Secret Joy

Part 1

I don't know what I expected when I answered the door that morning.

The doorbell had rung. I know, like everyone knows, that the doorbell can mean many things: the postman might be on the doorstep with a foreign-stamped parcel that won't fit through the letterbox; someone might be waiting to sell you something you don't want.

Everyone knows, in theory, that the doorbell might herald the police coming to tell you of the death of a loved one. But that knowledge is buried under lots of other things you don't think you need to know: the few words of Danish you picked up listening into your parents' whispers; a joke your Mum made about how most people in Copenhagen wear grey and avoid conversation on public transport; the sharp look your Dad gave her immediately afterwards.

The knowledge is tucked away in a box in a back corner of the attic in your mind, and you forget you know it. Until you're reminded, very suddenly, that, oh, yes, you do.

I didn't realise at first that they were police officers. I took in their fluorescent jackets, and then their walkie-talkies, and then their hats. And finally, finally, I registered the screen-printed letters on their uniforms: Metropolitan Police.

"Is your mother home?" one of them asked, "Mrs Butcher?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. My sister, Emily, is here, though. She's eighteen. Maybe you could talk to her." Showing the two officers into the living room, I ran upstairs, and knocked on Emily's bedroom door.

She opened it a little impatiently. There was a pen tucked behind her ear, and in the background I heard quiet music playing on her iPod speakers. "Can it wait?" she asked, "Only I'm trying to revise. I've got an AS resit tomorrow."

I bit my lip and tried not to laugh. Emily always did work too hard. But this didn't feel like a laughing matter. "The... The police are here. They want to talk to you."

Emily grinned. "Yeah, yeah, good one." She patted my head and shut the door again.

"I'm not joking," I said through the door, "The police are here. Come downstairs!"

The door opened again, and Emily frowned. "Did they say why?" she asked, following me down the stairs.

I shook my head, and ushered her into the living room.

Just before one of the police officers closed the living room door, I saw her show Emily Dad's driving licence. I blinked. Why did they have that? Curious, I pressed my ear against the wall and listened to the conversation.

I have never regretted anything more.

Manchester. A high-speed collision. Pronounced dead at the scene. Very sorry.

Emily found me huddled on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chest. She crouched beside me. "Oh, poppet, you heard," she whispered, drawing in a deep breath and swallowing hard. "Go upstairs. I'll call Mum at work."