Living With Evil (11 page)

I often heard thumps and thuds and slaps and smacks when I was lying in bed at night. Mammy cursed and cried, and

Daddy spat and swore while I covered my head under a blanket, praying hard for them to stop.

Wherever I slept, I felt afraid. And it was even worse when Mammy and Daddy had a big row.

That night, I started to tremble when Daddy climbed into bed with me.

I knew he was in a filthy mood, because I’d heard him swearing and cursing at Mammy really badly, so what would happen when he came upstairs tonight?

When I heard the bedroom door open I started gasping for air, as if someone was choking me. I clasped my hands round my body and felt my fingers shaking against my skin.

I was petrified. Something horrible was going to happen. I just knew it. Stay calm, I told myself, over and over again, as I heard him carry out his familiar routine.

The toilet bucket splashed and stank, the belt and zip of his trousers chinked open and his clothes tumbled to the floor. He coughed and spat, and he took a step closer to the bed. I could hear his breathing getting nearer.

Every second brought new fear. My blood was boiling in my head, pulsating around my sore eye.

Daddy was in the bed now, and I braced my spine, expecting him to pull in behind me.

To my horror, he pulled me towards him angrily, turning me to face him as he did so. His jagged fingernails dug into the tops of my arms and I gasped in pain.

It was very black in the room, and I stared into the darkness in silence, waiting to see what would happen next.

I felt sick as Daddy started rubbing me with his body again, like he had done before.

He seemed to be brimming with rage. He was moving his bare body very quickly up and down in front of me. Instead of slamming my eyes shut like I normally did, I stared out desperately into the blackness, looking for clues.

His face was right in front of mine, but he seemed to look straight through me. I couldn’t work out what part of his body was in front of me now.

Daddy’s breathing was somewhere above my head, and some strange part of him was touching my cheek. It smelled horrible, and I snapped my face away in horror. I didn’t want him that close to me, but he was pushing right into my face.

I wanted to shout out and beg him to stop, but I was petrified of making a noise and angering him more. I was afraid of opening my mouth, but it was no use. Daddy was forcing it open, and somehow he was pushing part of himself inside.

I turned my head desperately, trying to avoid him, but Daddy was very strong and I couldn’t get away. I felt something spill on the sides of my mouth. It freaked me out completely. My stomach somersaulted and I retched.

This felt all wrong, but Daddy seemed to be very calm now. He had already pushed himself away and was breathing deeply, like he was in a nice sleep. I was shaking with fright, but I also felt very relieved that Daddy had settled down and left me alone.

Was he supposed to do that to me? I really wasn’t sure, and I lay there for a very long time thinking about it, wishing I didn’t have that horrible taste in my mouth.

And so it continued. Again and again I was forced to sleep next to Daddy. As night after night ended in the same routine, I wondered why he was doing it, and whether Mammy knew anything about it.

Now I knew all too well that a sleep in the big bed meant more bad things, so whenever Mammy said: ‘Cynthia - you’re to sleep in the double bed tonight,’ my stomach knotted up tightly. I knew I was in for a night of terror, a night of Daddy doing things I didn’t like and didn’t understand.

I would lie there afraid, trying to pretend to be asleep. My mind started to race. I really hoped Daddy wouldn’t touch my mouth again. It made me feel so sick and scared, and I felt dirty and horrible afterwards.

I hoped he wouldn’t do anything to me. It was all terrifying. My mind would flick around, remembering everything he had done, all at once, and all my memories would tumble into one big pot of wet sludge that milled about inside my skull.

Mammy had started giving me some of her cider. I wondered why, because she loved her cider so much. ‘Here you go, Cynthia, take a big long drink of this before you get in the double bed tonight.’ I didn’t like the strong appley taste, but I didn’t want to upset Mammy and waste any. ‘Drink it all up!’ she ordered, so I did.

It felt as though the liquid was slopping about inside my skull, and my brain was swimming, lots of scary memories colliding inside.

He had started to do so many new things that hurt and frightened me. Every night, I went to bed and prayed for sleep to come and rescue me from the horror that was in store. But it never did.

Instead, I listened out for his footsteps on the stairs, the sound that signalled the beginning of another night of fear and confusion. It was the darkness that really did it. In the pitch black of the room, the things he did to me burned into my brain.

I am not sure exactly how long it was after he’d done that thing to my mouth, but Daddy had started to make me touch his body. I remembered him pushing my hand down in between his legs. It felt so disgusting I started to cry.

He tried to wrap my fingers around him, but they were too small and I struggled. The more I struggled the harder he pushed my hand down. My fingers felt so tiny. I was sure I shouldn’t be touching him there. Mammy told me ‘private parts’ were filthy and dirty. Daddy was trying to make me rub him, the way he rubbed himself up and down my back and around my mouth. Please stop, Daddy. I wanted to say it, but how would he react? I wasn’t brave enough to speak.

Mammy had given me a lot of cider and it had made me sleepy, even though I still hadn’t managed to sleep. I remembered that my head was aching when Daddy got into bed. I didn’t move. I just had to lie there and wait and see what he would do next.

I wanted to push him away, but I felt too weak and too scared. I wanted to scream out with the pain when he touched me. His big hands reached down between my legs.

I sobbed silently. I tried to wedge my thighs together tightly, ramming my kneecaps against one another until they ached, but I could feel Daddy’s fingernails scratching my skin, pulling them apart.

He touched me in my private parts. It made me feel dirty and embarrassed.

Why did Daddy want to touch me there if it was a filthy part of my body? His fingernails dug deeply. Everything felt dirty. But the pain was the worst thing. What was causing so much pain? His fingers were clawing at me, digging into me and hurting me. Please stop, Daddy.

It was only a few days later, a week perhaps, that everything changed again. I was lying in bed, wondering as I always seemed to be these days, what Daddy was going to do to me tonight.

I could hear Mammy’s muffled voice downstairs, punctuated by regular pauses when she drained her glass or dragged on a cigarette.

I prayed silently that maybe, just this once, she would come to bed before Daddy came home from the pub and protect me. Deep down, though, I knew that wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t sure if Mammy knew what Daddy did in bed, but I knew for sure that she never protected me or did anything nice for me at all.

The steady rhythm of her voice and the distant strains of country and western music on the radio went on for what seemed like hours. She wasn’t coming to bed any time soon.

I tried to calm myself down. Maybe the things Daddy did to me were all part of growing up after all. But I just wanted to be like all my other friends.

They all seemed so happy and normal compared to me, but I just knew I could never be normal. I’d already worked out not to hope for things to get better, because they just got worse. There was no point kidding myself. I couldn’t imagine ever being happy. I was used to being beaten and insulted, used to Mammy’s casual slaps and kicks for no reason and I never knew what I had done to deserve it. I had stopped trying to work it out.

I was dragged out of my thoughts by the familiar sound of Daddy’s key in the door. My stomach lurched. I tried to wrap myself in the thick, smelly blanket, hugging it tight around me.

It stank of smoke and scratched my face, but it was my only protection. Maybe Daddy would leave me alone if he saw I was tucked up snugly, asleep? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.

I clamped my eyes shut, so hard that I had dark shapes swimming around in front of them and they ached. But no amount of pretence was going to save me; as soon as I heard his footsteps, one by one on the stairs, I knew tonight would be like every other night. He hadn’t stopped to speak to Mammy, which could be good or could be bad. There was never any way of telling.

As each step got louder, his old leather shoes slapping on the thin grey lino, my heart beat louder inside my chest. I thought I would explode.

Now I could feel him next to the bed, breathing heavily as he took off his clothes.

I heard that clink of his belt buckle as it hit the floor and then he got into bed behind me, snatching my blanket roughly off me and tossing it over us both.

A cold blast of air whipped across my curled-up body and I shuddered, still trying to pretend to be deep in sleep even though my body was rigid with terror and he was trying to unfold me.

I felt the heat of Daddy’s breath on the back of my neck as he pulled himself in close behind me, and the familiar stench of stale beer and pungent sweat started to suffocate me.

I knew something horrible was about to happen, and a little voice inside my head started screaming as my breathing got quicker with fear. Next I felt Daddy’s clammy hands clamp around my stomach. I held my breath as he wrenched me back sharply towards him.

Suddenly the pain was so excruciating I almost passed out. My body felt like it was being slit open with a razor-sharp knife.

‘No, Daddy, no! Please, Daddy, no!’ I stuttered.

It was the first time I had ever broken the silence while he was touching me, but he didn’t seem to hear me, and he didn’t stop. It was like I wasn’t actually there.

I didn’t know what he was doing to cause me so much pain - why would I? My head felt foggy, as if I was only half conscious, and the pain was now so bad I thought this must be what it is like just before you die.

‘No, Daddy, no! Please, Daddy, no. Please stop,’ I begged, whimpering like a wounded animal.

He carried on in silence, getting rougher.

The pain was worse than anything I had experienced in my life before, and then a wave of sickness and panic washed over me as my eight-year-old brain worked out what was causing it.

He was inside me! I could feel him moving backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. I realized he had entered my back passage. I froze.

He held my thin body tight and kept stabbing and stabbing at me. My bottom burned and the pain shot up through my whole body, right up from my toes to my eyelashes. My head was throbbing. Eventually he shoved me away from him, like I was a rag doll. I held my breath, not daring to move until he fell asleep. Finally, I heard his snores, and tried to muffle the sound of my choking tears, careful not to wake him in case it started all over again.

Christmas was coming.

Daddy’s friends gave him big pieces of ham, a turkey and bundles of coal to bring home. There was so much beer and sherry and cider stacked up in the kitchen you could hardly move.

‘This is for your mammy!’ the men said when they brought their deliveries to the back door.

The house felt warmer than usual. We had tinsel round the picture frames and cards on the mantelpiece, and whenever I heard Mammy whispering I hoped it was all about the presents we might get, rather than secrets we had to keep. I wondered if Christmas might change things, but I didn’t really believe it.

Daddy slept in the bed with me every night now. I’d given up trying to imagine it might be part of growing up that would end any day soon, and I certainly didn’t think it was any sort of privilege or special treatment any more, because he hurt me so very much. It felt so wrong. And I couldn’t tell anybody about it, because I wasn’t sure what to say and I didn’t want to get into any more trouble. I didn’t want Mammy to shout or hit me. I didn’t want her to fight with Daddy any more than she already did, so I didn’t say a word.

I dreaded going to bed more than ever. Every step I took up the stairs each night felt like a step towards a cold, dark dungeon. What torture would there be tonight? How much would it hurt? Or would Daddy leave me alone? Maybe he would go to sleep, and when we woke up the next day the nightmare would have all ended. But I didn’t hold out much hope.

One night, after an evening carol service at school, Mammy gave me more cider than usual. ‘Go on, Cynthia, drink the whole tumbler down! It’ll help you sleep!’ I’d been complaining about my itchy head and the bites on my arms and legs. I’d told Mammy I had trouble sleeping because the itching kept me awake. I wanted her to know I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t tell her the main reason, the big reason.