Deliver Me From Evil (2 page)

All I can do is try to keep going, stay calm and tell the truth. At least, that’s the theory; that’s what I’ve been told to do by DC Martell and others who believe me. And there are more witnesses. In particular, two young adults who suffered as I did and who are telling their stories, too. The real issue is whether or not other people – in this case, a jury of twelve complete strangers – will believe our extraordinary story.

Reading through the pages of my statement I begin to feel extremely sad. The wording is childlike even though I was nineteen when I wrote it. I realize, for the first time, just how naive I was compared to other teenagers. The events my statement describes truly feel like a lifetime ago now, as I sit in my nice new clothes, twenty-one years of age – and a mother of a youngster myself – about to give evidence at a major trial, like a proper grown-up.

The door opens. ‘It’s time,’ says the court official. I straighten my clothes and hair nervously as I try to stand up, but my legs have suddenly turned to jelly. A witness support officer leads me along the corridor to the lift that will take me up to the courtroom. In the lift I fiddle with my bracelet while my heart hammers in my chest so loudly that I’m sure everyone will hear it.

The doors open. I take a deep breath.
This is it.

CHAPTER 2:

As a little girl I knew absolutely that my parents loved me. That security is the greatest gift you can give a child and is something most of us are lucky enough to take for granted. I don’t. I am grateful to my mum and dad for showing me warmth and affection, for every hug and kiss and kind word, for giving me six years free from fear – because I know what it is like when all of that is taken away and replaced by extreme cruelty. Without the memory of being loved once, I think I might not have survived my years with Eunice Spry.

It was only during the writing of this book that I really started to understand how Eunice managed to take over my life so completely. I look back at the moments – each one small in itself – that brought her closer to my family and wish passionately that I could go back in time and change them. I am sure my parents wish the same. One thing I do know is that my parents always tried to do their best for me. In the end, they too were Eunices victims.

I was born on 14 May 1985 in Cheltenham, a genteel market town in the south-west of England. I was named Alloma Lesley Gilbert – Alloma was a name from a book my mum had loved, about mythical people and fairies; she was into anything mystical. Her family had Romany heritage, hailing originally from Ireland. I’m told they had even lived in a gypsy caravan at one time, which sounds romantic and colourful, but nothing like the reality of my mums life. She grew up in Bolton, Lancashire, and had a violent upbringing, being abused by her own mother. She ran away as a teenager and gradually lost touch with everyone and everything she had known. Her mum is now dead and I never met any other members of her family, except for a distant cousin. The rest, I suppose, live all over the place; I’d love to be able to trace them one day.

My dad had a more settled childhood, living with his parents in their council bungalow on the outskirts of Cheltenham. But he had a rebellious streak and, like many teenagers, experimented with drugs, much to the disapproval of his parents.

Mum and Dad met when they were both fifteen at a club in London in the early psychedelic seventies and fell wildly in love. Mum was pretty, with cascades of curly dark hair and blue eyes. She was extremely artistic, a free spirit, a seeker, looking to start a new life away from her painful home experiences.

Dad was an attractive young man, with his dark hair and brown eyes, and also something of a wild child. I suppose when they met they must have felt like kindred spirits. Although they were very young to start a relationship, their feelings for each other didn’t change and my dad soon brought my mum to Cheltenham to live with him and his parents.

This is where I come in. Mum had a stillborn child before I was born, which affected her deeply. It took another five years from then for my parents to conceive, so I can only imagine that I was a wanted child. We all lived with Nan in her bungalow until my granddad died when I was just a year old. Although I cant remember him, my granddad left me one important legacy: the name ‘Bright Eyes’ which everyone used to call me at home.

The first year of my life was quite difficult for my parents. My mum was poorly after my birth, and she and my dad had to get used to the responsibility of a new baby who cried, needed feeding, dressing and generally looking after. Losing my granddad put further strain on all of the adults.

To make matters worse, I was born with a cleft palate – a small hole in the roof of my mouth, near the back, which meant food went up my nose and was hard to swallow. Luckily, I didn’t have a harelip, which so often occurs with a cleft palate, but I still had to have an operation when I was about eighteen months old. I don’t remember going to hospital, but the surgery must have been complicated as I’m told it took me about a month to get over it.

Around the same time, my mum had to have a gall-bladder operation; the authorities believed my dad and elderly nan would not be able to cope with my particular needs, especially with Mum recovering from her own surgery. Gloucestershire Social Services decided, therefore, that foster care was needed for me. They had a carer on their books who seemed perfect for the job: Eunice Spry.

When I think of my mum and dad at this time it’s as a kind of grown-up Hansel and Gretel, lost in the dark and bewildering woods of parenthood, unable to find their way. Along comes Eunice, then about forty-two years old, no doubt looking kindly and respectable in sensible clothes, a mother of two and seemingly full of common sense. Maybe her strait-laced religious nature – she was a devout Jehovah’s Witness at the time – made her seem particularly reassuring.

Eunice always seemed to have time for babies and treated them fairly well, so as I was a poor mite with ‘bright eyes’ and a cleft palate, maybe I moved her heart at that first, fateful meeting? Had my parents known then what they know now, I am sure they would have slammed the door firmly shut and bolted it hard against the apparently caring woman who would go on to perpetrate the most unthinkable harm.

I have no memory of that first stay with Eunice Spry. I know that I moved into her house at 24 George Dowty Drive in Tewkesbury, a forty-minute drive from Cheltenham, for a month. At around one and a half I would have been toddling about and ‘into everything’ like any young, intelligent child. My parents and nan missed out on my recovery from surgery and some of my first exploratory moves towards independence in the world.

Eunice had two daughters of her own living with her at that time – the youngest was in her late teens, the oldest, Judith, was in her early twenties – and she was still married to her first husband, who apparently adored her. They must have seemed like a nice, normal family. Indeed, Eunice had already been allowed by Gloucestershire Social Services to adopt her first girl, Charlotte, when she was a baby. She was just three when I went to stay.

After a month I was returned to my parents. I wonder now what Eunice thought of our little family: whether we were just one of many she encountered as a foster mother, or whether, looking at my vulnerable parents, she had some inkling she would see us again.

She did contact my parents six months later for a reference to give to Gloucestershire Social Services so she could foster, and later adopt, another little girl called Sarah.

Once I was back in the bungalow my parents and nan decided they needed more space. After all, although Mum and Dad had never married we were a family. They applied to the council for a bigger place and, when I was about two and a half, we all moved into a three-bedroom semi-detached terraced house in a quiet, leafy road in Cheltenham. It was a typical fifties-style pebble-dashed council house, with a side entrance and a strip of scrubby garden at the back.

My first memory of our new house was my third birthday party. It had a clown theme, with balloons and clown faces decorating the dining room. I distinctly remember hanging onto the edges of a dark mahogany table and looking up with wonder at my fabulous clown cake.

Our living room looked onto the street and had a small TV in one corner. I’d sit on the floor in front of it and watch
Sesame Street
and
Finger Mouse,
totally absorbed in their worlds of fantasy and make-believe. I loved the songs and larger-than-life characters and would happily watch for hours on end. My mum would lie or sit on the sofa that ran along the back wall and across double doors which led to the largely unused dining room. Two armchairs were squashed in quite close together – one nearer the door, which my dad sat in, the other near the window, which I often used.

In the hall, which ran from the front door, past the stairs and on to the kitchen, there was a large, threadbare green sofa. I think it was a cast-off that no one had got around to moving out of the house. It blocked the bottom of the stairs and when I was little I couldn’t get past it, so I had to be lifted over. In fact, at one time there was a mouse’s nest in it and at night you could hear the sound of chewing on the stairs, a hollow, grating sound, which I found quite scary. I’d lie awake at night, listening, as all sorts of strange images ran through my mind. It was very spooky, knowing that a little animal was gnawing away downstairs, just a short distance away.

There was a picture on the wall at the bottom of the stairs – it was of the coast and had an old brown frame and as it was one of the few pictures in the house, I would sit on the stairs or play on the sofa and gaze at it. The hall sofa blocked the front door, too, so we could never use it. Instead, we had to go down a side passage with a corrugated plastic roof outside the house and come in through the back door. I took it for granted that we would always come in round the back and through the kitchen.

I have random memories of my parents from those early days in our new family home. My dad would pick me up and lift me above his head and zoom me around, calling me ‘his little aeroplane’. I loved it and would giggle madly as he did so. He was quite physically playful back then – moments like that were great. I really felt he loved me, as did my mum – although she was less demonstrative.

Dad would sometimes read me bedtime stories, bringing the books to life. But once he’d tucked me in and gone downstairs, I’d often find I wasn’t sleepy and would get back out of bed, pretending to be a cat, a dog or a fox, scooting around on all fours in the dark. After several trips upstairs to try and settle me, Dad would eventually get annoyed and shout, ‘Get back in bed and stay there’. But before long I’d be meowing my way around the room again, as though sniffing at flowers or chasing butterflies. My imagination would take over as it always did.

I also have a vague memory of cooking with my mum one day in the kitchen, making something like spaghetti Bolognese, using a jar of sauce. I was stirring something and, for a laugh, my dad gave me a chilli pepper to see my reaction. I can still remember the unbearably searing hot sensation and my dad scooping me up and rushing me to the bathroom for water to cool my burning mouth.

I can see Mum hanging out washing on a line in what seemed like a massive garden. It was cultivated at one point, but soon became overgrown, providing me with a mysteriously lush place in which to explore and play my imaginary games. I could amuse myself with the slightest things: following a butterfly, talking to a cat or watching the neighbours daughter, Penny, play with her pet chihuahua – I thought it was such a funny little thing.

My parents would take me to Pitville Park in Cheltenham, which I loved as there were rabbits, peacocks and pheasants there. We’d feed bread to the birds and ducks and Dad would pick clover buds for the rabbits. I loved the bunnies with their twitchy noses and was captivated by the peacocks’ plumage, believing my dad when he told me the patterns on their feathers were real eyes. I hated the sound of the parrots squawking, so Dad would take me past their cages quickly and go on to the swings and roundabouts. I’d rock back and forth on a coloured horse whose body was fixed to a large coiled spring, while Dad said, ‘Whoop, giddyup, horsey, to the fair. What will we find when we get there?’

I also have vivid memories of Mum picking roses in the park and taking them home to dry the petals. I can still hear her singing as she bent down to pick each one. At home she’d take them apart carefully, dry them on newspaper in the airing cupboard, and then blend them with aromatic oils to make pot pourri. Mum liked to make things and enjoyed creative pursuits like needlework and collage. We kept lots of art magazines in large black plastic bags in the kitchen and Mum loved to flick through them. I’d spend hours staring at the ‘How to draw’ articles, fascinated by them.