Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘You’re not my daughter,’ he replied huskily, his eyes gleaming with lust.

  For a second he loosened his hold, fumbling at his trousers. Like a shot Georgia was off running towards the door.

  He caught her in a flying tackle, knocking her down in the open doorway, flat on her face, then leapt on top of her.

  ‘Don’t, Daddy,’ she screamed, still in her heart thinking he was playing some sick, drunken joke which had got out of hand. ‘Let me go!’

  But she was trapped now. She couldn’t reach him with her nails or fists, and she could feel his erect penis against her leg, his fingers tearing at her panties.

  She was trapped, so terrified she felt paralysed, yet she waited a second, assuming he must turn her on to her back, ready to lash out at him the moment he did.

  Instead he yanked her hips up towards him and thrust himself into her like a dog.

  The pain was so bad her scream turned from one of terror to anguish. He caught hold of her arms by the elbow, digging his fingers into the soft flesh. Her forehead hit the floor and the force of his thrusting movements grated it on the cord carpet.

  Again and again she tried to get away, but each time he got a firmer grip, first her arms, then holding her pubic hair with one hand, the other holding her shoulder. His breath burning into her back.

  ‘Daddy, no. Pleease don’t.’ She couldn’t even scream any longer. Just a pleading, tormented cry and all the while she could hear him grunting out dirty filthy things that hurt her even more than the pain of being torn in two.

  He went slack suddenly.

  One moment the hideous grunting noise filled her ears, the next all she could hear was her own sobbing. A draft of cold air on her legs and buttocks, alerted her that he had rolled off.

  For a second she just lay there, face embedded in the carpet, too stunned to move. A groan made her lift her head.

  He was lying next to her on his back, eyes closed, his mouth gaping, a trickle of saliva running down his chin.

  Georgia moved then, recoiling in horror as if waking to find a snake beside her.

  First crawling on her knees, then as her hand came in contact with the wall, she pulled herself up, backing away, clapping her hand over her mouth as the full enormity of what had happened hit her.

  He was just lying there. A crumpled, blank face the colour of raw meat. Shirt open to the waist, white flaccid chest with a sprinkling of gingery hairs. Trousers unzipped, flabby stomach oozing out, his penis like some spent reptile, brown and limp, nestling amongst the wiry foliage.

  The house was silent, just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below and the flapping of the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner Peter had hung across the chimney-breast.

  A faint smell made her gag. A hot, fishy smell which seemed to come from her. As she looked down she saw a trickle of white fluid, tinged with her own blood roll down the inside of her leg and splash silently to her ankle.

  Six years of happiness in this house, wiped out.

  His legs were inside the darker playroom, the rest of him on the landing, bathed in bright clear light. The crisp white-painted doors, the thick carpet, all so familiar and comfortable. But nothing would ever be the same again.

  Hate welled up in her like vomit.

  One moment she was staring at him, the next she found herself in the kitchen, her hand reaching out for a knife.

  Eight different kitchen knives. Without hesitating she took the biggest triangular one for chopping meat and holding it to her breast went back up the stairs.

  No more tears now, just dry-eyed desolation. He groaned as she stood by his side looking down at him. His eyes were still closed, one hand resting on his chest, her own black hairs stuck to it.

  Holding the knife tightly with both hands she drew it up first to chest height, then closing her eyes, plunged it, right down to the part of him she hated the most.

  She saw blood spurt up, heard him cry out as she withdrew the knife, ready to repeat it, but nausea washed over her and instead she turned, running back down the stairs.

  Celia parked her car and looked up at the house. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. The porch light was still on, as was the hall and staircase light, but she was relieved to hear the party was over.

  It had been a harrowing evening. At times she wished she’d stayed with nursing, at least there she had the satisfaction of knowing her patients would often recover.

  This family were born victims. A drunken father, a half-witted mother. Five dirty, neglected children living in unspeakable filth. How many years of child guidance would they need to wipe out the horrors they’d seen? There would be no happy endings for them. The father might get a prison sentence, the children a peaceful break in a children’s home for a few weeks. But before long they would be back together again. The boys turning into clones of their father, the girls merely training to become the next generation of inadequate mothers.

  Celia sensed something was wrong the moment she opened the door.

  Outwardly everything looked normal, but there was an atmosphere of tension, which made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

  ‘Brian,’ she called tentatively.

  The door to the sitting room was open. She walked towards it, dropping her briefcase in the hall.

  It was too silent. If they’d gone to bed the lights would be turned off.

  Her foot touched something hard. Looking down she saw it was her kitchen knife, its grey, steel blade almost concealed in the patterned carpet.

  As she bent to pick it up she saw blood-stains.

  ‘Georgia,’ she shouted, pushing the door back, almost afraid to look in.

  Georgia was lying crumpled up on the settee, the fire nearly out in front of her, the Christmas tree lights highlighting the red party dress. The net of the skirt billowed round her, for one brief second she looked like a dying swan in a ballet.

  Celia sped the last few feet to her child, dropping to her knees in front of her, her hands automatically feeling for a pulse, eyes scanning for injury.

  Her pulse was slow, but not dangerously so. A rough, red patch on her forehead and a swelling across her cheek like a slap mark. But there was no obvious injury.

  ‘Darling, it’s Mummy.’ Celia caught Georgia up in her arms. ‘Tell me what’s happened?’

  No reply. Not a flicker of anything in those coal black eyes. No emotion, no tears, not even a trace of recognition in the blank, vacant face.

  The calm nurse vanished.

  ‘Answer me? Who did this? Where’s Daddy?’ She shook Georgia sharply.

  There was no reply, but she sensed the child’s eyes move towards the door fearfully and in the same instant saw dried blood on her hands and a splatter on her dress.

  Swiftly taking off her own coat she tucked it round Georgia.

  ‘I’ll be back in two seconds,’ she said breathlessly.

  She saw Brian’s head through the bannisters, well before she reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped, racing the last few feet to his side.

  Brian was lying in a pool of blood, coming from his stomach, his hands were over it, blood trickling through his fingers.

  For just one second she thought he was dead, but a faint pulse told her otherwise.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said jumping up and running to the bathroom to fetch a towel to staunch the blood.

  ‘Which service do you require?’ a disembodied voice replied to her emergency call.

  ‘Ambulance,’ she shouted. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Someone’s stabbed my husband,’ she said hurriedly as she was connected, barking out the address. ‘Hurry please, it’s serious.’

  Back again at Brian’s side, she held the towel tightly against his wound. He was unconscious still, but now that help was on its way she was able to think rather than act automatically.

  Her first reaction had been that someone had come into the party uninvited and the stabbing was a result of Brian asking them
to leave.

  But that didn’t make sense! The other kids would have called for help. And why was the knife downstairs by the sitting room?

  There was something very familiar about the situation. A child in shock refusing to speak. If her father had been hurt defending her she would have run for help.

  Celia moved the towel away from the wound and looked closely.

  His trousers were unzipped. No sign of stab marks in the material and his penis was uncovered!

  She heard herself cry out. Even through the smell of blood there were others. Body aromas, mingling with a stronger one of alcohol.

  Like a shot of insulin to a diabetic, the truth came to her.

  ‘You bastard!’ she exclaimed, pushing the towel down hard again to cover him.

  She got up, moving back from him in horror and disgust, an overwhelming nausea washed over her, and she clamped both hands over her mouth.

  For the last ten years she had worked with the aftermath of rape and incest. She had learned to control her rage and disgust. But this wasn’t a stranger, this was her husband, the man she had promised to love and cherish.

  ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘You couldn’t do that!’

  But he had, she knew it as certainly as if she’d seen the act take place. And now she wanted to finish what Georgia had started. Her hands moved towards his throat, her thumbs were on his windpipe, fingers digging into his neck.

  His eyes flickered momentarily, his lips moved as if to speak.

  ‘No,’ she stopped herself. ‘It’s too good for you. You’ll pay for this you maggot. You’ll pay!’

  She forced herself to attend to him, just a nurse, going through the motions of emergency first aid. Not out of sympathy, love or any other finer motive. Just keeping him alive so he could pay the price for ruining her child’s life.

  She could hear the sirens coming closer. Her heart thumped painfully, her head reeling as she thought of the implications.

  Georgia downstairs, still in her party dress, shocked and witless. Six years of building up her trust, over, through one man’s lust.

  And it was all her fault. While she was out sorting out other families’ problems, one had been festering here. She was the expert, the one who should have read the signs. Celia Anderson, the woman who knew all the answers had failed the child she loved.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Georgia! Speak to me. You can’t just shut me out.’

  Celia sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to cup Georgia’s small face in her hands.

  ‘You don’t fool me!’ her voice rose in exasperation. ‘Dr Towle might think you have some kind of hysterical amnesia, but I know you better.’

  The pretty pink and white bedroom with its rose sprigged curtains and bedspread, the books, games, teddy bears, even the posters of Elvis Presley and the Everly Brothers all seemed so very safe and cosy. Yet Brian had made a mockery of this childhood sanctuary.

  Georgia had said nothing even when the doctor examined her. No tears, no screaming, not even angry accusation. Just a cold, emotionless silence that terrified Celia. Experience told her that rape cases often reacted like this. But this wasn’t a case, this was personal.

  Dr Towle confirmed that Georgia had been subjected to violent sexual intercourse. Brian’s injuries and the entire scene Celia had walked in on just a few days earlier was surely proof enough of who was responsible, yet still the police were prevaricating.

  There had been precious little sympathy for Georgia from the police when they arrived a few moments after the ambulance.

  Inspector Forbes was a bigot. A big bully of a man, red-faced with hair to match. A lifetime immersed in the underworld of South London made him incapable of seeing beyond Georgia’s colour. A man who’d peered down so many sewers, he’d begun to believe the whole world was one.

  ‘But everything you say is supposition,’ he retorted almost angrily when Celia had once again told him the details of what she had discovered on her return to the house. ‘Why should a man in his position, knowing full well you could come home at any time, force himself onto his daughter?’

  ‘Lust brought on by drink,’ Celia burned with anger at his arrogance. She had come up against this man before and knew he loathed professional women almost as much as the blacks in his territory. She turned to the young policewoman with him, sure another woman would be sensitive enough to see the truth. ‘You saw him lying there. You saw the way Georgia looked, don’t tell me you agree with the inspector?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she tell me then?’ the policewoman looked nervously at her superior officer, a sure sign she didn’t dare oppose him. ‘I think it’s more likely someone else was involved, these teenage parties can get out of hand.’

  Celia heard the soft Sussex accent, noted the farmgirl complexion and knew immediately this girl had no personal experience to fall back on and even less intuition.

  ‘You don’t believe my daughter was raped by her father?’ Celia wanted to slap both of them to make them see sense.

  ‘But he isn’t her father is he?’ Inspector Forbes had a look of cunning in his bloodshot eyes. ‘Mixed-race girls are volatile. She’d been drinking.’

  ‘He’d been drinking,’ Celia corrected the man. ‘Not Georgia.’

  ‘Then why won’t she tell us?’

  ‘She’s in shock.’ Celia’s eyes rolled with impatience. ‘Do you really expect her to sit here and tell you the whole traumatic story?’

  ‘But the knife?’ the inspector said, looking down at the weapon in his hand, dried blood sticking to its covering plastic bag. ‘She could have killed him. I can’t see a girl capable of wielding this, being incapable of defending herself against sex.’

  ‘He weighs fourteen stone,’ Celia said through clenched teeth. ‘Georgia about eight. If she’d had the knife handy before he attacked her she might have had a chance.’

  ‘Perhaps we’d better try again in the morning,’ Forbes sighed. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. I don’t see a man like Anderson being a rapist. Let’s wait till I’ve interviewed the boyfriend. To be honest Mrs Anderson, I’m surprised at you not taking your husband’s part.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone attempting to cut off a man’s penis unless that same organ was used against them,’ Celia lost control entirely, almost screaming at him.

  ‘I do believe you are getting hysterical,’ he said disdainfully. ‘He has stomach wounds and his loose clothing was consistent with someone who tried to examine himself before losing consciousness.’

  It was after four in the morning when they finally left the house. Georgia sedated by the doctor upstairs. Brian in hospital and there was no one she could turn to for help.

  ‘How can they be so stupid and blind?’ she cried helplessly in the kitchen, her head on the table. ‘I wish I’d let him die now.’

  ‘I know you can’t bear to talk about what happened,’ Celia stroked her daughter’s face. ‘But if you don’t talk soon you’ll be taken from me. You might even be charged with attempted murder. Think about it Georgia, unless Brian is charged with rape he’ll walk out of that hospital a free man!’

  But Georgia just lay in her bed, her eyes blank as if she were deaf and dumb.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Celia sat in the kitchen with Peter later the same morning, her face lined and drawn. She reached out to touch his hand, the social worker at odds with the distraught mother. ‘She knows exactly what’s going on. She’s fully conscious, she goes out to use the toilet. Yet she’s eaten nothing, only drinking the water I left by her bed.’

  ‘You’re frightened they’ll take her away from you?’ Even after all the questioning Peter had been subjected to, he was still perceptive enough to understand Celia’s fears.

  He looked ill. His face was white, eyes ringed with dark circles. His chin had a rash of stubble, even his shoulders were stooped. Now he was risking more trouble by refusing to go back to school.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can stall the chil
dren’s department,’ Celia said wearily, resting her head on her hands. She looked old. Her brown hair uncombed, wearing the same old tweed skirt and jumper she’d put on the morning after the event. ‘Unless she starts talking they’ll almost certainly take her. I keep trying to distance myself from it, work out what I’d do if Georgia and her foster mother were clients. And I don’t like the answer I keep coming up with.’

  ‘What about him?’ Peter winced as if even using Anderson’s name hurt him.

  ‘He’s out of danger now,’ Celia snorted with anger. ‘I never thought I’d admit to such a thing, but there’ve been times in the past few days I hoped he’d die. She only cut his abdomen, he’s got a lot of stitches, but he’ll survive.’

  ‘What’s he been saying?’ Peter asked.

  Celia’s mouth trembled.

  ‘He claims he fell asleep in a chair, woke to see Georgia smuggling you out of her bedroom after the others had gone and that he had a row with her about it. He insists the last thing he remembers is Georgia coming at him with the knife and when he came round he was in hospital.’

  ‘But even my parents can vouch that I got home just after half past twelve.’ Peter flushed an angry shade of red. ‘I left only ten minutes after the others.’

  ‘A good lawyer would wipe him out,’ Celia reassured him. ‘But without Georgia’s statement he can’t even be charged.’

  ‘You mean he could come home here?’ Peter’s face blanched in horror.

  ‘It’s his house.’ Celia’s greeny-grey eyes were blank with misery, her face contorted by dark thoughts.

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell Peter the full strength of it. Brian claimed to have caught them naked in bed together, that Peter had grabbed his clothes and made a run for it and Georgia screamed abuse at him and even threatened she would say Brian raped her if he told her mother.

  At the hospital they all believed his story, but then they’d never met Georgia or Peter and Brian Anderson was charming and persuasive when he wanted to be.

  ‘Let me try speaking to her?’ Peter leaned forward earnestly. ‘I might be able to get through to her.’