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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 car was inching up the lane. Given the weather, it was not a surprise to see the driver navigating with such care, but the vehicle – a blue Nissan Micra – was moving too slowly.

Catherine stood at the sink and watched as it drew level with her kitchen window.

Two figures were in the front seat and she didn’t recognize either of them. The man at the wheel had flecks of grey in his beard and a bump on the bridge of his nose. His companion, a much younger man, leaned forward in the passenger seat and peered around him, straight at her. Wide, easy-to-smile mouth. A sweep of fringe. He said something to the driver and both men looked away, as if they were deliberately trying not to be noticed.

The engine revved once and the car swung away. This time, it moved too quickly and the wheels skidded on a patch of ice. Catherine pulled in a sharp breath but let it go when she saw the driver had regained control, and then the car was gone.

Peace settled over the street again. Somewhere in the distance, a chaffinch sang, the notes pure and loud in the frozen landscape. The episode had taken less than ninety seconds. If the car’s tyres hadn’t left parallel grooves in the snow as confirmation, it might never have happened at all.

9

The Justice Secretary slammed the door of the black Jaguar XJ and grunted his thanks to the driver. He was running late, and in a foul temper. He didn’t want to do the interview – it was the job of his subordinate, the Prisons Minister, who’d rushed off to Liverpool because of a family bereavement – and he’d been strong-armed into it by the Number 10 press office.

‘Prisoners are entitled to rehabilitation blah-blah-blah,’ said Romily Dawson, a senior member of the communications team. ‘It’ll only be five minutes or so. You can do it with your eyes closed.’ She’d crossed her arms, lips pursed. ‘And it’s good for your profile. Might tilt the tide of public opinion back in your favour.’

He’d raised his eyes skywards at the blatant manipulation, but a part of him knew she was right. His proposed hard-line reforms of the Prison Service had been met with a howl of outrage by those Guardian-reading purveyors of political correctness and, by Christ, they were legion, although not in his constituency, thankfully. Well, they would dance to a different tune if one of their daughters was raped and murdered. The world was changing and he didn’t like it. But he understood the need for moderation, or at least, the illusion of it.

The saloon pulled away from the icy kerb. For a moment, he envied the driver his freedom. Half an hour with a cup of tea and yesterday’s Evening Standard. But he had a job to do today. An important one. He was important.