Prologue

January 2020

London passes me in a grey blur. I keep thinking it’s going to snow. Part of me would like that – to be stranded here on a train in a snow drift, unable to move forward or backward. Trapped in a vague sort of limbo; a physical manifestation of the state I’ve been in for most of my adult life. But I’ve shifted into an unsettling, uncharted realm since I got the phone call yesterday morning.

The voice of the woman at the other end of the line had cut through the dullness of my sleep-muffled brain. Part of me had been waiting for her call, and another part was sure that it would never come; that this sort of thing happened to other people, not me. How stupid that sounds, thinking about it now.

‘Am I speaking to Katherine Marchland?’ she’d asked in her businesslike tone. ‘Formerly known as Katherine Carlson?’ I’d told her she was, and she had continued as I’d sunk down onto my bed, clutching at the duvet, hoping it would protect me. ‘Ms Marchland, my name is Detective Inspector Cousins of Northumbria Police. I need to ask you to present yourself at Wickton Close Police Station, Newcastle tomorrow afternoon at 3 p.m. to be interviewed under police caution. You are not under arrest at this time, but I have to inform you that you may be liable to arrest if you fail to turn up at the appointed time. You are of course free to bring legal representation with you, or you can access free legal advice through a duty solicitor if you request one to be appointed for you. Please can you confirm you have understood this information?’

By some miracle, I’d managed to say, faintly, ‘Yes. I do.’ She’d ended the call after that.

Now that I’m on the train, hurtling north at an alarming speed, I’m filled with doubts about the choice I’ve made. I could have just not gone. Failed to turn up. Left my flat and gone into hiding. Left the country. I imagine myself in a court dock, and then being sentenced to spend time in prison. Being taken down those steps you see in TV dramas, police officers escorting me to a van to drive me to my place of incarceration. Everyone knowing what I did, and why I need to be punished for it.

I can’t help it. I begin to cry. The tears start light and slow, trickling gently down my cheeks, then grow louder and louder into constant sobs. Some of my fellow passengers begin to look around. Others try to ignore me, pulling their phone screens closer, surreptitiously edging their headphones into their ears so they can tell themselves that they can’t hear me; that I’m not their problem.

I don’t care. I don’t stop. The panic has settled in now, strong and thick and all-encompassing, the sobs developing into tight, fast breaths. The irregular oxygen supply causes my face to tingle, then to blaze. I’m not sure how many minutes pass before I stagger to the tiny bathroom cubicle and lock myself in, or how long I’m in there for before a kind woman’s voice speaks through the door: ‘Hello, are you OK in there? Is everything all right?’

I can barely get my answer out, but when it comes, between the quick breaths and the sobs, it’s stark and emphatic: ‘No.’

‘Do you want me to call for help? I can ring the passenger alarm?’

This elicits an angry response from some of the other passengers, clearly enraged by the prospect of major delays to their journey due to the mad woman in the toilets. Let her pass out. Let her hyperventilate. Let her die. I can’t really blame them.

‘Hello? Are you OK?’ The woman’s voice continues, sounding even more worried. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

I’ve started to focus on the sink in front of me now. The slow-dripping tap. The rock and tilt of the train causes the water to fall in a different direction with each drip. I feel the panic starting to lessen a little; enough for me to answer this Good Samaritan on the other side of the cubicle door: ‘No. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me. Not after what I’ve done.’