Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Behind Closed Doors
Chapter 2 – Going Home
Chapter 3 – Summer of Hell
Chapter 4 – New Neighbours
Chapter 5 – An Horrific Discovery
Chapter 6 – The Ultimate Sacrifice
Chapter 7 – Broken Promises
Chapter 8 – A Ticking Time Bomb
Chapter 9 – Opposites
Chapter 10 – New Beginnings
Chapter 11 – A Mum at Last
Chapter 12 – Haunted by the Past
Chapter 13 – Allegations and Revelations
Chapter 14 – The Truth
Chapter 15 – No More Secrets
Chapter 16 – Off the Rails
Chapter 17 – The Waiting Game
Chapter 18 – D-Day
Chapter 19 – Justice
Chapter 20 – Moving On
Chapter 21 – Facing My Demons
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
‘I was nine and the big sister. I wanted to keep her safe. He basically promised me that if I let him abuse me, he wouldn’t touch my sister again.’
Debbie Grafham’s childhood has been far from normal, but when she was just nine years old her life changed forever. Debbie discovered that her neighbour was abusing her younger sister, Laraine – and there was a price to pay to make him stop. Alone and scared, she made a decision that was to haunt her life, and send her spiralling out of control. But after nearly forty years of harbouring her shocking secret, Debbie found the courage to tell her sister and together they made the decision to fight for justice.
About the Author
Debbie Grafham lives with her husband and three children. She works as a care worker and has slowly rebuilt her life, knowing her abuser is finally behind bars. She hopes that by speaking out it will give others victims the courage to find their voice.
For my brother, David, for giving me the courage to speak out. I kept your promise in the end.
And to my little sister, Laraine, who has been there with me every step of the way.
This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of me, Debbie Grafham. In some cases names of people/places/dates and sequences of the detail of events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The names of Patrick Ryan’s family have been changed to protect their identities. This happened to me over thirty-five years ago. Some of the details described are, of course and happily, blurred by time. Other details – and in particular the incidents Patrick Ryan was convicted of at his trial – are, sadly, as vivid as if they happened to me yesterday.
Prologue
It’s three in the morning and something has woken me. I sit bolt upright in bed and look around at the strange surroundings. It takes me a few minutes to remember that I’m staying the night at my father-in-law Eddie’s house. The only familiar sight is my husband, Rob, lying next to me, and he’s snoring his lugs off.
My head aches and my stomach churns with dread as I remember what day it is. The 23 April 2013. An ordinary, mundane Tuesday morning to most people, but there was going to be nothing routine about today for me.
Slowly I climb out of bed trying not to wake Rob, and creep downstairs to make a cup of tea. It’s not even light yet but I go out into the garden. My hands shiver in the cold of the early spring morning as I light up a cigarette.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ I say to myself as I take a sip of tea. ‘He can’t hurt you any more.’
I tell myself the same thing over and over again. Perhaps if I say it enough times I might actually start to believe it? I know I don’t feel fine, far from it.
Another cup of tea, another cigarette but it’s still only 4am. Six hours to go. I really should try and get some more sleep but my heart is pounding and that familiar, overwhelming feeling of panic grips my body. Diazepam, I think, that’s what I need. That always helps. I go back upstairs, get into bed and twist the top off the plastic bottle. I quickly swallow one of the little blue tablets then I close my eyes, willing it to hurry up and take effect.
But there’s no escape. As I start to relax into sleep the words hit me like a bolt of lightning.
‘Keep your fucking eyes open.’
‘No,’ I want to shout. ‘I don’t want to look.’
Stifling my sobs, I pull the duvet up around me for protection.
‘Open your eyes, you little whore,’ I hear the voice in my head say again.
And all of a sudden I’m nine years old and I can feel him on top of me again, the smell of his stale, beery breath against my neck.
‘No,’ I scream. ‘I don’t want to.’
Opening my eyes, I realise that I’m still in bed with Rob asleep beside me. I take a deep breath and try and stop myself from shaking.
You’re OK, you’re safe, I say to myself.
The green glow of the digital clock on the bedside table tells me it’s 5am. Five hours left to go. Thankfully the Diazepam has finally kicked in and I can breathe properly, but my heart is still pounding and those awful words are ringing in my ears.
‘Open your fucking eyes.’
These are the words that have broken me, devastated me and kept me awake endless times over the past 35 years. The words that send me into a cold sweat. You see, I didn’t want to keep my eyes open; I didn’t want to see what was happening to me. If my eyes were closed then I thought perhaps I could pretend that it had never really happened.
But it had.
Six o’clock. It’s daylight now and I’m longing for Rob to wake up so I will have someone to talk to and reassure me. I can see my new clothes hanging on the wardrobe door. A black jacket and trousers, and a white blouse. Smart, safe, business-like. All neatly pressed for the umpteenth time.
‘Look smart, Debbie,’ the police had told me.
I thought that if I looked respectable then perhaps it would help disguise the feelings of shame and disgust that consume me.
It’s 6.30am now. I shuffle around a bit, cough a couple of times and thankfully it’s enough to make Rob stir, and I’m no longer on my own. He sees me sitting bolt upright in bed.
‘You OK, Deb?’ he asks.
‘Yes, love,’ I lie.
It’s not long before my mobile starts beeping with text messages.
Good luck Debbie. Thinking of you. You can do it, you’ll be OK.
But I don’t reply to any of them. I’m frightened that if I do then they’ll know that I’m not OK, that I’m falling to pieces here.
7am. Only three hours to go and I’m wide-awake now. It’s time for a shower. The shower is my sanctuary. The place where I spend hours each day trying desperately to scrub away the feelings of disgust and self-loathing.
‘Come on, Deb,’ I hear Rob shouting up the stairs. ‘Come and get some breakfast.’
God only knows how long I’ve been in here. It’s almost like I’m in a trance. Still on autopilot, I dry myself and get dressed in my new clothes that feel completely alien to me compared with the jeans and trainers I normally wear.
‘You look smart,’ says Eddie as I go downstairs.
Even though I might look good on the outside, inside I’m a wreck. My stomach is churning with nerves and I don’t want to sit down in case I get my clothes creased.
‘Have something to eat,’ says Rob.
But I never eat breakfast and especially not today, when I feel sick with nerves.
More cups of tea. More cigarettes. I know I’m putting everyone else on edge with my endless pacing up
and down, but I just can’t sit still.
My mobile beeps with another text message. This time it’s from my little sister, Laraine. The only other person in the world who knows exactly how I’m feeling today.
Deb are you OK? I’m scared.
This is the one text that I do answer.
You’ll be fine Lal. You’ll be OK. Just stay strong and I’ll see you soon.
It’s just before 9am now. Time to go soon. The Diazepam has well and truly worn off. My stomach is churning and my hands are damp with sweat. I know I shouldn’t take another one as I have to be alert and they make me drowsy, but my whole body is shaking and the room is spinning. In the end I give in and have a half just to take the edge off.
‘We’ll leave at 9.15am,’ says Rob.
‘Can’t we go any earlier?’ I say. ‘Can’t we go now?’
Time is dragging and it’s torturous.
‘We’ll be way too early, Deb. We’ll leave here at quarter past.’
He puts his arm around me, safe and reassuring, as always.
‘Rob, I’m scared,’ I say. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘You’ll be OK,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be with you. You can do this.’
But the tears that I’ve been holding back all morning suddenly come tumbling out. I’ve tried so hard to keep it together and stay strong but the reality is I’m a wreck. The memories that I’ve kept buried for so long suddenly feel real again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking a deep breath.
‘It’s OK, Deb. You’ll be fine, I promise,’ Rob tells me.
But I just nod.
‘I’d better go and wash my face,’ I say.
I go upstairs to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’ve never worn make-up, so at least there’s no mascara to run, but my eyes are all red and puffy from where I’ve been crying. How, nearly 36 years later, could I be reduced to this? How could one person still fill my heart with so much fear and dread?
I give my hair a quick brush and go downstairs again, where Rob and Eddie are waiting.
‘It’s time,’ says Rob. ‘Are you ready?’
Am I ready? Am I really? I don’t think I’m ever going to be ready to reveal the deep, dark secrets that I’ve kept hidden for the past 35 years. This is the day that I’ve been waiting for so long, yet the day I’ve also been dreading.
But Rob is right, it is time. Time to face the monster who has destroyed mine and my sister’s life. Time for the world to know all about the despicable things that he did to us. It’s time for us to make him pay, and hopefully get justice at last.
Chapter 1
Behind Closed Doors
A banging and clattering from outside the front door made us both jump. Mum and I looked at each other in a panic. We knew it could only mean one thing.
Daddy was home.
‘Quick, get to bed, Debbie, it’s late,’ Mum muttered under her breath.
‘No, Mummy,’ I said. ‘I told you I was going to stay up.’
We could hear swearing as my father tried and failed to get his key in the lock. Then the ching of metal hitting the ground as he dropped it onto the floor.
He’d been gone for two whole days and by the sound of it he’d spent most of that time at the pub. ‘On one of his benders’ was what Mum used to call it and even though I was only four years old I knew exactly what that meant.
I could see the worry in her eyes.
‘Please, Debbie, go to bed. I can deal with your dad.’
‘No, Mummy,’ I said. ‘I promised I’d look after you.’
I knew all too well what was about to happen as it went on so often. I’d hear loud voices first, Dad shouting and swearing, finally followed by Mum’s screams as he laid into her. Sometimes I lay there on my top bunk with my hands over my ears trying desperately to block it out. Other times if I was feeling brave, I’d run onto the landing and peep around the banister. If he was going to kill her, I reasoned, then at least I could run down there and try and stop him. But I always closed my eyes at the sight of my lovely mummy being punched, slapped and kicked. She didn’t just stand there and take it, though. Often she tried to fight back: in fact one night she’d broken her hand trying to hit him.
In the morning it would all be quiet and calm, like nothing had happened. Dad passed out on the settee, Mum making breakfast, wearing a long-sleeved top so we couldn’t see the fresh purple bruises on her arms.
No one ever said anything. Not me, nor my brother David, aged three, or my sister Laraine, two. Our baby sister, Davina, was just a few months old, mercifully too young to know what went on in our house. All of us were too little really to understand it. I thought that’s what everybody’s mummy and daddy did, but I still knew I didn’t like it.
As the eldest I felt it was my job to protect Mum, so tonight I’d decided that I was going to be there if Daddy came home. With his key finally in the lock, the door flung open and he staggered into the room. That strong, funny smell that Mum always said was beer hit my nostrils and made me feel sick.
‘What the fuck is she doing up?’ he slurred when he saw me.
‘She’s just going to bed, aren’t you, Debbie?’ Mum told him.
‘No, I ain’t,’ I said defiantly. ‘I’m staying up to make sure that you’re nice to Mummy.’
Dad laughed.
‘I’ll show you nice, you little bitch,’ he said, lunging towards us.
But it was Mum he was going for and she yelped as he slapped her round the face, leaving an angry red mark on her cheek. I ran over to Mum in my long flowery nightie and stood in between her and Dad.
‘Please Daddy, don’t hit Mummy any more,’ I pleaded.
There wasn’t much chance of a four-year-old fighting off a fully-grown man but I was determined to try. I saw a flash of anger in his brown eyes and he started to undo the belt from around his trousers.
‘Daddy, please love Mummy,’ I said.
‘Get to your bed or I’ll thrash the living daylights out of you,’ he threatened.
‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ shouted Mum. ‘Debbie, go to bed. Please, love,’ she pleaded.
Her voice sounded desperate now. I knew if I didn’t then it would only make it worse for her in the end, so I rushed up the stairs to my bedroom.
My sister Laraine was still awake. She was sat up in the bottom bunk, her eyes wide with fear.
‘Sshhh, it’s OK, Lal,’ I said, stroking her soft black hair. ‘Go back to sleep.’
But I knew neither of us would sleep while we could still hear the sounds of our mummy’s screams downstairs.
My dad, Fred Fermor, was an alcoholic and my mum, Maureen, suffered from depression. I suppose you could say it was a match made in hell from the start. They’d met in a psychiatric hospital after Mum had had a breakdown and Dad was being treated for a personality disorder. Dad worked as a farmhand but he was always getting sacked for not turning up or for stealing and we moved all around the South East. Since I was born we’d lived in Eastbourne, Orpington and Brighton and now we were on a farm in Burgh Heath, Surrey. Mum hated our farmhouse, which came with Dad’s job and was in the middle of nowhere. It was dark, damp and dingy, and there was hardly any furniture in it.
But when Dad wasn’t drunk, to the outside world he could be very charming. His mother was Sicilian and he had tanned, swarthy skin, dark-brown eyes and jet-black hair that he slicked back with Brylcreem. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was strong with big muscly arms from all the heavy lifting he did on the farm. He always made an effort to look smart and even if he was only going down to the local pub he would wear a suit and a shirt with a ruffle down the front, which was very fashionable at that time in the 1970s. He would always be clean-shaven and he would douse himself in Old Spice.
Sometimes he was even nice to us kids.
‘I’ve got a special treat for you, Princess,’ he told me one day.
‘What is it, Daddy?’ I asked.
I loved animals and I was a
lways begging him to take me with him when he was working on the farm.
‘As you’re the eldest, I’m going to teach you how to milk a cow,’ he said.
I felt so special as I held his hand and skipped along next to him towards the barn. I watched, fascinated, as Dad showed me how to gently but firmly squeeze the teats until the milk came spurting out.
‘There’s a bit of a knack to it,’ he said. ‘Now you have a go. Don’t be scared, she ain’t going to hurt you.’
The cow seemed massive to me but I did as Dad said and I was proud as punch when I saw the warm milk squirt into the silver bucket.
‘You’ve done good, Debbie,’ he said.
That’s when I decided that I loved animals so much I wanted to be a vet.
Dad even took us on a day trip to the seaside once. It was one of my best memories and sometimes when things were bad at home I would close my eyes and relive that day at Westgate-on-Sea: Mum’s smiling face, Dad buying us ice creams and us kids digging for hours in the sand with our buckets and spades. Just for one day I had felt like any other family. Normal. Ordinary. Happy, even.
But the nice times were few and far between. Mostly Dad would make promises that he couldn’t keep and he would go off to the pub and never come back. Sometimes we wouldn’t hear a peep from him for days, weeks even.
Mum did her best but she was left on her own in the middle of nowhere with four of us kids and no money. Her family, especially my Granddad George, hated my dad. He lived in sheltered accommodation in southeast London, so it was hard for him to come and visit us; we didn’t see a soul.
I didn’t know the word for it at the time but Mum got more and more depressed. I knew she was sad as she was crying a lot, and eventually it all got too much.
Dad had done one of his disappearing acts and had been missing for days. One afternoon I was playing dolls outside in the fields with Laraine. We loved our battered old plastic dollies that Mum had bought us in a charity shop and we spent hours pushing them around in an old, rusty toy pram. When we came back in, Mum was sat on the floor of her bedroom in floods of tears.
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