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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF

When I Was Ten

Fiona Cummins
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

Cover

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WHEN I WAS TEN

FIONA CUMMINS

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Dedication page

For Isaac and Alice, always

Epigraph page

But for God’s sake, I was a kid; what else could I do but lie?

– Mary Bell in Cries Unheard by Gitta Sereny

Tell Tale Tit, your tongue shall be slit; and all the dogs in town shall have a little bit.

– Nursery rhyme, nineteenth century

PROLOGUE

Sunday, 20 April 1997

The girl is twelve and she is running.

Her feet pound the grass, powered by the twin engines of grief and fear. She does not stop until she reaches the summit of Saltbox Hill.

Below her, the village huddles under the cloak of an impending storm. She bends at the waist, panting and crying, and it is hard to breathe. Across the bruised horizon, she glimpses Hilltop House and her nausea ripens into a darkness she dare not think about.

There are cars, so many cars with blue and white livery and flashing lights, and they snake along the stretch of road between the stuccoed mansion and her own smaller home.

The grown-ups are dead.

The sky trembles with thunder. The girl’s body vibrates with it too. She glances upwards as a lightning arc blanches the clouds. Sporadic drops of rain hit her arms, as if they can’t be bothered, and then harder and faster until she is soaked through.

She starts running again, seeking shelter from the downpour.

An oak tree crowns the hill and it’s there the girl heads, damp seeping into her trainers, deep cuts of sorrow inflaming her heart. In this baptism of rain, she thinks: The sky is grieving too.

The air is sharp with ozone but it is not enough to rid her of the old-penny scent of blood, or the sweet-rot sickliness of the makeshift bedroom downstairs.

The grown-ups are dead.

Her mother.

Mrs Carter.

Dr Carter.

Deader than disco, her father would say, in that deadpan tone of his, and an appalled laugh spills from her.

It is her birthday tomorrow but there will be no celebration. Cards, yes, but of condolence, the first pushed through the letter box at lunchtime. No cake with pink icing, but still-warm lasagnes left on the porch, condensation collecting on their tinfoil lids. She swipes the back of her hand across her eyes and runs harder.

The girl is almost at the tree, spring thickening its leaves, branches spread in welcome. Their faces blink on and off in her memory like the rotating lights of a merry-go-round. Mother. Mrs Carter. Dr Carter. To her twelve-year-old self, their deaths are entwined like brambles, choking everything.

She has told a lie. A big one.

There is no way back from it now.