I don't know who you are, or how you are reading this. Right now as I write using a stolen typewriter in a dark alley, hearing police sirens in the distance, I wonder if I will live to see next week. I wonder if I will live to see tomorrow. The cops are looking for me. I don't blame them. After what I did, I deserve to be locked up. Everyone hates me. I hate me. But right now I am going to tell you my story. If I die, I want somebody to know the truth. Then hopefully they will tell the world.
I arrived into the world on the 4th April, 1995. I had an older brother named Matt who was five when I was born. My parents were called Mr and Mrs Baker, and from the outside our family looked complete. They named me Elle, because L is the first letter in Love. Matt was an adorable boy who delighted old ladies and played in sandpits and climbed trees – things that little boys do. He had a pet frog called Puddles, and begged my parents to get him a dog. I was apparently cute baby. I remember looking at photos of myself. I had tufty blond hair, and a cheeky little grin. Mum often told me that I looked like a little cherub.
When I was five and Matt was 10, we had to move house. I didn't really know what was happening. From what I can recall, we had to move in a hurry. And I mean a hurry. I used to ask Dad what he did for a job, and he would always say "You're too young to understand," and change the subject. One day he came home two hours early from work (wherever that was) and yelled,
"We've got to move! Right now!"
If something like this had happened in an ordinary family I don't know what the reaction from the mother would have been. Mum, however, seemed to know exactly what to do as if she had done the same thing a hundred times before. Grabbing several huge suitcases from the cupboard under the stairs, she thrust two at my brother and me.
"Go and pack as many clothes and anything else that you can!" she hissed, before dashing into the kitchen. My father was shoving pictures and ornaments into a rucksack, not looking or caring if they were broken or not. To make a long story short in just over an hour the house had been stripped of anything that could represent our family. We left the large, heavy furniture behind and jumped into the car.
By seven o'clock that evening (about three hours later) we were in London. My father had phoned a "colleague" who managed to get hold of four first class aeroplane tickets direct from London to New York. By the next morning we were checking into a fancy hotel in New York, and by twelve noon my mother had collapsed onto a silk sheeted hotel bed, whilst my father made some more urgent phone calls to some "friends" of his.
I enjoyed life in New York. We stayed there for a couple of years; rented a house, Matt and I went to school, Mum joined a cookery class and Dad continued with his mysterious job. Then, without any warning, the same thing happened again. Dad returned early, we packed up and left. This time to France. Even though a was only seven years old, I was a bright girl and started to notice a pattern starting to appear.
We lived in France until I was 12. When we moved next it happened a little differently. Mum came home from a dance class she had joined with a very worried look on her face. She rang Dad at "work" and muttered some words down the phone. From that moment the same chaos ensued, before I found myself living in London again.
I decided that enough was enough. We were eating dinner after having lived in London for about two months, when I asked my father why we had moved so quickly. His reaction was incredible. I will never forget the look he had in his eyes.