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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 some news events cannot be predicted. The timing of the ITV documentary coupled with Heathcote’s radio gaffe was about to trigger a chain reaction of events that neither of them could possibly have foreseen. For all their experience, they had both underestimated the tenacity of journalists and their nose for a story.

Especially when that story featured a dishonourable politician and a poppet dubbed the Angel of Death, whose act of parricide was as embedded in the nation’s psyche as the scissor blade in Dr Carter’s neck.

I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. It must have been awful. Perhaps now is the time to share something deeply personal with you. I don’t tell many people this. My mother died in a terrible tragedy. It destroyed my family. We never recovered from it. At times, I feel lonely for the me of the past, but I have learned to exist alongside the pain.

I know exactly what you mean. Some days, I am so full of questions, I think I might go slightly mad from it all. Like you, there’s no one in my life who understands what it is to be me. No one to talk to about all these feelings that have nowhere to go. How strange there are so many similarities between us.

17

Early afternoon, and I’m in my room at the Hope and Anchor, laptop open, stomach tying itself into knots.

Lawrie is keeping the rest of the press pack on side and distracted while I finish writing tomorrow’s exclusive splash.

The newspaper is using my first-hand account of the night of the murders and a photograph of me with both Carter sisters. I haven’t mentioned the notebook to Lawrie yet. I’m still processing what it might mean.

Garth, the photographer, has taken some shots of me outside Hilltop House. I told him I didn’t want my picture in the paper, but Colin got on the phone and said he’d spoken to the editor about a pay rise, and perhaps it was time for me to have more responsibility, and how he was so proud of how I’d come through. Even though I knew I was being manipulated, I couldn’t handle the pressure of refusing, and so I said, ‘No, it’s fine.’ Tomorrow I’ll be on the front page of a newspaper that nearly a million people read.

I spellcheck my story, add Lawrie’s byline to a piece I’ve written about the timeline of events on Saturday, 19 April 1997 – we’re a team, after all – and press send.

Then I go downstairs for a drink.