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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

But Pearline is shaking her head back and forth, a violent denial. She pulls herself from the sofa, slowly but with purpose, drawing her floral dressing gown more tightly around her wide hips, humming an old gospel spiritual. A bureau is pressed against the wall, the wood gleaming, the brass handles polished. She rummages in a drawer, old bits of paper and letters flying about. She retrieves a small business card and hands it to me.

DETECTIVE CONSTABLE MARVIN LYLE.

His name is printed in the centre, sandwiched between the Metropolitan Police insignia and a telephone number.

Between them, they’d decided the news of Aunt Peg’s death was better coming from Pearline, she explains. But the police officer has asked me to call him in the morning.

Pearline reads the question mark in my expression and her face, the one I have known for so long, seems to reduce and age in front of me, the parentheses around her mouth deepening, her dark curls turning to dust, living time-lapse photography. But tiredness has me in its vice and when I rub my eyes and look again, she’s back to how she was.

‘Hold her hand,’ she says to Lawrie in her forthright way, and he does as she asks, but I pull away from him, eschewing all distractions in pursuit of the truth. My eyes meet Pearline’s and the broken bits of my heart are reflected in hers.

‘She was killed,’ she says, a sorrowful shake of her head. ‘Murdered.’

‘How?’

The question rots a hole through the coconut-sweetness of her sitting room. Pearline seems to shrink into herself, glancing out of the window at the blot of the night, shying from the spectre of death that fills the shadows of her flat.

This movement alerts me, triggering a preternatural instinct for what she’s about to say next, and those four words become the last turn of the key, opening up the box of secrets kept locked for so long.

‘Scissors in her neck.’

It’s natural to want to defend her. I feel exactly the same way as you do. But caution should be applied here. For all her remorse, your mother is a killer, convicted by the courts. Of course you love her. I love her too. But she’s never been above a little manipulation. Whatever she says, your mother isn’t who you think she is. Don’t forget that.

There was blood on her doll, I remember that. A fleck of it on your mother’s cheek. Blood under her nails and collected in the dry-skin grooves of her knees. She was a good sister but not a good daughter. She had evil in her then. Ask yourself this: where does that evil go?

57

Friday, 14 December 2018

Honor’s screams sliced open the night-time stillness of the hotel.