What Daddy Did (15 page)

They were there for a good time.

I just sat there waiting in that little prison of a room. My room was long and narrow and my bed faced the door. On party days I sat there rigid. I sat in that bed in my vest and pants with my book under the mattress, and I waited until he came in.

Whoever he might be that day.

It was always the same ritual. I hear two sets of footsteps and see two shadows under my door. The man and Helen. Then my door opens just enough to let someone in, then the door closes. I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them close to me, and bury my head under the covers, just like I always do, but he always finds me. Whoever he is that day, he always finds me.

In my mind, in my adult mind, I can still hear the music and laughter. I can smell the smoke, and, as I feel I am back there with him approaching me all over again, there is the added smell of man. I'm not sure if I knew what that was back then, but the stink seems so powerful in my memory now.

In my head, I fall back into my childhood and I know that, depending on which man it is, things will happen. Different things for different men.

Man One likes to stroke my hair.

He sits on my bed and talks quietly to me. Does he think that this makes him a nice man? Maybe he thinks I'll like him if he uses the right words and right tone of voice. Then, perhaps, it will be easier for him to justify to himself what he is doing to me. This man tells me that I am so pretty. He tells me that over and over again. I know that he is lying because Helen tells me that I am an ugly little witch. Ugly. Pretty. I don't think it matters because I'll still hurt. So, this man lies to me some more, but even though he is still talking quietly, like nice men do, I can tell that he is getting annoyed. He wants things to hurry up so he pulls the covers off me. This man pokes at me and prods at me over and over again. He still says that I am a pretty little thing, but his voice is more hurried now and he is getting out of breath. He is touching himself and, although it is disgusting, I would rather that
he
touched his thing than make me do it.

He's talking all the time, saying the same words over and over again as his breath gets faster.

'Isn't that nice?' he says.

'Isn't that nice?'

No. No, it's not. He is still stroking my hair as much as he can with his free hand, but he is pushing my head. He is forcing it down to his thing, making me take it in my mouth while he shakes it until he's reached satisfaction. Then he stops. Smiles at me. 'Wasn't that nice?' he says as he moves towards the door.

Like all the others, he taps gently on the inside of my bedroom door and it is opened immediately for his exit. Someone has been waiting outside all of the time he has done those things to me. Was it Helen? I can hear a woman's voice and a woman's laughter. Has she been waiting there, listening?

Man Two doesn't like to talk at all. He comes into my room as I wait with my eyes closed on the bed and says nothing. He makes some noise, some low noise, while he gets on the bed beside me before pushing me down. He is a big man – everyone is big to me as I'm so little anyway – and he lies on top of me. This man tries to force his thing between my legs. He pushes and pushes and all of the time I'm nearly suffocating. He finally seems to manage. He gets what he wants, and all he does is grunt all the time. It hurts so much. All I want is for it to stop and for me to go to the loo. This man just leaves without even looking at me when he has finished. He taps on the door and exits. I'm left there, wondering if there will be more of them today. I can never relax, even when one of them has gone, because there can always be others. If I knew that there would be no-one else for the rest of the day, maybe I could read a little, but I never know when the door is going to open and Helen will let someone else in.

On some days, Man Three is in my room. He is a combination of Man One and Man Two. Sometimes he will talk to me, sometimes he won't – I don't think it makes any difference because they all do what they want anyway. Sometimes he pushes himself into me; sometimes he wants me to touch him; sometimes he touches himself while he says things. There are lots of these men – they blur into each other – but I recognise that some of them have particular things they want to do. To enjoy it more, I suppose. They have particular things they want to do that makes abusing a child better for them. Nicer.

Every time and with every man, I was terrified before and during the acts. Afterwards, I was just sad and sore. I felt dirty and horrible. I always welcomed them finishing their deed and then gently tapping on the inside of my bedroom door to be let out. When they left, I would curl up in a ball and cry and cry, wondering what I had done that was so bad.

WHAT KIND OF MAN SEEKS
sexual gratification from a child? Who are these people? I can guess that they are in some way inadequate; I can guess that they may claim they were abused as children – although, for me, that is one of the most shameful excuses to hide behind. I know that these men are 'normal'-looking men who often have families of their own.

There are many reasons and opinions about what makes a person a paedophile, but I want no excuses or justification. I know their methods and the damage they do. I feel that the most shocking part of my story is the fact that I was made available for these men – in my own bedroom, the place that should have been my haven – by the person who was supposed to take care of me and protect me.

On a few occasions at Helen's parties, I was made to stand in the bathroom and be belted over the bath while people watched my abuse, as if they were at a show. Did Helen sell tickets? I sometimes wondered. Did she profit from my horrors? I do wonder what she got out of it – was it all emotional and psychological? Perhaps she just hated me so much that she wanted me to suffer in every way imaginable, or perhaps she benefited financially. Did men pay her for the privilege of raping me? Sometimes I get a flashback of a moment, like a movie-clip in my mind. I know it is a memory of something that happened but it is almost as if I am removed from my own body, looking down or in on the situation. I know I don't want to look at this clip because it is too horrible, but, at the same time, I have no control over which memories come in and invade my thoughts.

One such flashback that has recurred over the years is a time in the bathroom of the house in Edina Place. I would have been around nine years old. I don't know what day or month it was, but I remember that it was cold and dull outside, and the rain was tapping on the window. There was no sun this day to warm the room slightly or cast the shadows that I liked. With the sun, there always came spots of light dancing across the room, and there would be an area beside the bath where I could stand and catch a bit of warmth on my shoulder. But there was no sun this day.

I stood with my hands by my sides as I had been told, in my underwear, and with nothing on my feet. I shifted one foot on top of the other, trying to warm one at a time, and I picked a scab on my leg to keep myself amused. I had a feeling that this was going to be a bad day because I had been sent in there first thing in the morning. My older half-sister had taken the other children out, maybe to the cinema if Helen had grudgingly given her the money. That's what was so worrying. If she'd made an investment to get rid of them, she'd want payback. From me.

Helen was really angry with me that day. She'd told me she'd be in to deal with me later. She was always threatening to 'deal with me', or give me the 'something' that was coming to me. I could hear her moving about, coming out of the living room now and again, walking in the hall or going into one of the other rooms. Every time I heard her footsteps and the noise of a door handle, my heart started racing and I shook with fear of her coming in.

Of course she did eventually open the door.

I cowered at the sight of her shape in the doorframe. Helen dragged me by the hair away from where I was standing and threw me into the lobby with a yell. 'Out, bastard!' she shouted at me before turning back in to use the loo herself. After she was finished, she opened the door and I was just as quickly thrown back in. She went into the living room and I heard her music going on. I was, by now, very worried because I had seen that she was 'dolled up': she had make-up on, her hair had been done, and one of her 'good' outfits had made an appearance. I knew all of that meant she was expecting company.

My stomach rumbled with hunger and the fear of what was to come as I went back to standing in position. It wasn't long before the doorbell rang three times. I heard Helen go down the lobby and open, first, the vestibule door, then the big front door to greet her guests. I heard all the voices saying hello to each other and doors closing, then I listened for the footsteps as they got closer. Closer and closer. I made out the shapes of four people through the frosted glass of the bathroom door as they all came into the lobby. One by one, they went into the living room and closed the door behind them. I heard the music – 'Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me' – and the sound of the partygoers opening cans of beer, talking all the while.

I took the opportunity to do two things at this point. The flurry of activity that accompanied the arrival of Helen's friends provided enough of a distraction for me to go for a pee and gulp down a mouthful of water from the tap at the sink by the door. I then sat on the edge of the bath for a few minutes to rest my legs, rubbing my thighs to try and warm them, as I strained my ears to make out the conversation coming from the living room. Most of it was indecipherable but, now and again, I made out the sound of the 'pet name' Helen used for me all the time – 'bastard'. I knew she would be bemoaning the fact that she had to be responsible for me, because I had heard it all before through the adjoining window between my bedroom and the living room. I heard them talking and laughing and I waited.

I can only try now, as an adult, to make sense of what kind of conversation they had in there that prompted the next act.

I heard the living room handle turn noisily. The voices got louder. I watched, shaking with abject fear, as the shapes approached the bathroom. The time had come for my punishment. I just wasn't sure what it was to be this time.

It happened very quickly, and I'm unsure what sparked it off. All of a sudden, Helen was there, standing in the doorway. Right behind her was a woman and two men. I recognised one of the men, but I'd never seen the other before, the one who wore glasses.

Helen stood there, looking down at me with hatred in her eyes. She had one hand on her left hip and the other was holding the tawse. The woman stood directly behind her, looking over her right shoulder at me. Immediately behind her were the two men. Every part of me was shaking as I looked at my stepmother, and tears started burning at the back of my eyes. I forced them back. I knew I couldn't let her see me cry.

'So, bastard,' she said to me, 'what have you got to say for yourself?'

I looked at her and really had no idea what she wanted me to say. All I could do was blurt out, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'

'I'm sorry?' she yelled back at me, then turned to look at her friends. 'Did you hear that?' she said to them. 'She's sorry! What are you?' she said, wanting to hear it again.

'I'm sorry,' I repeated.

Reaching out, she grabbed me by the right arm and, pulling it, she shouted in my face, 'And why is the little bastard sorry?'

'I'm sorry that I've been bad,' I said, because I knew that's what she expected and wanted to hear. At this, she forced me over the bath, pushing me down on the cold metal.