BooksBarbecue
Back What I Did
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

They found him full of barbiturates as well and I had a sneaking suspicion they might’ve been mine. I kept rigorous notes of what I had and when I took them, not just from the habit of being a nurse, but because it was the equivalent of drinking expensive wine out of a tasteful glass – it made my addiction feel just a little bit more classy, more measured and therefore just a little bit easier to live with. There were gaps in my records – times I assumed I’d just forgotten to note . . . but maybe not.

It seems those gaps could’ve been something else.

I adjust my path – I don’t want to keep going this way as I will hit the driveway at the front of the property. Instead I know that if I walk round the periphery a little, I will be able to approach the cottage from the back and will – if I hide my approach through the rhododendron bushes – be able to get really close to the back door.

And then what?

Then I think of him. Jack – my Jack. My son. He was once so beautiful. He too was once so tender and innocent.

Something in me twists. The pain is so raw that it’s not something I can carry. It bends me. I miss him more than I would miss breath if it were taken from me. I miss him so much – Nick always said I was too attached.

Becoming a mother was hard for me. Perhaps, because I hadn’t had one when I was growing up, perhaps I just didn’t know what to do well enough. Perhaps I’m not clever enough to work it out. I tried. I bought books and wrote down sleep cycles and hand-mashed food, but it was just too much. Even when he was growing inside me, I suspected I was just not up to being a mother. Someone once famously said: No man is an island. Well, for me that’s wrong. Since I was eight, I’ve always felt alone and adrift. And when an island that has always felt like an island gets joined to the main coast, it loses its identity forever. I guess that’s OK if you want that, I’m just not sure I knew how to change.

But I did love him. I did still love my son so very much.

More than perhaps I realised at the time. At the time I worried about the wrong things: the mess; the noise; the lack of control.

But it all changed. The wind picks up and it’s cold against my cheeks. I realise that I’m crying.