Debut Flash: 'David Bowie Eyes' by Vicky Heath

The police knocked on our door the day it snowed, looking for Grandpa.

“He's gone to Spain for some winter sun,” Mum told them. “Does wonders for his arthritis.”

The police had come as a pair. The man asked the questions, while the woman made scribbles in a small pad. I wondered whether she expected to be stuck with note-taking when she joined the force.

“We have a warrant to search your father’s belongings,” the man declared, waving a piece of paper as proof. I could see him from where I sat on the stairs. He had a moustache and brown suit—a Flying Squad detective from off the telly. The woman was dressed like Juliet Bravo.

Mum grudgingly stood back from the front door and tipped her head in the direction of Grandpa’s room. She didn’t bother to offer our visitors any tea and biscuits as they marched past. Shame. I would’ve enjoyed a custard cream or two before going out to play in the garden.

Snow had fallen in great big blobs while I was at school, covering the lawn like a layer of that fluffy wadding Granny used for filling quilts (before she went to heaven and Grandpa came to live with us). Soon, I’d rolled enough of the white stuff to make the body and head of a snowman, found sticks for arms and tied my West Ham scarf around his neck. “Up the Hammers!” I shouted to no one in particular. Juliet Bravo glanced from the window and smiled. I waved at her, just to be polite.

Grandpa had pressed a gift into my hand before he left for Spain. I pulled it from my anorak pocket to give the snowman a finishing touch.

David Bowie eyes.

One emerald, the other sapphire.