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
I had never been to Hereford until that morning, when seven-year-old Jack and I gazed in awe as we drove over the Severn Bridge at dawn; the huge expanse of water beneath felt like a tangible delineation (no, no, not the River Styx) between the danger of the past and the safety of the future. As the sun broke the horizon, pink shepherd-warning skies reflected onto the great stretch of water below.
‘Hereford,’ I told Jack, ‘is the least populated county in England.’ I didn’t add: And therefore the perfect choice for us to start again. He was silent, but I felt the crossing was like a rebirth, like we were leaving the death of our life before and crossing into something new. I felt it and I hope that he did too.
If this didn’t work for us, I didn’t know what we would do because I knew that we couldn’t keep moving – I could see so clearly how much it was killing Jack. After we had run, I wasn’t sure where to go, so we simply moved around, staying in three hotels in three months. But his anxiety had changed from his previous mild stutter into stomach aches and bitten nails. This cottage in Herefordshire had a lot to deliver: it had to be perfect. Jack couldn’t suffer any more.
I wasn’t sure I could suffer any more change, either. I was like a vase, broken all the way to the base, superglued up, but no longer confident of holding water.
This move had to work.
I looked around, wanting to see the view from my prospective new home. I could see across the hills for miles; my gaze drawn to the gentle swell of the hills and dipping valleys. But this summer there was very little green; instead it was a palate of pale brown; dust beige and muted gold. Although still only July, several weather records had already been broken and the fields were scorched and thirsty; the crops dying. Radio programmes dwelled on environmental anxieties; I wanted to, but I was afraid of something more immediate.
I could only think of Him.
But he wouldn’t find us here; it was too remote.
Beyond the cottage gardens it turned back to farming fields. In the distance, perhaps a couple of miles away, I could see a single farmhouse. Beyond, that, an empty nothing.
I realised that, living here, Jack and I could go for weeks without seeing anyone. We could become shadows, unseen and safe.