Can't Anyone Help Me? (19 page)

But I found – in my village and the one nearby, where nice, well-dressed young businessmen lived – there was indeed no shortage of men who would pay for sex with a girl of my age.

‘How old are you?’ they would ask.

I always added on a year to my age. ‘Thirteen,’ I told them. Thanks to the activities of a certain film director, thirteen, while not legal, drew the line between having sex with an underage girl and being a pervert who ogled children.

In their eyes I was a bit of naughtiness. To be fair, all of them were nice enough to me. No one asked for more than a hump in the missionary position. In first-time buyers’ semi-detached and more affluent detached homes, when respectable young matrons and happy young mothers were out at PTA meetings, work or some charity event, I took off my clothes, lay down on their marital beds and spread my legs for their husbands.

They fantasized that I was into older men and that they were actually helping me avoid the clumsy embraces of inexperienced boys. They wanted to believe I was an innocent who should be allowed to learn the mysteries of sex from a skilled lover. Which, of course, they all imagined themselves to be, even the ones who had finished before I had counted the swirls on the ceiling, the roses on the wallpaper or whatever else I did to occupy my mind.

The money was just a small present, not a payment at all.

Well, they could believe what they liked. I wanted that jacket and, before the weather had turned much colder, I had it – plus a little store of notes for booze and dope.

‘Birthday present,’ I said to the shop assistant, as I chose the smallest jacket in the shop that would hang on my slight form.

Wicked, I thought, as I preened in front of the mirror. No other girl in the group has got one of these. I applied some makeup and, with a cigarette hanging out of my lipsticked mouth and a small wad of cash to buy what I considered essentials tucked firmly into my pocket, I sauntered into the coffee shop.

Being young, I had never given any thought to what those friends’ lives were really like. I had no curiosity about how they lived during the hours I didn’t see them or even once wondered about their dreams and ambitions. If I had given them more thought I might have seen that I had what they wanted, nice clothes and pocket money, for they didn’t know how I came about my funds. However bad I had told them my home life was, they didn’t see that my future would be the same as theirs: to live in the same dreary conditions as their parents.

I knew I had made a mistake when I saw the expressions on their faces. Instead of the admiration I had expected, there were sour looks.

‘Where did you get that?’ Cathy asked petulantly. ‘Daddy bought it for you, did he?’

I knew some quick thinking was needed before I alienated them, but the truth was out of the question. ‘Naw,’ I said, with a mocking laugh I managed to conjure up. ‘Don’t be stupid. I nicked it. Said I was buying my boyfriend a wallet and when she was looking for one out the back, I stuffed this under my duffel coat.’ They believed me, and I watched with relief as the disgruntled expressions turned to admiration.

But what did I really feel about the way I’d got that money?

It was certainly not what those men imagined when I was undressed and on a bed with them. I was angry – a white-hot anger – with my parents for never having noticed what was wrong with me, with my teachers for trying to understand but not seeing what was right in front of their noses, and with the experts, who told me I should be grateful for having so much.

That was what I felt – that and a growing hatred for all those men who lied to their wives, to me and to themselves.

But the hatred for them was nothing compared to the hatred I felt for myself.

The euphoria of being free, of being independent and what I thought was in control, did not last long. To begin with, I had waves of depression that continued until I was able to smoke a joint.

My nightmares grew worse, and in the morning when I looked in the mirror I felt that no one was there, just a blank white face staring out. There were days when my heart raced and my hands perspired and I woke filled with a nameless dread. Noise frightened me – the roar of traffic or the beeping of horns felt like an aggressive attack on my senses. When I had to pass people in the street I would duck my head and scurry by. Was it that I was scared of seeing one of my uncle’s friends or, even worse, feel one of them, hidden in a doorway, watching my movements? I think it was. However much I tried to push their faces to the back of my mind, their images appeared as though they were burnt on to my retinas. My parents and the teachers thought that my blank looks when they spoke to me were just another show of defiance. But that wasn’t it. It was just that I couldn’t understand them. I would see mouths moving but I was unable to grasp the words they uttered and put them in order.

My problem with food came back, but this time it was even more severe. This time I wanted nothing inside me. I wanted to be empty, to make myself clean. The moment I could get away from the table, I put my fingers down my throat, and when I retched, I kept them there until my throat burnt with the rush of vomit that splattered into the lavatory bowl. I forced myself to bring up everything that was in my stomach and kept my fingers there until only bile remained.

The only release I found came from the razors I hid in my room and the burns I inflicted on myself. When I couldn’t find any candles, I would take my mother’s curling tongs and plug them in; heated, I would hold them against the tender flesh under my upper arms.

The pain told me I existed, that the white face in the mirror was mine, and that I was alive. But it did not make me like myself.

The only time I thought I was happy was when I was able to drag down the smoke from a joint. Lying against a cushion in a friend’s flat, standing in a shadowy corner, or on my own in a field as I blew it out through my nose, I would dreamily watch the curls of smoke drifting in the air as I felt my body relax.

But smoking dope created a paradoxical situation for a bulimic. Those indescribable munchies made me delve into the fridge at all hours. I would gobble down thick sandwiches stuffed with cheese and ham or whatever else I could find. Then, still not satisfied, my hands would reach for a dish of creamy dessert or I filled my mouth with bars of chocolate I had hidden in my room. Of course, later my fingers were again down my throat as I made myself throw up everything I had eaten.

‘Don’t you get enough at mealtimes?’ my mother commented, when she saw the gaps in the fridge. ‘Ah, well, I suppose you’re growing. You’re just like your brother was at this age,’ she would say grudgingly, as she looked with some bewilderment at my slight form.

At mealtimes, I tried to hide the fact that I could hardly bear the sight of food. I would push it round my plate, then, seeing my mother’s eyes on me, force myself to place it in my mouth. That lump in my throat would stop it sliding down easily and I would feel it turning to mush. The knowledge that once the meal was over I could rid myself of it behind a locked bathroom door stopped me gagging.

There were even days when, having managed to take my bike out and roll a joint with recently purchased dope, I was able to eat everything that was put in front of me. On some occasions I even asked for more. ‘Good to see you eating,’ my mother would say.

I grew thinner over those months when I was relishing what I thought of as my freedom. At first it was put down to my age, and that I should be growing fast, even though I never did pass the five-foot-two mark. I liked being thin. I liked the way my clothes hung on me. I didn’t want chunky thighs like Cathy’s. More importantly, I didn’t want food inside me. The thought of it horrified me. Large chunks of flesh, cream and cheese slowly turning to dirt. That was what made me place those fingers down my throat and vomit until there was nothing left. I suppose the drug I smoked kept me from wasting away. Some of the food from my binges must have managed to cling on so that, although I didn’t grow fat, I didn’t spiral down to skin and bones.

It’s a pity I couldn’t have explained that to the adult world when they found out about my drug habit. But when my parents did, they were certainly not in the mood to appreciate that particular benefit. That came later, after they decided I was ill. The words ‘drugs’ and ‘bulimia’ were not said. After all, twelve-year-old girls were not bulimic, were they? Maybe fussy eaters, but not bulimic. Neither did they take drugs – at least, not in our nice area. Nor were they suffering emotionally because of something the adult world had done to them.

They found out differently just before Christmas but the fact that I was ill was not admitted until the festivities were over.

The incident that had me admitted to hospital did not occur out of the blue. For several weeks, if not longer, I had been leading up to it. The black fog of depression had invaded my mind to the extent that even my parents were forced to notice. The darkness had lasted for several weeks before I finally admitted I needed help.

My parents first realized that something was really wrong and that things were coming to a head after I was brought home late one night.

My eyes felt glued together the following morning when I woke to a crashing headache and the salty taste of unbrushed teeth and stale alcohol. My sleep had been restless, my dreams chaotic, leaving the lingering fear that never seemed far away, and a blurred memory of the previous night’s events. Gradually small pieces of the jigsaw floated into my mind. I remembered that I had mixed vodka, cheap cider and marijuana. I had wanted to make the world look different. Then what had happened? There was a blank where a memory should have been. How had I got back to my uncle’s house? Had I stumbled back on foot or had someone given me a lift? A dim picture of Dave pulling me out of the flat I was in slipped into my mind. A group of us had been there, sitting around with dirty chipped glasses in our hands, bottles of drink all over the table and the floor, music blaring. Suddenly he had burst in.

I lifted my head off the pillow and, feeling too fragile to sit up, put my hands over my eyes. I tried to concentrate. The thin layer of dust that covered my memories lifted and, bit by bit, it all came back to me.

That week I had been more depressed than usual. If the start of winter with its run-up to Christmas was difficult to handle, then those days when it was just in front of me were worse. The day after school had broken up for the Christmas holidays, I had gone to where my uncle lived. None of the thoughts wandering through my head were happy ones when I had let myself into his house. On our own, he and I made no pretence of friendliness. On Christmas Day, though, when he and my aunt came to stay at my parents’ house, I knew I had to slip back into the act that everyone thought was normal. The thought of having to give the expected kiss when I received my present, wish him a happy Christmas and pull crackers at the table, as though we were one big happy family, churned my stomach and made me feel nauseous.

That day, unable to stand my own company or his, I had wandered into town, trying to shake off my blues. It was full of people doing last-minute shopping. The shops had already started their sales. The supermarkets were open until late, carols blasted out through speakers arranged around a huge Christmas tree, and the moment dusk fell, the streets sparkled with hundreds of twinkling lights.

Young couples, engrossed in each other, their arms filled with packages, passed me, laughing. Women weighed down with brightly coloured shopping bags queued at the taxi rank. Sitting on a nearby bench, the older generation of the habitually unemployed, their brown teeth showing in what passed for a smile, drank cheap liquor out of bottles hidden in brown-paper bags. With the confidence of the inebriated, they called, ‘Happy Christmas,’ to everyone in earshot and looked vaguely indignant when no one returned their greetings.

All around me there was so much cheer and goodwill that it pulled me down even further.

I went into a shop that sold clothes, makeup and a variety of cassettes. Music and a new lipstick will set me right, I thought, as I walked in, only to find myself facing another huge artificial fir tree covered with silver bells and tinsel. By it sat a fat man with a false beard wearing a red suit that strained across his stomach. ‘Fucking Santa,’ I muttered, under my breath, as I watched rosy-cheeked children being given presents while their well-groomed mothers stood watching indulgently. ‘Bet he’s a sodding paedo,’ I said to myself, as I glared sullenly at the happy scene.

But, then, that thought was never far from my mind. I used to wonder when I looked at men I saw on buses, sitting in coffee bars with their family or just walking along the street which of them abused children. I felt that every day I must have seen one but not recognized him. I knew better than anyone that a paedophile is not a seedy man in a dirty raincoat, with greasy hair and the shifty eyes that warn us to stay clear.

Paedophiles sit next to us on the bus, serve us in shops, teach children and work in banks. They look no different from the man next door and sometimes, of course, that is exactly who they are.

If I was honest with myself, I would have said envy was making me miserable. Everyone I saw looked happy, and I felt a seed of resentment germinating inside me. I wanted what they had: friends and parents who cared – and an uncle who was just that. I thought of going to the café and having coffee but I knew I would be sitting on my own, something I didn’t want to do.