The weight of the witness statement

Daddy Blackbird #13

A break from the relentless pile of paperwork was very much needed so a friend decided to drag me into town for a coffee, insisting I could not stay in the house forever.

It was late November and festive shoppers swirled around us, but I was miles away. The sound of Mariah Carey blaring through the shopping centre speakers felt so incredibly inappropriate to me. My world had fallen apart, but the outside continued to spin, with all it’s plastic tat, over indulgent food and garish bright lights. All I wanted for Christmas was a return to normality and for this nightmare to end…

When my phone suddenly rang and I saw it was a withheld number, my body tensed.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Roodhouse? It’s the police. We’d like to come and take a statement from you about your husband’s death. Would this afternoon be ok?"

My stomach dropped. The coffee turned a funny taste. And I began to panic. I nodded and agreed to meet them at the house, already halfway out the café door before I hung up. My friend drove me home. I don’t remember the journey. I think she asked if I was ok. I expect I said yes. My hands and my jaw were clenched the whole way as I readied myself for this conversation…