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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

Lyle warns me what to expect. Peg was stabbed in the neck with a pair of scissors, and in the back, chest and the insides of her thighs. He doesn’t need to tell me how brutal it was.

‘Just take a quick look at her face,’ he says, ‘and then we’re done here.’

Aunt Peg is lying on a gurney with wheels. A white sheet is covering her body, all the way up to her chin to obscure the injuries to her neck. Her hair, which she always wore in a bun, has been arranged around her face, grey and wispy like fescue grass. But mostly, she’s hidden from me, her body barely indenting the sheet. Her skin is the colour of sour milk. It doesn’t look like her.

‘It’s her,’ I say, even though by the time formal identification takes place, the police are almost always certain, and it’s just that – a formality.

Eighty-four years on this earth and all that’s left behind is an empty sack of flesh. I don’t cry.

Back on the estate, Pearline places a bowl of brown stew chicken in front of me and waits for every bit to be gone. ‘Eat,’ she says. ‘Strong girl.’ But I’m not a strong girl. I am weak.

The rest of the day passes. I telephone a couple of Peg’s friends from the church and ask them to pass on the news of her murder. I think about the coroner and the death certificate and a funeral, but I can’t get beyond thinking and into doing. Lying on Pearline’s sofa is all I can manage.

Mulling over, too, what DC Marvin Lyle told me as we were driving back from the Chapel of Rest.

Aunt Peg was killed on the same morning my story about Sara Carter appeared in the newspaper. Her attacker inflicted fourteen separate wounds with a pair of kitchen scissors, which had been wiped clean.

Fourteen.

I feel it, deep inside my gut. Not a coincidence, but a warning.

I’m still mulling it over at gone midnight, feet under the blanket, cheek resting against Pearline’s scratchy sofa back covers, wondering how I’ll explain it all to DC Lyle, to convince him, when my mobile rings and a voice says, ‘Hello, Brinley. My name is Catherine Allen, but you might remember me as Sara Carter.’

60

Saturday, 15 December 2018

The snow had stopped, but the leaves and bushes were already silvered with frost, even though the hollow hour was still to come.

Catherine pulled on her winter coat and boots, switched on the torch she had found in one of the kitchen cupboards and walked up the narrow lane, her lungs filled with ice.