A Sister's Secret

by Debbie Grafham

  ‘You used to be such a sweet little thing,’ she said. ‘Now you’re just so angry all the time.’

  She was right, I was angry. Angry at the world, at everyone. I was like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off – and occasionally I did. Like the time at school when I was walking down the corridor and a lad I knew tapped me on the shoulder as I walked past.

  ‘Alright, speccy four-eyes,’ he said.

  Kids often called me that because of the horrible brown National Health glasses that I wore. It was just a silly remark, and me and my mates were always trading insults. It would never have bothered me before and I would have laughed it off, but now I was like a tightly coiled spring and I just snapped.

  ‘What did you say?’ I shouted, walking back over to him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, looking terrified. ‘I was just joking.’

  ‘Nobody calls me names,’ I said, punching him hard in the face.

  Blood pumped out of his nose and he started crying. A teacher had witnessed what had happened and I was marched off to see Mr Matthews, the head teacher.

  ‘Debbie, why on earth have you been fighting?’ he asked me. ‘It’s not like you. You’ve always been such a well-behaved pupil.’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘You’re a conscientious student and I don’t ever want to see you acting like that again. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I mumbled.

  I knew I was lucky to escape with a week of detentions.

  I didn’t want to mess school up as it was the one thing in my life that I enjoyed. I loved English lessons and PE and I even liked getting homework as it kept me busy at night and gave me something to take my mind off the fact that Patrick Ryan was walking around upstairs above us.

  I didn’t like the person I had become but I couldn’t stop myself. I was aggressive, nasty and argumentative. Something else had changed too – I’d started to resent Laraine. It had always been my job to protect her but I began to tell myself it was because of her all this was going on, so I started to blame her. If she’d never gone up there in the first place, none of this would have happened. I knew she had been hurt and abused by Patrick Ryan too and it had always been this unspoken bond between us. But as we got older, instead of bringing us closer together, it wedged us further apart.

  I’d taken it upon myself to make sure that Patrick Ryan never got the chance to abuse Laraine again and I was always there, always available so that he could do what he wanted to me and leave my little sister alone.

  Neither of us talked about it but I got more and more aggressive to poor Laraine. I remember one night she woke me up with her snivelling.

  ‘Deb,’ she whispered. ‘Wake up, I’ve wet the bed.’

  It still happened every now and then, and she was so ashamed that she was nearly nine and still messing herself.

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ I snapped. ‘I’m not the one weeing myself like a baby every night.’

  ‘Why are you being so mean to me, Deb?’ she cried. ‘Can I get in with you?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you peeing on my sheets too. Just leave me alone and go back to sleep.’

  I knew I was being horrible and unkind but I just couldn’t stop myself.

  As I got older, I also struggled with the idea of puberty. I was horrified when my body started to change. I hated the idea of having breasts and I refused to wear a bra. So far Patrick Ryan had never been interested in anything up top because there was nothing to see, but I was worried it would give him something else to torment me with.

  Starting my periods was a different matter, though. Some friends had got theirs already and I couldn’t wait for it to happen. The risk of getting pregnant hadn’t even entered my head: I just thought that if I was bleeding then perhaps Patrick Ryan wouldn’t want to have sex with me and it might put him off.

  By the time I was eleven, I was obsessed.

  ‘When am I going to get mine, Mum?’ I constantly asked. ‘Do you think they’ll come soon?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, love. You’ll have them for the rest of your life, believe me there’s no rush.’

  In the January, two months before I turned twelve, I was terrified when I woke up to find blood on my pyjamas one morning.

  ‘Mum, I think I’m dying,’ I said. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’

  ‘It’s your period, silly,’ she said.

  I felt so grown up as I proudly helped myself to Mum’s stash of sanitary towels.

  That night after school, Alison was waiting on the stairs when we got home.

  ‘Laraine, come and see,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new doll’s house.’

  Laraine was up there like a shot as it had been a few months since we’d been to the flat; Mum was out working and, of course, I followed her up. As they played in the front room, Patrick Ryan soon turned his attentions to me.

  He took me onto the landing and pulled my school trousers and pants down.

  I saw his face change as he noticed the bloodstained sanitary towel stuck in my knickers.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘How long have you been having monthlies?’

  ‘It’s the first time,’ I said, completely mortified that he’d seen it but at the same time glad.

  But all my hopes that it would put him off were wrong. Nothing seemed to put that sick monster off. He still raped me that day although he didn’t ejaculate inside me. Instead, he forced me to my knees and thrust his penis into my mouth. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the fact that it would soon be over.

  ‘Open your fucking eyes,’ he spat.

  But I didn’t want to see what was happening. I didn’t want to see that smug look of pleasure on his face as I knelt down in front of him.

  ‘I said open your fucking eyes,’ he growled, trying to prise my eyelids open with his dirty fingernails.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ I mumbled.

  But in the end I always did as he said. He yanked my chin up, so I was forced to look straight into his ugly face and that horrible wonky eye that turned inwards. Every single disgusting part of him was etched on my mind forever. Then, finally, it was over and he pulled his trousers up and calmly walked back into the front room. I didn’t know it then but that was the last time that he would ever abuse me.

  A couple of days later Mum sat us all down.

  ‘I’ve got something important to tell you,’ she said. ‘Your father’s due out of prison and the council think it’s best that they move us to a new place so he can’t find us.’

  She explained that they’d found us a four-bedroom house, fifteen minutes away in Greenwich. I just sat there, completely stunned. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. I didn’t care about how many bedrooms it had or where it was: all I cared about was the fact that we were moving. If we weren’t going to live in this flat any more, that could only mean one thing. After suffering three years of hell at the hands of Patrick Ryan at last we were going to be free. Free of that monster, forever.

  ‘When are we going?’ I asked.

  Mum must have seen the stunned look on my face.

  ‘I know it’s a bit of a shock, Debbie, but you’ll get used to the idea,’ she said. ‘It’s the best thing with your dad being released.

  ‘Davina and Laraine can share, so you can have your own bedroom for once.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I think it’s brilliant. I can’t wait. When are we going?’

  ‘By the end of the week,’ said Mum.

  It felt like Christmas, better than Christmas in fact. Five minutes, fifteen minutes, it didn’t matter how short the distance was; the important thing was my father and Patrick Ryan wouldn’t be able to get to me any more.

  ‘It’s great news, isn’t it, Lal?’ I said.

  Laraine nodded and smiled. We didn’t talk about it but we both knew what it meant.

  Mum wasn’t friendly with Wendy and she hated Patrick Ryan, so I was sure Laraine wouldn’t k
eep in touch with Alison. Besides, she’d moved to my secondary school now and had friends of her own, so I knew that him and his family would be out of our lives for good. I was just so relieved.

  Everything happened so quickly, it was a bit of a blur. Two days later as we left for school, a man with a van was helping Mum load up our tatty old furniture into the back. Boxes of our things were piled up in the porch, just like that day in August all those years ago when Patrick Ryan had first moved in. I shuddered at the thought of that summer. Life had never been the same since then but now it was over at last.

  The door to the upstairs flat was firmly closed as I went out of the front door for the last time. As I walked down the path, I stopped and turned around to have one final look at the place. I glanced at the upstairs flat but there was no one at the windows and the curtains were still closed.

  ‘Good riddance, you bastard,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Laraine. ‘We’re gonna be late.’

  ‘Coming, Lal,’ I sighed, closing the gate behind me, and as we ran down the road to school all I felt was utter relief.

  But old habits die hard and even though we’d moved, I was still constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next man to come along and abuse me. It had become part of my life and in some ways I had almost got used to it. Whenever we met a new neighbour or even a friend’s dad I would think, ‘Are you the one who’s going to do it to me now?’ I couldn’t quite believe that it was over.

  We made friends in our new street and although I was happy for them to come to our house, I would never go to theirs. I just couldn’t risk it. Moving didn’t help take away the anger I felt inside, either. I was still always looking out for Laraine too, especially as we were at the same school now.

  One of my mates came rushing over to me at playtime one lunchtime.

  ‘Some girl’s hit your Laraine,’ he told me.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s waiting outside the head teacher’s office,’ he said.

  I ran straight there, rage building up inside me. Laraine was in the corridor in tears.

  ‘Who hit you?’ I asked and she pointed to a girl sat in a nearby classroom on her own. I marched straight over to her and punched her in the chest.

  ‘Don’t you ever hit my sister,’ I shouted.

  She hit me back, so I absolutely laid into her. I could hear Laraine screaming outside and eventually Mr Matthews ran in to pull us apart.

  ‘Into my office now,’ he yelled at me.

  I knew I was in big trouble for beating up a girl two years younger than me. He phoned Mum and she came straight up to school.

  ‘Debbie, what on earth have you been doing?’ she said as she went into Mr Matthews’ office.

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over her,’ I heard her say. ‘We’ve been through a lot at home with her father over the years and her grandfather has recently passed away, which she took very badly.’

  ‘She’s always been very protective of her little sister.’

  If only she knew the things that I’d done to protect Laraine, I thought. If only Laraine did too.

  I could tell Mum was worried about me and I knew she was concerned about all of us. Davina was OK but David was still stammering and he and Laraine were withdrawn and struggling at school; I was angry and aggressive. Mum spoke to her GP and we were referred to family counselling at a health centre in Greenwich.

  ‘We have to go once a week for ten weeks,’ Mum told us.

  I was dreading it. What if they asked me if I’d been abused? What if they could tell?

  At the first session we met our counsellor, who was an American lady with frizzy hair called Lizzie. She seemed nice enough.

  ‘You’ll have a few sessions together as a family and then I’ll see you all separately so that you have a chance to talk to me individually,’ she said.

  ‘You can tell me absolutely anything. Whatever you want to talk about.’

  I knew the one thing I could never ever tell her was the truth. I was still terrified that no one would believe me and if they did then we might be taken into care again, or worse – Patrick Ryan would find us and carry out his threats. I was an expert at lying by then.

  ‘Are you having any problems at school, Debbie?’ she asked, during our one-to-one session.

  ‘I’ve got into trouble a few times when I’ve lost it,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Why do you think you’re feeling so angry?’

  I told her exactly what I thought her and Mum wanted to hear.

  ‘I’ve been very sad and angry since my Granddad George died so suddenly,’ I said. ‘And I was upset at the way Dad treated Mum. It was horrible to see him hurting her like that.’

  ‘Good girl, Debbie,’ she smiled. ‘You’re making good progress.’

  If only she knew, what I wasn’t telling her, the real reason why I was the way I was. But she didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell.

  I wasn’t worried about Laraine saying anything as she had never ever spoken about the abuse even to me, and she and David refused point-blank to say a word to the counsellor.

  I was always on edge in those sessions, so it was a relief when our family counselling with Lizzie came to an end.

  ‘I hope things get better,’ I heard her say to Mum. ‘It’s clear that over the last few years you’ve all had a very unsettled home life, so I’m sure things will improve.’

  I hoped she was right too.

  Months passed and I tried my hardest to forget about our old flat in Blackheath and everything that had gone on there. Thankfully Michael and Shane didn’t go to the same school as us, but I still lived in fear of seeing Patrick Ryan again. Andrew, one of my good mates, still lived in our old street but I had stopped going to his house when we moved. It was hard, as he was always inviting me round. It was torture too, because he had loads of pets and he knew how much I loved animals.

  ‘Come round after school one night and see my mice,’ he said. ‘Go on, Debbie. I’ve got a new duck too.’

  ‘A duck?’ I laughed. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  It made me uneasy going back to that street and being near our old flat again but Andrew’s place was further down the road and what were the chances of me seeing Patrick Ryan again?

  I was still terrified as I wandered along that familiar street towards Andrew’s house.

  You’re OK, Debbie, he’s not here, I told myself. He can’t hurt you any more.

  But as I walked down the road, I saw a figure coming towards me. Fear ran through me and I stopped, suddenly rooted to the spot.

  It couldn’t be him, could it?

  But I would have recognised him anywhere. The same scruffy leather jacket and tatty jeans, round sunglasses, hands in his pockets, slightly stooped. I panicked, didn’t know what to do.

  I didn’t want to cross the road as I thought it would only draw attention to myself and he might run after me. So, with my heart racing, I put my head down and kept on walking towards Patrick Ryan. I could hear his footsteps coming closer and closer.

  Don’t look up at him. Just carry on walking.

  I held my breath and seconds later we passed each other in the street. As if we were two strangers who had never met, he didn’t say a word or even acknowledge me. He just walked straight past. I didn’t even see his face or know if he’d shown any reaction because I was too busy focusing on the pavement.

  I felt sick and totally shaken up. I needed to get away, as far away as possible from that street and Patrick Ryan. So I kept on walking, right past Andrew’s house and went the long way home. I kept looking behind me all the way just to check he wasn’t following me. Thankfully, there was no sign of him.

  I vowed never to go back to that street again and I never did. Well, not for another thirty-five years.

  Chapter 9

  Opposites

  I could see the huddle of girls in the corner of the playground and before I even got near them,
I knew exactly what they would be talking about.

  ‘This weekend I’m definitely gonna do it with Darren,’ I overheard one blonde girl say proudly, and they all screamed with excitement.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m still a virgin,’ another one chipped in. ‘I’d like to do it in the summer, on a beach, I think.’

  ‘Oh, Chelle, that’s so romantic,’ sighed her friend. ‘Did you hear that Becky gave Brian Smith a blow job at the school disco last week?’

  I felt sick listening to them and their ‘sex talk’. I was seventeen now and all the girls my age in the lower sixth seemed to be interested in was who was getting off with whom, who had touched them up or who they were going to sleep with.

  One of the girls caught me staring and shouted over, ‘Oi, Debbie, you’re not a virgin, are you? I bet you popped your cherry ages ago, didn’t yer?’

  ‘No, I bloody well didn’t,’ I snapped angrily and they all laughed.

  ‘She’s a weirdo,’ I heard one of them say as I walked off.

  ‘A dyke more like,’ another replied and they all sniggered.

  But I didn’t care what they said about me. I had no interest in standing around with them gossiping about lipstick, clothes and boys. After being abused, I didn’t trust men and the thought of having sex or even just kissing one didn’t just make my stomach turn, it frightened the living daylights out of me. I wasn’t interested in the same things most teenage girls at my school were. I liked swimming or going out on my bike to the local BMX ramps with my friends, who were mostly boys. I felt like an outsider with the girls, but the boys just treated me like one of the lads, which I liked as I still hated everything about being a woman.

  I normally avoided going out at night, but one Friday Laraine persuaded me to come to a party at the local youth club.

  ‘I’m not interested, Lal. I’m supposed to be going swimming,’ I told her.

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport. Come to the party, you might enjoy it,’ she said.

  Laraine was almost sixteen now and we couldn’t have been more different if we’d tried. The shy, scared, withdrawn little girl had long gone and she had grown into a bubbly, outgoing teenager. She was everything I wasn’t – pretty, popular, feminine. She liked getting dressed up and going down to the youth club, flirting with boys and getting tipsy on Strongbow. Laraine was always the life and soul of the party whereas people would take one look at my sulky face and said, ‘You should be more like your sister.’