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Back What I Did Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty-One
  55. Fifty-Two
  56. Fifty-Three
  57. Fifty-Four
  58. Fifty-Five
  59. Fifty-Six
  60. Fifty-Seven
  61. Fifty-Eight
  62. Fifty-Nine
  63. Sixty
  64. Sixty-One
  65. Sixty-Two
  66. Sixty-Three
  67. Sixty-Four
  68. Sixty-Five
  69. Sixty-Six
  70. Sixty-Seven
  71. Sixty-Eight
  72. Sixty-Nine
  73. Seventy
  74. Seventy-One
  75. Seventy-Two
  76. Seventy-Three
  77. Seventy-Four
  78. Seventy-Five
  79. Seventy-Six
  80. Seventy-Seven
  81. Seventy-Eight
  82. Seventy-Nine
  83. Eighty
  84. Epilogue
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Extract from To Keep You Safe
  87. About the Author

I remembered the violence with bile. I hated the physical pain, the shock, but most of all I loathed the shame. There was the shame that someone might see, either the attack itself (and over the years, people had witnessed the violence, often dropping their gaze and withdrawing into themselves in the subtlest of ways, with a tilt of the head or a turn of the shoulder before finally escaping, taking their embarrassment at watching the poor woman who clearly can’t cope with her own horrendous child and leaving me in a puddle of my own disgrace), or the evidence of a previous attack.

There’s no help for someone like me, a sufferer of domestic violence from their child. I realise for many women, they’re too frightened – with good reason – to leave their abusive partners, but for me, I’ve always been even more trapped.

But Jack was not trapped – I would not allow him to suffer. There are laws on child abuse and I would ensure that Jack would never see him again.

‘Jack,’ I said, ‘where has Daddy gone?’

‘T-t-t to-to-to go –’ he gulped, his way of coping with the struggle of getting his words out. He took a deep breath: ‘T-t-t to-to-to . . .’

Normally I gave him all the time he needed, but I did what I never did and cut him off. ‘Don’t worry, darling!’ I said in my best fake-happy voice. ‘Tell me later!’ There would be time to get the facts. How often do you sit in here? Why does he say he puts you in here? Does he hit you? Why didn’t you tell me? Does he always leave you alone? Is the flat always this filthy?

The only thing that mattered now was for me to get him out as fast as I could. I tried to yank at the thick, black tape. It was bound round and round each corner of both playpens, binding them together. I struggled, infuriated, overcome, tears blurring my vision. Then through the bars I saw him, his small face tilted up towards me. Jack looked so innocent – so patient and unconcerned, those beautiful eyebrows finely drawn, lifted in a parenthesis of some question I hadn’t raised – that I just stopped.

Just stopped.

I couldn’t breathe.