Even with my best attempts at self-reassurance I couldn’t just sit and wait, and I grabbed my coat and headed out to meet them.  I walked to the end of the street, all the time expecting to hear the excited chatter of the children, but there was still no sign of them.  And then a little after 9:10, I heard the first of the sirens, gradually getting louder over the course of thirty seconds and then abruptly falling silent.  I felt a knot forming in the pit of my stomach but again told myself not to be so pathetic as my over-active imagination started running wild.

I began walking more quickly and then broke into a jog, and within minutes I reached the church.  With the bats circling the 12th century steeple way above my head, I could now see the source of the sirens, as the churchyard was eerily lit by flashing blue light cascading off the gravestones.

My anxiety level was escalating and my heart was pounding as I felt the nausea rising in the back of my throat.  I began to run, drawn inescapably towards the lights.  I crossed the churchyard and at the far side, over a low wall, I could just make out the form of an upturned pick-up truck in the middle of the road.  Now sprinting full pelt, I reached the end of the churchyard and passed through a small gate leading to the road.  Two more police cars were just arriving, followed by an ambulance a few seconds later.  The scene ahead was of chaos – like that of the Middle East war zone I’d just seen on the TV news.

Only the last vestiges of daylight remained, and against a background smell of petrol and burnt tyre rubber I could make out the dark forms of several bodies lying in the road and the adjacent footpath.  I ran over, and within five yards of reaching the first small body my worst fears were realized: William’s checked shirt, now heavily stained with dark crimson blood.  My little boy’s body was in a contorted, unnatural position, and as I knelt and cradled him in my arms, I knew that his limp body was totally lifeless.  A paramedic attempted to usher me away but I couldn’t let go. “He’s my son, he’s my son,” I screamed.

I felt the eyes of the emergency workers turn to face me, and from behind me a young police woman quickly came over. “Sir, please let go, you need to let go, please, please.”

I struggled to release my grip as she prised William from my arms and then led me to the back seat of the nearby police car.  She momentarily disappeared, to return with a thick red blanket, which she wrapped around my shoulders, covering my shirt now stained with my son’s blood.  She sat next to me in the car. “My name is WPC Shaw … Jill Shaw … Jill,” she said nervously. “I’m so sorry about what’s happened.”

I stared back blankly, not really knowing what had happened. “Where’s the rest of my family?” I asked, struggling to control my emotions and hold back the tears.  She didn’t respond; she didn’t need to. I could see the answer in her face.

I sat in the back of the police car lost in my own world as I struggled to make sense of anything.  I was unsure of the passage of time; minutes or maybe even an hour passed, I was oblivious.  I watched out of the rear window as the young policewoman left me and went to speak to colleagues standing in the field at the side of the road.  As an ambulance left the scene with its siren blaring, a second and then a third arrived, followed by a fire engine.  The daylight was now gone for good and only the headlights of the emergency vehicle illuminated the road.  WPC Shaw again came over, and struggled with eye contact.  “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to get some details from you.”

I gave the names and ages of my family, which she scribbled down in her small notebook.  Then I explained the events of the evening and that I’d driven home from the restaurant while the rest of my family had walked.  When her questions were over I again asked after Helen and the rest of my family. “Unfortunately, as yet, we have not been able to find all the bodies,” she responded.

I shuddered involuntarily at her use of the word “bodies” and she quickly apologised for her insensitivity; but in reality, having seen the injuries to William, I’d feared the worst.

Again I was left alone, surrounded by a mass of activity, I seemingly playing just a bit-part in events.  No one was telling me anything.  I was getting frustrated, I’d answered their questions, when would they answer mine?  “When can I see them?” I almost pleaded with Shaw when she returned.

“I need to speak to my sergeant about that. I’ve been asked to drive you to the Hallamshire Hospital – he’ll meet us there.”

As we set off for the city centre hospital I looked through the rear window and viewed the scene of devastation.  The bodies in the road were now covered with blankets but the upturned truck hadn’t been touched.  Illuminated by the numerous headlights, I could clearly make out the lettering along the driver’s door: “William’s Building Supplies.”  The name had a certain familiarity, though exactly where from, I couldn’t quite say.

Arriving at the hospital’s main reception, we were immediately shown to a relatives’ room next to the main Accident and Emergency department.  Every few minutes I found myself checking the clock on the wall; it was now 11.17 p.m. and almost four hours since leaving the restaurant and this new chapter in my life had begun.  As the minutes ticked by I was getting increasingly irritated; why weren’t they giving me any answers?  I looked at Shaw but she seemed as lost as me, and close to tears.

Eventually at 11:45 p.m. a tall, balding policeman entered, making the cramped room seem smaller still.  In a thick Scottish accent he surprised me with his abruptness and began speaking almost before he was seated. “My name is Sergeant John Wallace, I’m based at Otley Road Police Station.  I’m afraid I have some bad news to give you.”

I leaned forward in my chair, concentrating hard and trying to accustom myself to his accent as I worried that I might miss some vital piece of information. “Although we are waiting for a report from traffic accident investigators, it appears that a pick-up truck came around the bend near the church, presumably at some considerable speed, lost control and mounted the pavement before running into your family.”

Having witnessed the carnage at the scene, it should have come as no real surprise but I was still stunned.  I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, my emotions were unfathomable; I could just feel myself staring blankly back at him.  Wallace continued in his matter-of-fact manner. “It appears the two boys and their grandmother were killed at the scene but your wife –” he looked momentarily down at his notes before continuing “– Helen, that’s right, Helen, was alive when the paramedics arrived at the scene, but despite their best efforts she died shortly after her arrival in hospital.”  He continued almost without taking a breath. “Your father has not yet been found but our officers are waiting for high-powered lighting so they can search some of the dense undergrowth close to the road.  That’s all I can tell you at the moment – do you have any questions?”  It was only then that he finally paused for breath.

I struggled to make sense of anything and couldn’t articulate my thoughts.  Wallace appeared to take my silence as a cue to leave, and stood quickly.  But worried that I would lose my chance to get some answers, I blurted, “The driver, what happened to the driver of the van?” the only question that came to mind.

“We don’t know … by the time the first member of the public arrived at the scene and phoned the police, the driver had already disappeared, presumably into the nearby woodland.  We’re currently in the process of tracing the owner of the vehicle and obviously we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got any further information.”

The room went quiet and Wallace appeared satisfied that I had no more questions.  Then, as abruptly as he had entered, he placed a business card with his contact details on the table in front of me and left.  I sat in silence in the small room with my head in my hands and lost in my thoughts as I tried to take everything in.  After a few minutes, an overweight nurse came into the room, introduced herself as Yvonne and asked if I wanted to see Helen.  I nodded and was led a short distance down the corridor to a set of double doors, above them written in white letters on a red background: “Resuscitation Room.”  Inside, the room contained probably six or seven curtained cubicles, most of them closed off but one open, revealing an empty trolley and various small TV monitors, oxygen cylinders and a myriad of wires and tubes extending from the wall.  To the background noise of electronic beeping, patients groaning and doctors shouting instructions, I was taken to the last cubicle in the row.  For a split second I had the weird feeling that perhaps it had all been a mistake, or that maybe I was just having a nightmare; but then, as the curtain was pulled back and I recognised Helen, reality struck again.  Covered from chin to toe with a clean white sheet, she looked so peaceful.  Moving closer, the only visible injury was a small graze and bruising down the left side of her face.  I struggled to take everything in.  I wanted to cry.  Perhaps if I could release some sort of emotion it would make me feel better, but the tears just wouldn’t flow.