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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 man – she recognized him now as the government minister in charge of prisons – turned to face the media scrum gathered at his garden gate. He spoke with a plum in his mouth. ‘I have nothing to say at the present time. If that changes, you’ll be the first to know.’ A pause. ‘Probably before I do.’ The journalists laughed.

The VT cut away to a colour photograph Catherine had never seen before, pulling a gasp from her. Her fingers flew to her lips.

Catherine and her sister, Shannon, swinging on a hammock in the garden at Hilltop House. Six and eight years old. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed moppets.

Someone with intimate access to the family must have given it to a BBC journalist, although she could not remember who had taken the picture or why they would have done such a thing. The betrayal made her skin crawl.

A thrum of anger at her sister. Why on earth was she giving interviews, putting their tragedy back into the public domain? Once she had loved Shannon so much she would have died for her. But the past had no place in the present. Catherine’s life had moved on.

She switched off the television, blood singing in her veins. Her hands were shaking and she was grateful for the dark veil of evening that shrouded the room. She breathed in through her nose and repeated to herself the advice her counsellor had given her. Small steps, Catherine. One foot in front of the other.

When the heat in her cheeks had cooled and she had regained control of her emotions, Catherine shut the door and walked quietly upstairs.

In the bathroom, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She looked old. A beaten-down mess. Untidy eyebrows. Patchy dry skin. Broken fingernails. Strands of blonde-grey pushing up through her roots. Her hair needed dyeing again.

She set to work with her tweezers. Moisturized her skin. Filed and shaped her nails. Ran warm water over her hair, working in the brown dye until she was back to her best self again.

Then she pasted on a smile and went downstairs to try and mend her family.

15

The pub restaurant is empty except for the handful of photographers and journalists sitting at the table, drinking wine.

And vodka and beer and whisky and rum.

The reporter from the Sun swallows his last forkful of steak, pushes his empty plate away from him and downs the rest of his pint. He’s using a cocktail stick to free a fibre of meat from the gap between his teeth, and then he checks his watch and says, ‘First editions will be dropping soon.’

From the smirk on his face, it’s obvious he has a great story. We’ll know soon enough. If we’ve missed something we shouldn’t have, the night editor will call us when tomorrow’s newspapers land at around 10.30 p.m. My stomach twists into a knot.