Even telling her I loved her:

‘I love you, Gigi.’ She carried on playing with her doll. I nudged her. ‘I said I love you.’

‘Love you, Mama.’ I was forcing her to declare love. Teaching her that to be loved you have to love. There was no unconditional love.

It was an absolute minefield. The demands, the worry, the all-encompassing need to keep her safe, the endless pressure to raise her right. To do the best job to give her the best start. The weight of expectation was exhausting. No wonder there were days when Rat felt more natural to me than Mother.

It was less pressure when the only life on the line was yours.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I PUNCHED THE EASTER BUNNY.

That was why I was back here at Platform Eight.

After everything that had happened a couple of years ago I had questioned returning to Eight. If it was too much to handle. Rat and Mother. People trying to kill me, bosses betraying me; who needed all that shit when I had teething and tantrums and potty-training to deal with?

But then walking back from Sainsbury’s with Gigi one afternoon I had taken a shortcut down a quiet street. I’d heard loud footsteps approaching us from behind, and a large hand seemingly reach out to grab Gigi. Pulling her towards me, I’d swung round and punched the incoming threat with two hard jabs to the stomach. As I watched the Easter Bunny go toppling backwards and hit the ground hard, his basket of brightly coloured foil eggs spilling round him, I realised I may have made a mistake.

When apologising to the winded eighteen-year-old underneath the bunny head, I blamed the war on sugar for my spirited response to his attempt to give my daughter a free promotional chocolate egg.

The truth was it felt good.

Not so much the assaulting an unarmed teenager, but the buzz of using my specialist skills. The buzz of being in control, of fighting back. Of remembering the power I had.

Holding Gigi’s hand as we watched the bunny stagger away clutching his basket, I had rung the Platform and finally confirmed my return.

It was best for everyone.

I was a coiled spring. Just one gentle nudge and my talents as a Rat would be unleashed.

Who knew how it would next manifest itself?

Would I challenge Gigi’s judo teacher to a fight? Break into our neighbours’ house to check they really hadn’t stolen our missing recycling bin? Hack the nursery’s reading reports to verify a smug mother’s claims of ‘Arabella is only two and already blending sounds together’?

What was the point of specialist training if you couldn’t use it?

Platform Eight was where I belonged.