PROLOGUE
FORTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
NICK
Justin Hayward faltered mid-lyric,the dulcet tones of The Moody Blues vanishing into the silence of my bedroom. My headphones landed on my lap and my mother stared down at me, a fresh redness to her cheek, the telltale marks of fingers around her throat. She caught me looking, flushed, and tugged the collar of her pretty paisley shirt higher. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
Her clipped tone made me frown. This wasn’t how it went.
When my father exhausted his temper, my mother disappeared into her bedroom for a while. She came out when my father left for the pub, as he did most nights. We made hot chocolate and watched television together. That’s what we did. That’s what we always did. It didn’t make things better, but it returned something to my mother’s eyes thathetook away.
What wedidn’tdo, what weneverdid, was go out. And we especiallynever went out when he’dgone drinking with his mates.
He didn’t like that.
He didn’t like much of what we did.
“Where are we going?” I snapped. “We shouldn’t leave.” I regretted the tone the second the words left my lips. None of this was her fault, after all.
Mum gave a panicked glance over her shoulder. “Not now, Nick, please. Just do as I say and I’ll explain later.”
When I didn’t move, a sharp glint of anger appeared in those warm eyes. It shocked the hell out of me.
I reached for her hand. “Mum? What’s going on?”
“We’re leaving,” she rushed, grabbing my school bag and handing it to me. “Someone is coming to get us. We have to be ready. Get dressed and come downstairs.”
Panic gripped my chest. Images flashed in my brain. My mother on a gurney. A bloody towel. Hospitals, doctors, and lies, lies, lies. The broken recollections of a five-year-old boy.
“But what about Dad?” My arms circled her waist and she cradled my head against her soft belly, fingers threading through my hair.
“It’ll be fine. He won’t be back for a while. I need you to be my strong, brave boy tonight. Can you do that for me?”
I leaned back and looked up, tears blurring her pretty face. “But he’ll be mad, Mum. We can’t go. I don’t want him to be mad. What if he hurts you again? We have to stay. I’ll talk to him, I promise. I’ll ask him not to?—”
“No, Nick.” She dropped to her knees, her hands landing on my shoulders. “We can talk about things later, but right now, we’re leaving. I’ve packed you a bag, so all you need to do is get dressed and come downstairs, okay?”
I wanted to argue, to sayno, we couldn’t risk it, but the fierce determination in her eyes was something new. And so I nodded, my belly in knots. “Okay.”
She stood and ruffled my hair. “Good boy. Thank you. Now make it quick.”
I donned my favourite pair of jeans, a Marvel T-shirt, shoved my feet into my sneakers, and grabbed a hoodie. Then I headed downstairs to find her waiting at the back door, a backpack in each hand. Just the sight of them terrified me.
“But—” I stared at the backpacks, fear clutching at my chest, alarm bells ringing in my brain. “What about my books? My train set?”
My mother blinked. “Nick, we can’t take everything. I’ll buy you another train set.”
“No.” I took a step back, not even sure why. “Dad gave me that one. Last birthday. Remember? I can’t leave it.” It was the only decent thing he’d ever done for me, other than not physically hit me, of course. He saved that for Mum. Then again, who needed fists when words bit just as hard.
My mother closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead like she was barely holding it together. “Nick, the train set wasn’t... your father didn’t...” She didn’t finish.
And that’s when I knew. He hadn’t bought the train set at all. My mother had simply put his name on the card. More lies.
She reached for me but I pushed her away. “No! That’s not true! You’re lying!”
My mother shot me a pained look. “Nick. Don’t do this. Please. We have to go.”
But my head was already shaking. “No. He’ll find us. Just like before.”
