he delivery room was awash in bright lights. Just before three in the morning maybe you needed the glare to keep everyone awake, he thought. There was no danger of him dropping off but. The pains were coming regular now and the tiredness he felt only seemed to heighten his excitement and apprehension. And then somehow it was done. He’d nervously cut the cord following the midwife’s instructions not without a touch of fear and trepidation. The emotions went into overdrive. Pain, euphoria, tears of joy and still an abiding disbelief that everything was OK. It was messy, bloody sure, but behind him all the meticulous detail of weighing and labelling, footprinting and bathing was being completed. And then the flash of a camera was capturing them forever. The proud father tenderly holding this little beautiful boy, bemused, trance like. He just hoped the photos turned out alright.

The dawn traffic had left him a clear run home talking wildly to himself. Yes. Yes. Yes! He was a fucking father. Parking the car on the deserted street, the early morning birdsong filled his heart even fuller and he suddenly became aware of his fixed and silly grin. The house, after all those months of anticipation, seemed suddenly empty. He needed to organise himself, get a grip. He made a few phone calls and with a strong coffee tried to wind down at the same time as winding up his thoughts about what needed doing before the mother and child came home. Preparations, welcome balloons - he’d manage something special. His emotions were still on a roller coaster and his stomach pitched and dived with the turmoil of numerous ‘what if?’ and ‘but…’ kinds of thoughts.

He’d thought about him today. Well he did most days, but today seemed more poignant than others. He’d have been twenty five last month. Would he have celebrated? he wondered. Time probably meant little in the oblivion of addiction. There’d been no contact for over a year now, no address to send a card, no phone number to call. Just an emptiness. Things had really bottomed out. They couldn’t go any lower. Maybe their enquiries would throw up something eventually. But the house would feel empty today too with Betty being away at her mothers. His key turned and he nudged the door open with his shoulder.

The first step into the living room told him the world had changed. Everything was upside down. Furniture was upended, books scattered and drawers emptied and dumped on the floor. The gut wrenching realisation of burglary hit him and he shook with fear and anger, swallowed back the sick. He rushed from room to room but nowhere had been spared, every room the same, ransacked and violated. Nothing obvious was missing, half the CDs maybe, the jar of coins by the kitchen door.

He cleared a space, slumped on the sofa and surveyed the destruction. On the mantelpiece everything had been swept off but one small picture frame remained, empty, the glass still splintered. Wedged into the remaining shards of glass was an empty envelope with one ragged word written on it…. SORRY. He picked it up and winced as a small sliver of glass pierced his thumb drawing a bubble of red to the surface. And then the tears came.

Slumped on another sofa on the other side of the city lay an awkwardly twisted and recently dead body of a young man. Squalor was the regular style in this sordid squat and around him lay the detritus and paraphernalia of addiction. The house was empty now, erstwhile friends having fled in panic leaving behind this ugly flotsam.

The flashing blue lights struggled to penetrate the grubby curtains as the siren wound down from its approaching scream. Heavy footsteps rumbled up the stair well and after a good deal of banging came the splintering crash. An ambulanceman later prised a crumpled photograph from the dead man’s fist. Flattening it out against his dayglo jacket and adjusting his glasses, a bemused father holding an infant stared back at him.

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