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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
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

The prospect of upheaval upset her. ‘Let’s not think about that now.’

Even in her darkest imaginings, it had never occurred to her that Edward might not come with her, but he made no move to pack any of his clothes into the suitcase. Instead he stood there, observing the journalists below, his face unreadable.

He stayed like that, a watcher at the window, until Eliza Sheen, the supervising probation officer, fought her way through the crowd of journalists and he went downstairs to let her in.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you on Monday. Something came up and I couldn’t get away. The next few days might make it tricky for me to contact you. But I’ll message you again as soon as I can.

I don’t have much time – I need to leave in a couple of minutes – but I will tell you everything, I promise. Something tells me that we have more in common than we think. Hold tight, Hero – and a word of advice in these desperate times: the eye of the storm is the safest place to be.

46

‘Who’s that?’ says the journalist from the Daily Mail.

The woman is slim, with dark hair in a ponytail, and has the type of face that suggests a fondness for cigarettes and holidays in the sun. She’s wearing a thick coat to protect her from the cold. An on-the-ball photographer runs after her to get a shot, and the others follow suit, creating a domino effect of camera flashes, glinting in the frozen night. The woman turns up her collar and ignores them until she disappears through a crack in the Allens’ front door.

I have no idea, but I hazard a guess. ‘Probation? Social services?’

The Daily Mail journalist thumps his gloved hands together and stamps his feet. ‘They’ve got a kid, haven’t they?’ When neither of us answers, he points to a worn rope swing suspended from a tree, dusted with snow.

‘She’s twelve,’ I say. ‘Honor Allen.’

The Daily Mail journalist fiddles with his mobile for a couple of minutes and holds it out. ‘Look, she’s on Facebook and Instagram.’

They roll their eyes with the cynicism of seasoned hacks. No privacy settings. If they had been allowed to publish her name, those images would be all over tomorrow’s newspapers. As it was, some of the more ruthless news organizations had sought legal advice about pixelating her face.

Lawrie and the other guy are now discussing court injunctions and privacy and waiving anonymity, Scottish law and foreign jurisdictions, but I don’t absorb what they’re saying because one thought is burning in my brain, bright as fire.

Sara Carter’s daughter is twelve. Too young for this intrusion. Too young to be stripped of her innocence in such a brutal way.