Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Extract from To Keep You Safe
- About the Author
Holding this gun makes me think of my son but it also makes me think of Mungo, because Mungo and my son were connected by a shotgun. As I run, there’s little to focus on but the past. I can see where I’m heading because of the black swell of the hill against the indigo sky, but the feel of the stock in my hands reminds me of the thin, friendly boy, with his shock of black curls, looking at me from the chair in my son’s room, as he held the stock of his shotgun like a pet.
After Jack went to the local comp, the only friend he made was Mungo. It was Mungo who introduced him to hunting; it was Mungo who introduced him to ferrets and guns. Mungo used to visit every day, always very grateful for the cups of tea with three sugars I made him. I’d see him with Jack, showing him how to make nooses for snares and showing him articles in his endless hunting magazines.
When Jack was fifteen he bought a second-hand shotgun; I went bonkers, but he said he’d just joined a shooting club. I don’t know where the club was, how he found out about it or how he got there, but the gun was carried around in a bag on the rare occasions it wasn’t in his hands – oh, how easily Arrow was replaced as the thing to be caressed!
At first, I hated him having the gun. It was the year after the brutal, high-profile murder of young school children in America; watching the news reports chilled me. When he got it, I remember I lived with a deep, deep sense of panic and unease.
I try not to think of Mungo; even instead trying to think of the rawness in my wrists. But it’s Mungo who charmed me enough once, wanting to include me in their gun cleaning, and then later, asking me to drive them to where they used to practise. Even my son was a little friendly to me about it – I remember once he even put his arms around me as he tried to help me hold it right. He showed me how to press the stock against my cheek to get a good cheek weld and develop a decent gun mount, as well as aim and fire.
Sometimes, after a few months of him having it, I would even take them to buy cartridges. I didn’t like it, but by the time he was sixteen, I think we were done fighting.
I try to ignore the past and instead concentrate on running on the uneven ground in the dark with a loaded shotgun – the last thing I need is an accident.
Each discordant step feels like it could just bump the gun out of my arms; every memory seems to bump in my head with a new understanding.