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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

‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ But I’d like it to be you. Thank God I don’t say that aloud because his next comment is this: ‘My girlfriend gets so jealous. I tried to explain we’re sitting in a freezing car in the middle of nowhere, but all she keeps asking is if you’re pretty.’

A silence stretches between us.

‘Do you like hummus?’ Admittedly, it’s not the catchiest of lines, but I’ve got a pot of it and some carrots in a Sainsbury’s bag in the boot of the car, and it’s the only thing I can think of to say.

He gives me a strange look. ‘Sure.’

Cold air slaps my cheeks and the snow crunches underfoot, a crust of ice already forming on top. As I open the boot, headlamps light up Hawberry Lane, casting shadows across the nightscape.

Two cars are inching through the darkness towards us.

Lawrie steps out to join me. He rubs his hands together. ‘Looks like we’ve got company.’

The cars slide slowly to the kerb’s edge. After a minute or two, a man and woman emerge. ‘Evening,’ says the man, snowflakes settling on his shoulders. ‘We’re from Essex News. Fuck me, it’s cold.’

Lawrie and I exchange a look. Essex News is the agency that supplies stories and photographs from this county to the national press. We might as well wave goodbye to our exclusive.

But it’s only the beginning.

An hour later, three more news organizations have arrived in Hawberry Lane, their vehicles parked haphazardly across grass verges. ‘ITN’ is emblazoned across one of the vans.

By 2 a.m., Hawberry Lane is clogged with media outlets. With no room to park by the kerbside, they are now blocking off the narrow street. One or two of the camera crews are staking a claim on the pavement, bagging the best positions in readiness for the morning.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I say to Lawrie. We both recognize the significance of the story, but the number of media organizations at this time of night is baffling.

We wander over to one of the TV news crews. A producer is scribbling notes on a pad. In the last few hours, there have been significant developments, she tells us. The tweet has gone viral. News organizations both abroad and in Scotland are intending to reveal Catherine Allen’s real identity. The Official Solicitor and the Attorney General are now involved.

A police car crawls into the melee.

You want to meet me? I don’t know what to say except it’s a wonderful idea and why on earth didn’t I think of it myself? When can you get away? Where shall we meet?

Forgive me if this seems a little forward, but why don’t you send me your address?

23

In one minute and twenty-six seconds, Catherine Allen will be dead.