Alex Hanscombe - Letting Go

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

Text Alex Hanscombe 2017

Cover layout design HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph Andr Hanscombe/PA Archive, PA Images

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Alex Hanscombe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008144296

Ebook Edition May 2017 ISBN: 9780008144272

Version: 2017-08-25

For those who seek the truth.

I do not claim to recollect all the events I have lived through with perfect objectivity or perfect clarity; indeed, it is true that we all see past events and experiences through the filters of our own beliefs and preconceptions. Even in hindsight, there is no such thing as twentytwenty vision. Where appropriate, I have corroborated the details of events with those present so as to maintain the utmost accuracy and truth from start to finish.

In order to protect their identity, I have taken the liberty of changing the names of certain individuals concerned.

If the words of Shakespeare are true, and all the world is indeed a stage, then we have all played the roles of both hero and villain at different times. Therefore, it is with the understanding that people always act in the best way possible that I share this story with you.

Alex, what was in the bag?

I was the most famous child in the British Isles.

My third birthday had come and gone just days before and already I was on another scheduled visit to the child psychologist. As usual, the two detectives who had been assigned to us were both present.

Immediately after our last visit the psychologists house had been fitted with hidden microphones and concealed cameras. The police didnt want to miss a word. While the purpose of these sessions was supposedly therapeutic, in reality their main objective was to obtain information. The killer had left nothing behind, and despite the hundreds of people on the Common that morning I had been the only witness. Only a footprint had been found during a forensic examination of the scene, along with a fleck of red paint in my hair.

Weeks had passed, the killer was still on the loose, free to strike again at any time. The police knew nothing about what took place in the minutes either before or after the attack. They were desperate for new leads and I was now the only person who could help them solve the puzzle they faced.

I know how much you must remember your worst ever day, the child psychologist began. The police are here to catch the bad man who killed your lovely mummy and to put him in prison where he wont be able to harm anyone else again.

I was asked many questions that morning, questions I had already been asked many times and which were to be repeated over and again during the weeks to come. Usually I would spend the sessions playing with toys, and only address these strangers directly, if I addressed them at all, from time to time. But it was always clear to those present when the child psychologist intentionally took me back to relive the day in question that I was once again living in the moment the attack took place. My mind was totally focused and they couldnt help but imagine the film running in explicit detail inside my head.

Alex, was the bad man carrying anything? one of the detectives asked.

A bag, I replied.

Alex, do you remember what colour the bag was?

Black.

Alex, what was in the bag?

I played on for several seconds as the adults in the room looked at one another.

Alex, the detective repeated. Do you remember what was in the bag?

Suddenly, I stabbed a crayon into the piece of paper on the table and gazed deeply into the detectives eyes, forcing him to lean forward to hear.

A knife.

Chapter 1

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 1, Act V, Scene 1

Memories can be deceptive, seemingly playing tricks on us and reshaping our past perceptions in new ways. Some recollections fade over time, while others remain vividly etched into our memories. But in the depths of my mind there are still absolutes: the shelter and warmth of my mothers embrace, the knowledge that I was safe and that I was loved.

Of this I am convinced; when a seismic event changes the course of our lives, its impressions are marked on us forever, and the day I watched my mothers soul leave her body, on the morning of Wednesday, 15 July 1992, is one I will never forget. Twenty-four years have passed, but through the fog of time I can still see the film running inside my mind as if it were only yesterday.

For me, that morning began just like any other. I was less than a month away from my third birthday and I awoke in my small bed on one side of my parents room, stretched out on the furry sheepskin on which I had slept since I was born.

I opened my eyes to see my mother gazing down at me from above. Good morning, Alex, she exclaimed, lifting me up into her arms for a hug. I felt, as I had every day of my short life until then, a warm, happy feeling that began inside my chest and spread throughout my entire body; a feeling of lightness and peace.

While my mother went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, my father picked me up and threw me onto their bed. I loved a good play fight with him. The two of us rolled on the covers together, wrestling and tussling until, after a couple of minutes, he got up, laughing, and said, OK, tough guy times up!

Like most three-year-olds, I was full of energy and curiosity. I couldnt wait to start the day, and I was thrilled when our dog Molly a sleek, seal-like bundle of shiny black fur with a furiously wagging tail bounded into the room to say hello. A mixture of Labrador and greyhound, less than a year old and full of life and playfulness, she was my constant companion and like a younger sister. Not for the first time I wish she could have slept on my bed. Shed been allowed to do so the previous Easter, on holiday in the Isle of Wight. We were both delighted about it, but back at home there were strict rules to follow and Molly had to go back to sleeping on her bed in the kitchen.

Our apartment in Balham, South London, a two-bedroom flat on the third floor of a mansion block, was for now our sanctuary, a home where the three of us were shielded from the busy city beyond its walls. It was here where I was born and here I had spent all but a few nights of my young life.

I normally had breakfast in the front room, but that morning for some reason everything felt slightly different. Upon her return, my mother sat down on the bed beside me, handing me my bowl of cereal.