Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I (15 page)

Friday 16
February 1990

I spent part
of my Christmas holidays with Megan and Aunty Leah and some time with Mom.
Anthony is living with Mom now. But surprise, surprise! Mom doesn’t want me.
She says they don’t have enough money for both of us as well as their other
kids. I know they’re poor compared to Dad but it still really hurts to know
your own mother doesn’t want you.

This week they
are holding the proper court case. I’m not allowed to go. Mr Rogers has
interviewed me so many times now and he knows everything. He wrote it all down
in about a hundred pages of his big thick file. He says he’s so disgusted with
my father and his lawyer. He gets really angry when we talk about what my father
has done to me. He says I’ve been through enough and he doesn’t want me in
court.

In a way I’m
angry. There are so many things I didn’t say or ask my dad at the last hearing
and I’d like to tell him how I feel. I want to make sure he knows how much I suffered
when he was abusing me. Part of me wants to see him embarrassed in front of the
magistrate.  Mr Rogers says I have a right to be furious with Dad.  But I know
I’d just end up crying again and it wouldn’t work out.

 I still don’t
like thinking of him in jail, even though what he did to me was so vile.

Miriam says
I’ll probably have to go to a children’s home to live. She says it will be just
like boarding school but of course I won’t go home in the holidays. That’s a
relief. But what did I ever really do to Mom?

I spent last
weekend at Miriam’s house. She and her husband are very kind people.

Wednesday 21
February 1990

The court case
has been on this week but Miriam hasn’t been to see me. Megan said there was an
article in the paper, so I went downstairs to the lounge and borrowed both the
papers.  I’m going to stick them in here. I hope I don’t get into trouble for
cutting up the papers, but they are about me.

Dad gets 7
years for incest with daughter

“A 39 year-old
father of four stood in the dock blinking back tears as he was sentenced to
seven years imprisonment for committing incest with his daughter since the time
she was thirteen...he was sentenced by Mr  R Brownlee to a further three years
imprisonment suspended for five years and he was ordered to pay a large sum of
money towards the psychological rehabilitation of his daughter...

“….In passing
sentence the Magistrate told the convict it was tragic that his ‘uncontrollable
sexual lust had destroyed his own daughter and perhaps his whole family’….

“The
Magistrate recounted that a report read out to the Court described the girl,
now 15, as withdrawn, tearful, fearful, confused and angry about her father’s
actions. The report said she was in need of long-term therapy to repair the
damage done by the betrayal of her trust in her father…”

They called
his crime
“disgusting and heinous.”
Further down in the report they had
written something that made me mad, as they had the time frame wrong.  I read
it again. It was definitely incorrect!

“The
Magistrate told the man that if the abuse had begun a few months earlier when
his daughter was 12, he would have been convicted of rape. In that case, ‘I
would not have hesitated to impose the maximum sentence in my jurisdiction’...”
I
had
been twelve when it all started! It was before my thirteenth birthday. No-one
would ever forget their age, their rage, and their pain when it first happened.
But I was not in court to set the record straight and I guess Dad and his lawyer
were able to bend the truth and lie again.

The way the
magistrate – and therefore the law, differentiated the terms ‘rape’ and
‘incest’ based on age still enrages me. Dad got off far more lightly because
they must have convinced the court that I was thirteen when he began molesting
me! But even if I had been thirteen, how would that have made it less painful
for me?

Another paper
described the case, saying:

       “The
magistrate said the man had turned his daughter into a ‘psychological mess’
whose only salvation was in long-term psychological treatment. His attitude
towards the victim was simply heinous. An aggravating factor was the court’s
strong suspicion that the man intended to take the rest of the family overseas
and leave his daughter in South Africa.”

So, they
thought I was a psychological mess?

Well they were
right!

When Miriam
came to visit me after the case, I told her, distraughtly, “My friends at
school all laughed and said it served him right. But I feel so guilty.”

 “Jane,” she
patiently explained. “In life we have choices and all our choices have
consequences. Jail was the consequence of what your father did. He was a grown
man. He broke the law and harmed you.”

 “But why
jail? Seven years is a long time.”

“In law,
sentences are often meant to be harsh to deter people
–
to stop them doing crimes in the first place.”

“Did he know
this could happen?”

 “Of course! Jane,
he’s an educated, intelligent man. Let me re-read you something from the one
article in the paper
. ‘
An earlier psychological report of the convicted man’s
mental state said he was of ‘above average intelligence’, but suffered from an
‘anti-social personality disorder’ that caused mood swings, periodic violence
and his sexually deviant behaviour.’
  Do you know what that
means, Jane?”

“Not
entirely.”

 “Jane, your
father was interviewed by psychologists; these are highly educated men and
women who try to understand people’s behaviour. They have worked with many other
people like him. They said there was nothing wrong with your dad’s brain. It
wasn’t that he didn’t know he was doing wrong. He
did
know.
He just
didn’t care
. He knew the difference between right and wrong but he chose
wrong because it gave him pleasure. He had no right to have sex with you, not
ever. Not even if you liked it.…”

“But I didn’t
like it … I told him I felt bad and dirty and sore…”

“Exactly! But some
men are gentle and able to make it feel good for their victims. Even then, it’s
still power mongering and bullying and wrong. When he was doing it he didn’t
care what it was doing to you.
He
liked it! That is anti-social
behaviour, Jane.”

I nodded
numbly.

“Your Dad was
a married man with a wife. He should have fulfilled his sexual needs with his
wife, not his daughter. He knew that having sex with his daughter was illegal.
That’s why he lied to you and told you it was okay. That’s why he threatened
you and told you to keep it a secret. He
knew
he was committing a crime.
Sex with your child is against the law in almost every country in the world and
certainly in this country. 
No
man is allowed to force a girl into sex.
Ever! He chose to do the crime. Now he has to face the consequences. It’s not your
decision, Jane. It’s the law of the country and you’re not to blame.... The law
is there to protect people like you!”

“But if I
never told, he wouldn’t be in jail now. I broke my promise. So it
is
my
fault.”

“No Jane. It’s
never
the child’s fault. Children are taught to say ‘yes’ to adults.
They’re taught not to argue. Your Dad is much bigger than you. He hit you when
you didn’t listen. He beat you with a belt for trying to tell. He made you
promise to keep secrets that were wrong. Joanne was also wrong because she turned
a blind eye to it.”

“Now my
brother’s mad at me. Anthony phoned and shouted at me. He said I was a stupid
liar and now our Dad’s going to jail and it’s all my fault.”

 Miriam hugged
me and said, “No, Jane! No! Anthony wasn’t affected like you, but he’s also
hurting because he’s ashamed of having a Dad in jail and he feels sorry for
Dad. He thinks your Dad is innocent. His emotions are real and understandable
but he’s wrong. It’s not your fault.”

“He said I
should’ve kept my big mouth shut and nothing would have happened to Dad. He
said our family’s now all bust up because of me…”

“Lots of girls
do exactly that! They stay in the home and keep on getting abused because they’re
afraid of breaking up the family. But a family is only good if it’s protecting
the children, not if it’s abusing them. If this isn’t stopped now, your trauma
will just go on till you leave home and then he’ll probably start on one of
your little sisters. Or even your brother! That’s the pattern we see over and
over. You
had
to speak out Jane, first for your own sake but also for
your little sisters ... and for Anthony!”

The story isn’t over!

Look out for the conclusion to  this two-part story :

Redeemed

 Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part 2

Jane has broken out of the web of family abuse that was
destroying her but alone and unready to make her way in an adult world, she
finds herself drawn progressively deeper into the psychological torment of
self-harm.

Can Jane rise from the ashes of hatred and despair? Can she
ever learn to forgive, to love herself or to trust again? And is the handsome
stranger who buys her a drink someone to beware of – or befriend?

The satisfying conclusion to this two-part story of betrayal,
love, and redemption will keep you turning the pages as you will Jane on
towards  that  second chance.

Read an excerpt from Redeemed now.

“The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down…

and sustains the fatherless…

but he frustrates the ways of the wicked”.

Psalm 146: 8, 9

Tuesday 13
November 1990

It’s hard to
believe I’ve already been at Mill Park High and living in Sun Valley Children’s
Home nearly a year. Sun Valley is a lot like the boarding school hostel but not
as nice. The paint is older and the school is not as smart as St Catherine’s.

     I’ve made
some friends here and we also have house parents and boarder masters but there
are a lot of strange things going on in this place.

 I’ve seen
kids, (well teenagers actually), sleeping together. Of course it’s against the
rules but they still do it. Then I found out that even one of our hostel
masters, Mr Lang (the one I fancied and kissed once) – was sleeping with three
of the girls in the dorm upstairs!!! (Not all at the same time).  Our house
parents, Uncle John and Aunty Maureen found out too. The girls were in terrible
trouble and of course Mr Lang was fired.  One of the girls, Sunette, tried to
kill herself using pills. She was in hospital for ages.

 Everybody
here in the home is confused and hurting. Some of the other girls have also
been abused or deserted by their families. One girl, Kay uses weird make-up and
dresses in black with chains. She’s cut her wrists and taken overdoses. I think
her cutting is also to vent the anger and clean the dirt. I don’t think she
really wants to die although everyone else thinks it’s attempted suicide. She
needs a lot of help.

Taking an
overdose like Sunette is pretty stupid. No-one here feels sorry for you. They
laugh and say, “Next time, do it properly.”

Mrs Byrne, my
psychologist says I have to make a pact with myself to stop hurting myself. She
just doesn’t get it!  I only do it when I get really angry – like when I’ve had
a session with her and she’s forced me to think all over again about Dad.
Afterwards I want to scratch my hands or cut my legs with the razor. Or I hit
my head on the wall or pull my hair. The blood and sharp pain help me feel
better. Sometimes I just want to punish myself. It’s like – well – everyone
else hurts you so why can’t you hurt yourself? I know it sounds crazy but it
seems to release the tension or anger and provides a temporary relief from the
emotional pain. I often stop myself but now and again I just have to do it.
Then of course it’s followed by guilt and that can trigger a vicious circle.

Miriam told me
my lawyer made a civil case against my Dad. Mr Rogers sued for damages and won.
She said she thinks it’s the first time it has happened in this country and
will lead the way for many other victims to sue the perpetrator.  The result
was that my Dad had to pay the courts a pile of money for my psychological
treatment to help me get over what he did to me. Miriam thinks he offered it in
the hope of getting a lighter sentence, but anyway, she said it’s an important
landmark in legal history.

There have
been other improvements too like not nearly as many tears these days. I’m now
sixteen – not really a kid anymore – though in many ways I still feel like one,
but I have to grow up. As Miriam says, I’m on my own now – my parents are not
around to tell me what to do and I have to make my own choices in life.

I have a
friend from my new school called Debbie Barker. Her parents have become my host
parents. I’m permitted to go to the Barkers’ farm at weekends and it’s so
pretty there. We get to ride the horses – although I’ll never be good like
Wendy (my hero from when I was young).  I’m actually very nervous of horses.
But Debbie’s dad keeps mine on a lead-rein and that helps. We also ride an old
motor-bike on the farm (which I prefer) and we occasionally get to drive the
tractor. Riding the bike sometimes reminds me of when I was younger – and then
I miss my brother, but that’s in the past.

Debbie has two
younger sisters. They’re a very nice family and they go to a small church near
their farm. I do still pray but not as much as before.  If I go to church with
them I feel better, but I’m not sure God’s that interested in me. I still feel
so full of sin.

When I’m with
the Barkers, I want so badly to be rid of my past and to live for Jesus but I’m
not sure how. I know I called on Him all the time when I was being troubled by
my dad but now…I’m confused. I guess in some ways I still blame God for my
horrible childhood. I suppose that’s wrong of me and I guess God might punish
me. I don’t know.  

Wednesday 13
February 1991

Guess what? I
have a boyfriend now. We are in the same school.  Isn’t that exciting! His name
is Tyler Armstrong, Ty for short.  He’s a year older than me. I’m going out to
visit with his family this weekend. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I’ve bought
him a card and chocolates and a Brut spray deo. It smells so good.  I’ll save
the ‘prezzies’ for when I see him at the weekend.

That Friday
after school, Tyler came with his mother to collect me from the home. I
remember dressing up in jeans, a pale pink floral tee-shirt and a pink necklace
and matching ear-rings that Miriam had given me for my birthday in November. I felt
pretty and feminine and my pink top looked good against my tanned skin.

I tucked the
valentine gift into my barrel bag to give Tyler at home. My heart beat slightly
faster as I walked out to the car. I hadn’t met his parents before and I was to
spend a whole weekend with the family. What if they didn’t like me?

I needn’t have
worried. Their pale yellow house, decked with climbing purple trumpet flowers
and cascading marmalade bushes was as welcoming as they were and I immediately
fell in love with Hannah, their brown and white springer spaniel. She looked at
me with doe eyes and licked me with a soppy pink tongue so the love affair was
mutual.

Mrs Armstrong
had made up the guest room for me with ‘girl-colours’ and on the dressing table
was a new box of tissues and lavender soap, a chocolate bar and a small vase of
assorted flowers from the garden. I was overwhelmed by the unfamiliar soft
feminine touch and the feeling of being welcome somewhere.

We had the
most delicious roast meal and a pudding that made me wish I was a big eater. Ty’s
family chattered easily, laughed at our stories about school and listened to some
of my tales from the children’s home.

Whenever I
looked at Tyler, he smiled at me and that night after supper I gave him his
gifts. He kissed me very lightly on my lips and gave me a small bottle of
Babe
,
his favourite fragrance.

 Later, Mrs
Armstrong hugged me when she said goodnight and I recall thanking God as I
drifted into dreamland. 

The Armstrong
home proved to be a sanctuary for me over the years that followed, and
eventually they even became known to me as ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ Armstrong. Tyler was
the only child they still had at home. Their elder son, Keagan, was studying
for his Master’s degree in
Jakarta and they
had lost a
daughter, pre-birth, somewhere between the two boys. I often wondered if losing
her was the reason they showered me with so much love, or whether it was just
because of the people they were.

Monday 11
March 1991

Sometimes the
ways of the social services are difficult to work out. The counselling team,
who are responsible for my recovery, have decided it is time for me to visit my
father in prison.

They said, “It
will be good for your healing!” I don’t understand how they think it will help.
Miriam doesn’t seem in favour of the visit. I told them I now understand fully
that he was the perpetrator and that I was the victim. I’m no longer fooled by
his lies or his old declarations of love and I no longer have to listen to any
of his decisions. But they insist I must go and see him.

I’m so
nervous. What do you wear to prison? I need to dress in a way that shows him
I’m mature and coping fine; that I’m well despite everything he did to me.

I finally
decided to wear a smartly tailored red dress that Debbie’s mom had bought for
me. It was the only formal dress I owned. It made me look and feel more
sophisticated and older than I was. I applied a little make-up with severely
unsteady hands.

Although the
psychologists had decided on the visit to my father, it was Miriam who took me
there, as she was my social work case officer. We drove through intimidating
gates and I looked up at a large number of brown brick buildings. Imposing and
austere, they glared back at me. Iron gates, red brick walls mounted with
sirens and barbed wire surrounded the place.

As we stepped
from the car, my confidence crumbled.

“Miriam I’m
scared. I don’t think I want to do this. Why do I have to see him? Can’t we
rather just go home? ”

“Mrs Byrne and
the team think you need to see him, Jane. To be able to deal with the past and
to walk on into the future, she says it’s vital that you confront him... to see
he’s no longer in control of you. She also thinks it’s important to help you
accept that he’s being punished fairly. It will help you to believe that you
were not the person in the wrong.”

“I already
know that! I’ve been told so many times.”

“I understand,
but this is what Mrs Byrne says we need to do.” 

“What if he’s
angry and hits me?”

“He won’t be
able to. There’ll be people there to watch.”

“What if he
won’t speak to me?”

“He will. The
prison psychologist says he’s a changed man. He says your father has realised
his wrongs and he’s sorry. He said your father wanted to see you some time back
but Mrs Byrne refused because he was still trying to be in control. She said
you’d see him in
your
time, not his.”

I wasn’t
convinced that this was ‘in my time’ - since I didn’t want to be there - but I
had to do what Mrs Byrne said.

Our heels clicked
against the stone floor as we entered a dank foyer. Miriam addressed someone
through a security window. The official directed us to ‘Block C’.

There we were
met by a second prison official, a stern-faced man in a green-brown uniform. He
asked Miriam the purpose of the visit and we had to sign a large, grubby book.  “The
prisoner will be taken to a room where his daughter will meet him,” he told
Miriam without looking at me.

We were led through
more doors and gates and corridors. Beyond was a long passage that first sloped
down then up like a hill. “That’s for security,” whispered Miriam as another
large gate was opened. In the distance I heard muffled shouts like people
playing a ball game.  I shivered as I heard the gate clank. Suddenly we were
locked inside that dark, scary place.

We were taken
to a bare room with a table and chairs and waited. I thought about a letter I’d
written to my father in jail. I told him I was sorry and that I loved him. I
had to write it or the guilt would have consumed me. I wondered if he’d forgiven
me for sending him to prison.

When they
brought him into that room I looked at his green prison shirt and trousers; no
longer the smartly-dressed businessman. My heart raced as I faced him and
looked into those blue eyes. An awkward tension gripped my throat and
constricted my breathing. I wanted desperately to run and hide. On the other
side of the room was his warden, unsmiling, just standing and watching us. Did
he have to be there to listen?

Dad looked
okay and I tried to tell myself to relax but I was really afraid of being in
the same room as him now.  He stared at me and I looked at Miriam for comfort
and strength.

At last he
spoke. “Hello Jane.”

 He wasn’t
warm – but had he ever been?

“Dad?” my
throat closed completely and the tears began to well up.

He hugged me
and I clung to him. Then I released myself, totally confused by this paradoxical
situation. How was it possible to love and hate the same person so much at the
same time?

 We talked
about superficial things. I found out that he had set meal times, rules, things
he could and couldn’t do. There were places he could and couldn’t go and he had
no friends and no family. He was lonely.

Then I thought
about my own circumstances. I was now banished to a children’s home where I was
also ruled by a bell. There were rules and regulations, set meal times, places I
could and couldn’t go. I also had no family and until recently, no real
friends. His prison – my prison – what was the difference?

Time was
moving on and I needed to ask him
The Question
. The one that had been
plaguing me – the one I didn’t get to ask in court. I
needed
to hear him
admit guilt and apologise from his heart.    

Quivering inside
I tried. “Why did you do it to me Dad? Why did you use me for your pleasure
when you knew it was wrong?”

“I loved you
Jane. I always told you I loved you. Don’t you remember me telling you I loved
you…that you were my special girl?”