BooksBarbecue
Back When I Was Ten
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

An Elvis fan has made a spud-tacular discovery during her weekly shop.

My desk is midway down the newsroom and tucked out of sight of Colin. This might sound like a boring and irrelevant detail, but it’s not. Because my desk is next to a television.

Sky News runs on a permanent loop with the sound turned down, so I don’t hear it at first. But when I take a break to relieve the tedium of potato-based puns and buy a coffee from the canteen, a headline catches my eye.

HILLTOP HOUSE MURDERS

I stand completely still. The words blur. I blink and refocus. A ticker is running along the bottom of the screen and I follow its progress.

EXCLUSIVE: DO CHILDREN WHO KILL DESERVE OUR FORGIVENESS? SHANNON CARTER GIVES FIRST TV INTERVIEW TO MARK 21ST ANNIVERSARY OF ‘ANGEL OF DEATH’ MURDERS

A woman’s face fills the screen.

My blood pressure drops. A swoop of dizziness loosens my knees and pricks at my skin, and I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything except watch the way her mouth moves and the fluttering of her hands in her lap.

‘Budge out of the way,’ says Lawrie Hudson, the chief reporter, coming up behind me. ‘Boss wants an exclusive on this.’ He reaches for the remote control and turns up the volume.

It’s been twenty-one years since I’ve seen Shannon Carter. Seven thousand, nine hundred and five days since she was led by the police from Hilltop House in blood-stiffened pyjamas, a rusty streak across her cheekbone, white-blonde hair matted with clots.

An angel touched by death.

Dr Richard Carter and his wife, Pamela. Asleep in their bedroom. Stabbed fourteen times with a pair of scissors in a frenzied and brutal attack by their daughter.

Their bedroom had white curtains and white wallpaper. It had wardrobes with sliding glass doors and artex swirls across the ceiling. A sheepskin rug and a lava lamp.

I had played hide-and-seek in that bedroom. I had teetered around in Mrs Carter’s too-big high heels and fur coat when I was ten. I had sat at the dressing table, patting powder on my face and spraying perfume on my wrists.

I knew that bedroom – that house – as well as my own. Because I had lived next door to them since Shannon was born, and their killer was my friend.

You’re probably going to ignore this. Don’t worry, I understand. Please don’t feel bad. After all, I’m just a stranger on the internet. My mother always told me not to talk to strangers. I expect yours is the same.

Perhaps it will make things easier if I tell you a little about myself. Then we won’t be strangers anymore. My favourite flowers are daffodils, my favourite season, spring. Music, the smell of rain on warm tarmac, the buzz of the city, the peace of the countryside, I love them all.