Slave Girl (4 page)

The mental bit seemed to revolve around a game they made us play in the evenings: they called it ‘The Yellow Brick Road’. One of the men would produce a bit of paper with a road drawn on it. From this main road smaller paths branched off. He would explain that the game started on the main road, which was safe, but that after we set off we would have to choose which of the little paths to go down. Some of these paths led to good things; others to bad ones. But we weren’t allowed to know which was which. We just had to choose blindly and hope.

To this day I can’t quite work out how it was supposed to work or what possible gratification it could give anyone. All I know is that more often than not I seemed to choose the bad path and I’d be dragged off and locked in a room upstairs. Before too long one of the men would unlock the door, come in and pin me – often by my throat – against the wall. I can see their faces now – the men who took it in turns to come into that locked and lonely room. I can feel the coarseness of their clothes pressing up against me, the weight of their hands on top of my head, pushing me down and into the required pose to bring them satisfaction. And I can hear them, too, screaming at me, calling me ‘a little shit’, and trying to make me cry. Did they succeed? I like to tell myself that they never did, that I never gave in and cried, but I know I must have sometimes.

This so-called ‘care’ home might have been in the middle of nowhere but that didn’t stop me from trying to run away. More than once I climbed out of my first-floor bedroom window and jumped – how far down it seemed! – to the ground below. Then I would run as fast as my legs would carry me across the fields in the direction of the little village, hoping I’d make it and hoping I’d find someone who would help me get back to Gateshead. Once I badly sprained my ankle in the jump from the window. I knew as soon as I landed on the ground that I wouldn’t get far that night but I tried nonetheless.

They always caught me, of course. I was only 13 and hadn’t a clue where I was. They were big and strong, and knew the grounds like the back of their hands. And they had those dogs. I can’t describe how those dogs made me feel. Terrified, of course, but there was just something completely horrible in knowing that they would track me down and in waiting to feel them grab hold of me.

And after I was caught they had an extra punishment for me – and for the others like me – ‘runaways’ and those who couldn’t be trusted to stay put and endure the misery they heaped on us. They took our shoes away and made us go barefoot at all times. Barefoot or not I was determined to get away, even though I knew they would always catch me. It was as if the act of trying to escape was an essential defence mechanism which enabled me to survive there.

And then, one night, a miracle happened. I climbed out the window, dropped to the ground without hurting myself and sprinted away across the fields. I expected to hear the chase and feel the dogs come for me at any moment, but there was nothing – just me and the night air and the silence. I ran and ran and ran. I know I fell down and tripped into ditches – though I can’t remember doing so – because by the time I got to a bus stop I was covered in black mud from the fields. That night bus seemed to take forever to arrive but I finally climbed on board and paid the five pence fare to Gateshead. It was the best five pence I’ve ever spent in my life.

One of my brother’s friends had a flat in town. In the dead of night I found my way there and banged on the door until he opened it. I was dirty and ragged, and must have looked completely wild. But, having come so far – having finally escaped from my prison – I was determined that he would let me in and give me sanctuary. And he did. I told him everything that night: I poured out my heart and must have convinced him how badly I needed a safe place to stay because he agreed to let me live there for as long as I needed. The flat was tiny, with only one bedroom. By night I slept on the couch in the living room, by day I sat in the kitchen smoking endless cigarettes and drinking innumerable cups of tea.

In retrospect, it was a very odd arrangement – and one that looks suspicious: a young man harbouring a teenage runaway – but it wasn’t that way at all. My brother’s friend was a good and kind person, someone who could see that I simply needed some space to recover a little strength. I lived in his flat for three months, hiding out and terrified someone would turn up at the door to cart me back off to that terrible care home. Somehow, though, they never did.

But I couldn’t stay there forever. Someone would be bound to notice there was a young teenager living in the flat with a man several years older than she was, a school-age girl who never went to school. So before anyone could report me I got in touch with the Social Services – hoping against hope they would listen to me and not take me back to the house in the fields with the men who raped or beat me every night.

I must have said something right: the social worker listened and promised me I wouldn’t ever have to go back. And I didn’t. Instead, I was taken to a boarding school in the Lake District.

At first I didn’t settle. I suppose I’d got used to the little flat and being back in Gateshead again. This boarding school, Riverside, was even more out in the country than the terrible care home. But gradually I came to love it and be happy for the first time in I don’t know how long. In some ways it reminded me of my mum’s uncle’s place in Scotland: it was peaceful like that and the air felt fresh and clean. Above all, though, I felt safe. I felt that at last none of the terrible things that had happened to me could ever come back and drag me down again.

I started doing school work again – maths, English, a bit of science – just like a normal teenager. I listened to music, read magazines, gossiped with my friends … And I thought to myself, ‘At last – something is going right.’

And I discovered that I had a talent: art. As a child I’d always liked drawing and I could spend hours and hours lost in the world that I created with just a sheet of paper and some pencils or crayons. But as Dad’s abuse worsened, the images had grown darker and more menacing. Mum tells me that I used to draw pictures of a little girl trapped in a cave or a castle with a figure that looked like a witch outside. She thinks now that she was that witch and that I was trying to make her see that she should help the little girl – but all that happened was that the teachers at school threw the drawings away.

At Riverside, I rediscovered the joys of art – and the teachers encouraged me. One year, as Christmas approached, they held a competition for the best-designed Christmas card. I worked and worked on my drawing – a snowy landscape with a cheerful-looking house and white smoke puffing out of the chimney, and above it – of course – Santa Claus with his reindeer and his sleigh piled high with toys.

It sounds terribly corny and absurdly childish for someone who had been through all I’d endured. But it was done with love and ambition, and I was as proud as can be when I won our little competition. I, worthless little Sarah Forsyth – abused child and teenage tearaway – had done something right for once, and someone else had noticed! I couldn’t wait to tell Mum.

But the teachers at Riverside had another idea – and it was so much better. They arranged to have a number of copies of the card printed – properly, professionally printed – so that I could send them out like a normal person. I couldn’t believe it when they told me: I thought I was going to burst with happiness.

God, how proud Mum was of me, too. She was absolutely full of real joy – the first, I’m sure, that I had given her for many, many years. She treasured that little Christmas card and showed it to everybody she could for a long time afterwards. Isn’t it funny how much little things can mean?

My brother would come and visit me at Riverside every few weeks. He had found out about what Dad had done to me and my God, he was furious. He told me he’d been round to see Dad to confront him. In response our dear father beat him up.

Even though I was away from him, somehow my brother and I became closer than before. I’ll always remember the clothes he brought me – T-shirts and jeans – and the cigarettes he used to smuggle in to the home for me in pairs of trainers. And we’d go out on to the surrounding hills for long, lovely walks. I loved my brother: he was my rock and my lifeline.

I stayed at Riverside for three years: happy years, by and large, and a much-needed respite from the misery of my childhood. I was 13 when they sent me there, and the years seemed to fly by. Somehow, without noticing it, I was about to turn 16. I had been in care for almost five years. Other than occasional visits from my brother and Mum I’d not really had to deal with my family. But although packing me off to the peace and tranquillity of the Lakes had probably saved my life, it suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t going to last much longer.

At that time the care system generally spat kids back out once they turned 16. It had rescued them from violence, neglect or sexual abuse and then, pretty much without warning, it turned its back on them. I’ve seen reports since then which show that most of the young girls (and many of the boys) working the streets in cities across Britain have been in care. Typically, they have turned to prostitution as a means of survival once the care system has finished with them. And at 16 they’re easy prey for the pimps and pushers who ensnare them with drugs and live off the money they make by renting their bodies.

I suppose I was lucky in that I had somewhere to go once I had to leave Riverside: Mum had fixed for me to live with her again. I’d also begun to think about what I would do with my life once I left Care. My mind had drifted back to the times when I looked after my step-mum’s two kids and I realised that I actually enjoyed working with bairns. What’s more, I was good at it. Maybe, I thought to myself, I can go to college and get a qualification that will allow me to earn a living doing something worthwhile and which I like doing. But then my world fell apart. Again.

O
n my sixteenth birthday Dad sent a message to me: ‘You little bastard – I’ll kill you.’

And you know what? Those six little words meant the world to me: not because of what he actually said, but because of what the words meant. And because of how and where my lovely Dad came up with them.

I’d been sitting in a little room at Middlesbrough Crown Court for four days. My Dad was on trial: someone had finally got round to doing something about his repeated sexual abuse of me from the age of three. I’d spoken to the police and to lawyers off and on throughout my years in Care, but Dad had denied everything. To hear his side of the story he’d never laid a finger on me – even though I’d been a really difficult child – and he’d even taken me into his home when Mum couldn’t cope with me any more. And of course he hadn’t abused me; he wasn’t one of those bastard paedophiles.

And so nothing was done. When it’s the word of a respectable local businessman against that of a young girl so troubled that she had been kicked out by her mum and eventually taken into Care, guess who comes out on top?

But while I was at Riverside something happened to make the police and lawyers take me more seriously. They never told me what it was – the legal rules which govern evidence to be given in court meant that if they had done, whatever I said afterwards might not be admissible in court. I did pick up whispers and rumours about another girl he was suspected of abusing: maybe the simple fact of there being another potential victim prodded the legal system into taking account. Whatever the cause, Dad was arrested and charged with sexually abusing me throughout my childhood.

And what do you think went through my mind?

I think – and this is an educated guess – that your answer to that question depends on whether or not you yourself have been abused. Those of you lucky enough never to have endured the pain of sexual assaults by your own father will probably think that I was happy – pleased that at last that Dad was being made to account for what he’d done, and also that (if convicted) other children might be protected from him.

But those of you who have been in the same dark, desperate place as me; those of you who have known the complex mixture of emotions – betrayal and loyalty, loathing and yearning – will know that it’s rarely as straightforward as that. Of course I was glad that Dad was going to be tried. I’d lain awake enough nights, dreaming of the day when I got to face him in court and tell him – not to mention the people looking on, the people who should have protected me in the first place – how much he had hurt me. I knew, in those adolescent fantasies, that I would stand there strong and tall, an angry woman demanding justice – not just for herself but for all the other abused children who had suffered at the hands of their parents.

Yeah, right.

Because however pleased I was, however much I felt believed and, yes, relieved, he was still my dad. He was a bastard – frankly he was a complete and utter swine – but he was still my dad. And that meant he was my bastard, my swine. And I was going to bring him down. Weird as it sounds, I felt guilty.

On 26 January 1992 the case came to court – Middlesbrough court, the same court that, as I later discovered, had heard the first cases in the Cleveland child abuse crisis back in the 1980s and then turned its back on the children. It felt very strange to know that after such a long time, the 12 men and women sitting in the jury box would decide whether Dad was a brutal abuser or I was a shameless liar.

It also felt strange to have so many people suddenly paying me attention: however good Riverside had been for me, it was still a care home and I was only one of a number of young people living there. Now I found that I was being represented by a barrister and a solicitor, and a specialist gynaecologist had been retained to give evidence about the damage to my insides caused by the sexual abuse as well as by the knife that Dad liked to push inside me. On top of that, I had a child protection officer looking out for my interests and Mum, my brother and my sister were all there to support me. Even my step-mum was there, ready to speak out about what she had heard that night on the stairs.