John thought.  It just happens.  

He pulled up to number 33, and looked at the front of the semi-detached home.  Neat garden.  Very respectable-looking house.  Pretty much as John expected.

When the bell rang, George Humphries was sat watching snooker.  The bell made him jump.   "What's that Lyn?"

"The door, can you get it?  I'm washing up here," Lynda shouted out from the kitchen.

George struggled to get up.  He was unsteady on his feet now.  He'd not done too badly with his health, considering he was now 79 years old.  He slowly shuffled to the front door with his walking stick, opened the door and the sight of a police officer took his breath away.

"Hello, sir."

"Oh dear.  Hello officer.  Can I help you at all?"

"I was wondering if I could speak to Mr and Mrs Humphries please?  George and Lynda?"

"Of course officer.  Come in son," he opened the door wider for the heavy built policeman to enter.

"I'm so sorry to be disturbing you this afternoon," John said as he entered the hallway.  He glanced around.  All neat and tidy.

"Don't be silly," George replied, "I'm only watching the snooker.  I hope it's not bad news officer."

As the two men walked into the lounge, Lynda came out of the kitchen, visibly flustered, drying her hands on her apron.  "Oh my," she garbled, "hello officer, oh it's a Sergeant."

"Good afternoon to you both, my name is John Langer from Wembley police station.  I'm sorry to be troubling you today.  Can I confirm that I'm speaking to George and Lynda Humphries please?"

"Well, yes, Sergeant," Lynda was struggling to get her words out.  "Yes, is anyone hurt?"

"Is it possible if I may have a seat please Mrs Humphries?"

"Go on son, you are more than welcome, let me turn this snooker off Lyn," George fell on to his usual seat and zapped the controller off.

"You both had a son Ian who was married to Lesley?" John was thumbing through his notebook to make sure he got the names out correctly.

"Yes that is right, but poor Les, she died a while ago now son.  We don't know where our Ian is.  Have you found him?"

"No sir, bear with me.  I have no news today regarding your son Ian.  Now Ian had a son called Jake, yes?"

"Has a son called Jake, officer, has," Lynda was quick to respond.

John looked at Lynda.

Lynda stared at him.

How so much can be said without a single word spoken.

"Please go on, son," George seemed to miss that communication.

Lynda put her hand on the fireplace wall to steady herself.  She was the only one standing, but John had a very real concern it would not be for long.

John stood up, "Please allow me to help you sit down Mrs Humphries." He raised his bent arm to offer her a lever.  She took hold of his arm and gently lowered herself down on to the chair and took a very deep sigh.

John sat down again.  

"So if I have my details correctly recorded, your grandson's name is Jake Humphries, his date of birth being 5th December 1999, and he lives in Sudbury?"

"Yes that's the one," George confirmed, he pointed up to the fireplace, to a string of photographs of Jack.  "There he is Sergeant, our pride and joy eh Lyn?"

George smiled at John, but John had to look down at his notebook.  

He thought this was going to be a bad one.  He'd only had a couple of these in his career, and this had the making of being bad.  

"Have I got that date of birth correct Mrs Humphries?"

Lynda slowly turned her head to John, "Yes you have" she slowly replied.  She got her tissue out of her apron and dabbed her eye.

Lynda's whole world was beginning to close in on her.  It was like how televisions used to turn off in the old days; it goes black and then right in the centre was a white dot which eventually fades out.  She felt like that was happening in her head right now.

"What's the matter Lyn?" George asked his wife; he was a bit slower in keeping up with the conversation.

"The thing is Mr Humphries," John started.  

"Please call me George son, everyone calls me George."

"I'm afraid George, that young Jake has died in a motorbike collision today."

John looked at George.  Silence.  No motion.  He was holding on to his walking stick with his right hand.  Silence.

"Say again, son? What's that about our Jake?"

John looked at the old man.  This poor chap has seen his family members go one by one — his daughter in law, his son, and now his grandson.  Life can be cruel, John thought.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this George, but earlier on today, your grandson Jake was in a motorbike collision," he paused to allow that to sink in,  "and tragically, Jake died as a result."

George looked at Lyn.  Her head was down, and her shoulders were rocking.  She was weeping in silence, with her eyes closed.

George turned to John, "No son, please don't tell me that is true.  Oh, no son.  That's not right, is it?"  He looked at John, with eyes begging, pleading that he had got the facts incorrect.

John looked at this old man in front of him and wondered if he and his wife were strong enough to survive this devastating news.

"I erm," John stumbled, "am afraid to say, George, that is what has happened."

John turned to Lynda.  

It's a bit like grading the severity of injuries on arrival at a collision, John thought to himself.  It's not the loud ones that you want to concern yourself with.  Grief has a similar feel to it.

As John watched Lynda weeping quietly in the corner, he could hear George saying "Not my Jake, not my Jake."