We had friends for dinner, the night the world stopped turning. I remember it all with cinematic clarity. I remember every face, every word, everything we ate. It was June, but too cool to sit outside. There were eight of us squeezed around the kitchen table: Jane, her man of the moment, and a quartet of eccentric theatre friends.

I'd taken a tutorial that day, in which we'd discussed Schrodinger's cat.

'Ah,' said Jane's latest squeeze. He was a gynaecologist, and also a know-all. 'Now. This is the one that's both dead and alive in the box, until it's observed. I've always found the concept intriguing.'

'Schrodinger didn't,' I retorted, a little starchily. 'Apparently he later said he wished he'd never met that cat.'

'Wanted, dead and alive!' Freddie was on the verge of tipsy, chuckling as he refilled glasses. The phone rang, and he yelled over his shoulder as he strode across to answer it. 'That's me before my first cup of coffee-dead and alive!'

'If it's one of my students, tell 'em I'm off duty,' I called as he lifted the receiver. He smiled broadly and blew me a theatrical kiss. I remember that so very, very clearly. Freddie smiled, and he blew a kiss. His happiness had twenty seconds left to live.

I turned my attention to Jane. 'Any news of Verity?' I asked.

She leaned closer, and told me she suspected her daughter might be in love at last. This was news indeed, because Verity was thirty-five and married to her work.

'Who is this superhero?' I asked.

'The father of my future grandchildren, I sincerely hope,' said Jane.

I was laughing. God help me, I was actually laughing when I became aware of Freddie's hand resting on my shoulder. I reached back and touched his fingers with mine. 'Verity's in love, Freddie!' I exclaimed merrily. 'Must be quite a guy. Is he another doctor, Jane?'

My old friend didn't reply. She wasn't even listening to me. She was looking over my shoulder; looking at Freddie. Everyone had stopped talking. Every face around the table was turned towards his. I felt the weight of his hand, sinking into my collarbone.

'Bad news,' he said.

'Bad news?' I echoed blankly.

When he didn't reply, I turned around in my seat to look at him. His face seemed carved out of white marble. Then he said three words, and my life shattered into splinters.

'Zoe is dead.'

Five seconds of disbelief; of knowing for certain that this was a mistake. It was not possible. It was not thinkable. It was not bearable.

Five seconds of willing myself to wake up from the appalling dream.

Five seconds of silent-screaming terror.

And then the pain began.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Freddie hadn't answered the telephone that night. Some part of me believes that when he lifted that receiver, he also lifted the lid on the cat. If we had never learned of it, Zoe's death would simply not have happened. She would have dropped round on Sunday with the children, as usual. Our faces would have lit with pleasure, as usual. And the world would still be turning.

If Freddie hadn't answered the phone, we might not have found ourselves in York County Court one dismal January morning. Neither of us had slept much, but we'd overdosed on adrenaline and were jangling and alert. The uniformed man at the desk downstairs pointed to a lift, but we had a terror of doors sliding open to reveal Joseph Scott. The stairs seemed safer.

We found ourselves in a bluish carpeted waiting area with sickly artificial lighting. A handful of people sat silently, in attitudes of tension and misery. Frederick and I swiftly checked each face.

No Scott. Thank God. No Scott.

A door opened nearby. Jane appeared, regal in a dark grey suit and pearls. 'Hannah!' she hissed, and beckoned. We followed her into a tiny room with an oblong table and four chairs. Frederick immediately crossed to the narrow window and stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out across the jumbled roofs of York. He was wearing his smartest jacket and tie, immaculately knotted. I'd found him in the kitchen at four that morning. He was cleaning his shoes, and my heart ached at the sight of his dignified distress.

'How are you both?' Jane asked solicitously.

'Fine,' I croaked.

'Bloody awful,' said Freddie. 'Is he here?'

'Not yet. I've asked Malcolm-the security man downstairs-to tip me off when he arrives.' She was magnificently unflustered, just as she'd been in the magistrate's court more than twenty years earlier.

I repeated what Scarlet had told me the night before. 'She says to tell the judge that she won't see Scott under any circumstances. He may as well give up today.'

Jane opened her hands. 'I sent one final letter last week, suggesting that he do just that. I haven't had a reply.'

She asked if we wanted coffee from the machine. We didn't.

'So this is your world, Jane,' observed Frederick, who still stood sentinel by the window.

'This is my world.'

He nodded. 'Extraordinary. I've never quite understood until now: your bread and butter is conflict, isn't it? Those folk sitting on the seats out there, all immersed in their own personal nightmares. Conflict is what you do.'

Jane didn't look offended. 'It can be rewarding, believe it or not.' She glanced at her watch. 'He should be here by now . . . I'll just nip out and see if there's any word.'

Once we were alone, Frederick lifted a hand as though he was stroking the atmosphere. 'Can you feel that, Hannah? It's in the air. Churches and monasteries have a patina of prayer, I think, built up over the years. Theatres have their own atmosphere also; but this place is ghastly. There's a patina of . . . yes, of hatred.'

'Silly goose,' I said, but I knew exactly what he meant. I could feel it too.

Jane was back, shaking her head in frustration. 'His solicitor's here, but no sign of Scott. It's now ten o'clock. Wretched man.'

After another fifteen minutes she'd finished talking us through the procedure and jotting last-minute notes. She and I began to make half-hearted small talk until Freddie could take no more.

'Is the bloody man coming?' he snapped.

Jane closed her notebook. 'Well, we're second in the list and it's nearly time for kick-off.'

'What happens if he doesn't show up?' I asked.

'We ask for his application to be dismissed.'

'And that would be that?'

'Possibly. It would depend on his excuse. People do launch these applications only to baulk at the first fence. They don't care as much as they thought they did.'

It was too much to hope for. I exhaled carefully, as though sudden movement might scare away this piece of luck, and I crossed my fingers for the first time in my adult life.

As the minutes ticked by, our optimism began to take root. We discussed the possibilities. Perhaps it was all over! Perhaps Scott couldn't face his victim's parents after all. Perhaps he'd had an attack of remorse and realised that the only honourable course of action was to dive off the top of a multi-storey car park, or possibly into the Ouse.

At half past ten, Jane gathered her papers. 'Well, he's out of time. Better be ready to move as soon as we're called. Let's see if we can get this thing thrown out.'

I reached for my handbag. Frederick straightened his tie. Jane was shrugging into her jacket when the door opened. It startled me, and I swung around to see who'd come in.

The man from the desk downstairs was standing there. He had a closely-shaved head and a sergeant-major's moustache, and he beamed cheerfully at Jane.

'I've got some good news, Mrs Whistler, and some bad news,' he announced.

Thirteen.

Joseph The Ouse swarmed around the stone pillars of the bridge, forming a deep-standing wave. Mounds of debris had become imprisoned in its embrace, branches and plastic bottles forced helplessly against the stonework and dancing a macabre, never-ending jig.

Joseph sat on the wide flight of steps that rowers used to carry their boats down to the water. It was snowing again, halfheartedly, as though the sky had accidentally spilled a handful of ice crystals. He held the letter in both hands, folded and creased. He didn't need to look at it. He knew every word.

The river was narrower here. It sped silently past, eager to escape the confines of the city and rush back to the gentle fields of the Vale of York. The smooth surface glinted dully, like gunmetal.

'Jesus,' whispered Joseph. It was both prayer and oath. 'What do I do?'

RE: THE SCOTT CHILDREN.

Dear Mr O'Brien,

Thank you for your letter of the 20th December. I agree with your time estimate of half an hour, and enclose draft directions for your consideration. As you see, they include an order that all documents in the criminal proceedings be released into these. Clearly, the circumstances of your client's conviction for manslaughter are highly relevant.

We do, however, question whether Mr Scott has fully considered the impact of his application. Your client must remember that his children witnessed the death of their mother at his hands; it is hardly surprising that this experience left them with severe emotional damage akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. It has taken three years, consistent care from their grandparents and considerable professional input to restore any semblance of normality to their lives. Their stability is still extremely fragile.

Mr Scott's application has already caused immense distress. Despite their best efforts, Mr and Dr Wilde have not been able to shield the children completely and are concerned for their emotional health. The situation has not been helped by your client's ill-judged appearance in the park near the children's home shortly after his release.

It is of course generally in the best interests of children to have a continuing relationship with their parents. However, in exceptional circumstances this principle may be outweighed by other needs. It is difficult to imagine a more extreme instance than one in which children have observed the unlawful killing of their mother at the hands of their father. I am instructed that Scarlet actually tried to intervene to save Zoe Scott in the moments before her death, while Theo hid behind the sofa. Both children are burdened with guilt at their failure to protect their mother. If your client would take a moment to think about the implications of this, I am sure he will accept that in asking them to rebuild a warm and loving relationship with him-their mother's killer-he is simply asking too much.

I should be grateful if you would discuss this matter again with your client. I hope that he will reconsider his application, and conclude that his children's wellbeing far outweighs his own need to establish contact with them. My clients appeal to him as the children's father, and ask him to accept the following offer: 1. Your client's application is to be withdrawn, and he undertakes not to seek further direct contact with any of the children until Ben has attained the age of 18.

2. My clients agree to provide your client with annual school photographs of each of the children, together with a brief update on their progress. They suggest that this should begin immediately.

3. No order for costs.

Please give this matter your urgent attention. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Whistler

Joseph slid the letter into the pocket of his overcoat. He'd been paralysed by indecision ever since it reached him, via his own solicitor. He never heard the cries of his own son and daughter-what kind of a father was he? People talked about blinding rage. His had been not blinding but deafening, roaring like fire in his head, obliterating all sound or rational thought. Far from being their protector, he had become the monster under his children's beds.

Across the city, church clocks began to strike the hour. Ten o'clock. Richard O'Brien would be waiting for him at the court. Just below Joseph, a mallard slipped onto the water with quiet quacks of contentment.

He often used to bring the children to this very spot, if they happened to be in York. They'd feed the ducks. It was a happy place for them all when things were wild at home, and when Joseph himself was exhausted and strained. They came here the evening before Zoe died. Scarlet and Theo, aged ten and seven, had stood right there, side by side on the water's edge, yanking slices from a bag and throwing them to a feathery rabble. Ben clung to Joseph's hip, brandishing his own crust in a fist. With a yell of effort, he managed to propel his offering a full three inches. It landed on Scarlet's foot, and an audacious duck leaped screeching from the water to snatch it up. Scarlet squealed with surprise and laughter as the emerald head skittered away across the ripples. Then she reached up and slipped her hand into Joseph's free one; she did it casually, with the certainty of a much-loved child. He was Dad, after all. He was always there. He would always be there.

Or not.

Twenty-four hours later, everything had changed.

Joseph hunched on the steps, reliving that last scene. He wanted to be caught in time, suspended in a moment when his family were still together. They'd never really been a normal family, of course. He knew that. He was overcome by a numbing sensation. Existence was deathly cold. Zoe was gone. His mother, too. His sister loathed him. Worst of all, he could no longer be a father to his children because he was the stuff of their nightmares. His life seemed utterly pointless.

The alien buzzing of his phone shocked him into consciousness. He still wasn't used to having the thing on him-or any communication with the outside world.

His caller didn't bother with the niceties. 'Scott?'

'Hi, Akash.'

'What the fuck's going on?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?' Akash sounded as though he wanted to leap out of the phone and head-butt his friend. 'Yeah, nothing; that's the fucking point! I've just had your solicitor on my back and he's doing his nut down at the court. Seems you gave him my number when you first came out. What are you playing at, mate?'

'I'm sitting by the river.'

'Sitting by the . . .? What the frigging hell are you sitting by the river for? Having a little picnic?'