Secrets - Back To Lancashire (1)

Let me explain, Craig. It's a mess.  

Where do I begin?  At the present time, I suppose. I started making notes this summer, hoping to regain a clearer picture of what actually took place on Whaley Hill. A therapeutic quest of sorts, especially after my marriage fell apart.

But I'm still searching for answers.

Nine years have passed since Macarthur attacked me with the crowbar during the storm.  

But was it him? 

According to the police, yes. He planned it while still in prison and he acted alone.

I can just about accept that most of the time.

Except.

No, too soon for all the weird memory stuff about a blow to the head distorting the overall picture.

Let things settle first.  

Please stay with the story, Craig.  

Back to the north of England.

Yeah, really.

Lancashire again.

Hills, and more hills, conjuring up thoughts of the old tongue twister about the ragged rascal running round and round the rugged hill. I get lost on the way. After stopping to look at the map, I retrace the route over a bridge and past a tiny village church, the colour of hay.

'Nearly there,' I say to Robert, listening to an iPod in the back.  

My son doesn't reply, just stares out of the window.

He's eight.

I wish you could meet Robert.  I'm sure he'd warm to you. He does to certain people, but he has never bonded with me. I won’t use the word autism, but you'll see for yourself.

Anyway, Robert and I are back for a while. I'll tell you more later.  Why it's just him and me - and my sister Mel.