I arrived at Mark’s for the supervised visit at the usual time of 9 a.m., with Grace’s map safely tucked inside my jacket and a beanie hat pulled down over my newly short, dyed hair. Mark was in a flustered state as he had a work deadline. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for days. I made him a coffee and told him I’d take Joe out to the garden to play in the Wendy house to give Mark a chance to get some work done. He’d hesitated for a moment but then the idea of clearing a few hours’ work seemed to outweigh any suspicions he might have had of me and he disappeared upstairs to his study. After that I acted swiftly, grabbing my large bag that was still in the understairs cupboard where I’d left it before I went to prison and filling it with some of Joe’s clothes and his favourite plastic animals. Then, wrapping Joe in his warm winter coat, I’d taken his hand, left the house and dashed to my car, which I’d deliberately parked in the next street. Joe had clocked that something was up before we’d even left London and the rest of the journey consisted of him alternating between crying, screaming and calling out for Mark. It was hell, but as I sit here looking at him playing so happily on the rug in front of me I have no doubt that I made the right decision. I’m his mummy. Without him I don’t make sense. I had to be with him this Christmas.

‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, getting up from the chair and blowing out the candles. ‘It’s getting late now. How about we cuddle in and have a story?’

He looks up. His eyes are tired.

‘Can I bring lions?’ he says, holding up a fistful of the plastic toys.

‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘I’m sure they’d like to hear the story too.’

He raises his arms for me to lift him but as I bend down to pick him up there’s a loud pounding on the front door.

‘Door,’ says Joe, snuggling into my chest. ‘Let’s go see.’

But I can’t move. My feet are frozen to the spot. The pounding starts again, more urgent this time, then I hear a voice – a man’s voice – calling my name and my stomach twists inside.

28

Grace

25 November 2004

I’m writing this in the woods, sitting in my doss bag under a big old oak tree. It all started two nights ago when I shut this journal and went to get some scran. I’d forgotten all about the make-up Isobel had put on me and when I walked into the kitchen he was just taking a pan of potatoes off the hob. Well, he took one look at me and dropped the whole lot, boiling water and all, on to the floor. Then he went so pale I thought he was going to faint. He gripped the table with both hands and sort of bared his teeth at me. He looked like a wolf.