The one person who could have helped, who could have understood, was ripped away from me. He did that because he knew how much she would have loved me and how much I would have needed her. He feared that more than any bullet, more than any bomb. Because that love was stronger than the greatest enemy. He always told me: ‘Know your enemy and do everything in your power to destroy them.’ And, after reading that book, it’s clear that he did just that.

I want my mother. I want her so badly it hurts right here in my stomach. I want her to hold me in her arms, stroke my head gently and tell me that everything is going to be all right, that I’m safe and loved and protected. I want to close my eyes and know that she’s looking after me while I sleep and that when I wake up there’ll be blue skies and sunshine and no more pain. I want my mother.

31

Lisa

I’m huddled under a huge fir tree, its needles tickling my cheek. The smell of it reminds me of Christmas with Mum and Dad. Then I look up and see that I’m back there, in the living room of the Highgate flat where I grew up. It’s very early in the morning, the sun not yet up, but Mum and Dad are here in their dressing gowns, watching as I unwrap my presents. Mum is perched on the arm of the sofa, Dad is crouched by my side.

‘What do you think it is, Lisa?’ he says, his eyes twinkling as he passes me a large silver parcel.

I take the present in my hands and look at it for a moment. My eyes are still sleepy and, with the curtains closed and the Christmas tree lights glowing, the room takes on a vague, fractured quality. There is a sense of unreality, of time suspended. The outside world doesn’t exist, only we do: my mum, my dad and me, safe and happy in our fairy-lit house.

‘Go on, darling,’ says my dad, giving me a gentle nudge. ‘You can open it.’

I look down at the present again. Something about it is bothering me. Something isn’t quite right.

‘Lisa?’

I hear my mother’s voice as I rip open the paper.

‘Lisa, what is it?’

My hand still grips the opened present while the discarded paper, red and blood-soaked, is scattered across the floor.

‘Take it.’

Suddenly my parents are gone and Mark is standing in front of me.

‘I said take it. It’s yours.’

He grabs the present and thrusts it into my face. I see the glass tumbler at the very last moment, see the dried blood coated round its rim, then I feel it slice into my cheek. I put my hand to my mouth, the taste of blood on my tongue and in my nostrils.

‘Lisa!’

I open my eyes. I’m lying on my back, the smell of blood and pine trees lingering around me.