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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

My hands grasp blindly, catch the edge of the umbrella stand and knock it over. They close around wire and nylon, and she’s there with her blade, pressing it into my neck.

Our eyes meet and I fall into them.

She is dust and darkness, scarred by the loneliness of the years, tormented by her past. I try to speak, but my mouth is sand, and the words are stuck somewhere inside.

But she reads me and leans in, until her mouth is close to my ear, and her breath is warm and smells of oranges, and she says, ‘You, of all people, should know about keeping secrets, Brinley Booth.’

She puts pressure on the knife and it begins to bite, and she’s looking at the blood beading along its blade, and when, finally, she lifts her eyes back to mine, I am ready.

The stainless steel tip at the end of the umbrella penetrates the inner corner of her left eye, pushes into the dark spaces beyond, the mass of cells and matter and neurons that control her impulse to kill. I push harder, with everything I have and everything I don’t have.

She lets out a high, tight scream. Her hands flutter around the umbrella, pulling at the black nylon canopy and its wire ribs, but they lack commitment, and in half a minute, they still.

Slumped against the wall, blood trickling like the truth from my own wounds, I pay my debt and watch Shannon Carter die.

67

Three weeks later

The walls of the private hospital were obscured by cards sent by well-wishers from as far afield as Australia, the United States and Japan.

Catherine Allen – after much consideration, she had decided to keep that name – pushed herself up against the pillows and sipped tea from a china cup and saucer, her stay at this exclusive clinic paid for by an anonymous benefactor, a gift to make up for the years she had spent at Mayfields.

Her story had been syndicated in newspapers and magazines around the world. It had been the subject of countless television news specials and several documentaries were in the pipeline. The lengths one might go to to protect those we love. How the system lets down our youngest offenders. The abuse the Carter sisters suffered at the hands of their parents. The fiery crash that claimed the life of MP Geoffrey Heathcote. The murder of eighty-four-year-old Margaret ‘Peg’ Ablethorpe, and the attempted murders of Catherine Allen and Brinley Booth. Shannon Carter’s own desperate end. Of friendship lost and found. The story had it all. It ran and ran and ran.