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
‘Excuse me,’ I say, overwhelmed by too many mixed emotions, and stumble into the pantry. I retrieve my pills and swallow only one. I want far more, but don’t dare. Just as I’m rethinking this, I glance up to see Nick standing in the doorway looking at me.
Shame stings: the chunky kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. ‘Only one. My feet hurt. My head hurts. My wrists are burnt. You have no idea what I’ve been through tonight – what he has done to me.’
Nick puts up a hand as if to say: Tell me no more, and disappears back into the kitchen.
I feel anger flare up. ‘Look at me!’ I shout to the half-closed pantry door. I feel unintentionally comedic, the Hammer House film villain, as I limp towards it.
The door recoils under my touch and smacks back against its hinges. ‘Look at me!’ I repeat, wanting him to hear the point. ‘Look at what he has done to me!’
Nick is now sitting at the table, an empty tumbler in front of him and my bottle of whisky. I want to shout at him, but I need to get to Jack. I need to save him – that’s all that counts.
I stumble through the kitchen door and just make it into the hallway when Nick reclaims me by the scruff of my fleece, pulling me, like a naughty child, back into the kitchen. We struggle, a silent dance that I never, not at any point, come close to winning. Even though I’m already resigned, it seems I can’t help but just try one more time. He holds his own. He is like his son – determined and strong.
Finally, when I know I’ve given up, I rest my head against his chest and wrap my arms around him, just like I used to. Holding him is like slipping on old trainers. I want to cry against him but I don’t. He holds me back, though, and for several minutes I simply rest.
‘Lese? You OK?’ he says finally, when he’s probably thought of Anne-Marie. He pulls me away a little and looks at me. ‘Seriously, what’s happened to you? Where have you been?’
I glance down at my filthy clothes, the deep, red welts on my wrists, the mud that clings to my legs and feet. Suddenly, I’m annoyed that he seen me looking like this – that this is what I look like when he hasn’t seen me for so long. I’m irritated that I even still care. ‘Jack did this to me,’ is all I manage. Then: ‘But is Jack – little Jack – is he OK?’
‘Our son did all this?’ Nick gestures to the mud, the scratches, the burns.
‘Well . . . no, but yes. I’ll explain – but please tell me first, is Jack all right?’