A Sister's Secret

by Debbie Grafham

  In the end I didn’t find it hard telling them. What was hard was seeing them so upset, but because I’d had a drink I managed to stay calm.

  I was dreading telling Daniel as he was so young but thankfully he didn’t ask me about it in any great detail.

  ‘I was sexually abused as a child by a neighbour,’ I said. ‘Me and Auntie Laraine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘He raped us and made us do these horrible things,’ I said.

  Bless him, he wasn’t embarrassed. It must have been so hard at thirteen to talk about those sort of things with your mum.

  ‘If it goes to court, Mum, I want to come with you,’ he told me.

  ‘That’s really kind of you, son,’ I said, giving him a big hug.

  But truth be told if it ever got that far I didn’t want my children anywhere near Patrick Ryan.

  As the months passed, the police stayed in touch.

  ‘Debbie, the CPS need some more information,’ PC Carol Day told me.

  They’d already asked for our medical records, our school records, as well as a photograph of the scar above Laraine’s eye where she’d fallen down the stairs. Now they wanted me to draw a layout of the upstairs flat. It felt like it was never going to end.

  ‘All I want to know is if you’re going to charge him or not,’ I said.

  Because if they weren’t, I knew I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.

  Chapter 16

  Off the Rails

  I calmly counted up the pills in the palm of my hand: ten diazepam and six sleeping tablets. Before I could think about what I was doing, I took a swig of white wine straight from the bottle and swallowed them all. Then I rested my head on the edge of the bath, sunk down into the deep water and waited for them to take effect.

  I knew I couldn’t go on like this any more. The stress of waiting to find out if Patrick Ryan was going to be charged was destroying me. I’d been signed off sick from work, so I spent my days drinking and worrying about what was going to happen. Rob and I were constantly arguing and I knew I’d pushed him to the limits.

  ‘I don’t think I can go on like this for much longer, Debbie,’ he’d told me that night.

  He’s probably packing his bag now, I thought, as I took another mouthful of wine.

  Suddenly my mobile rang and I reached for it on the bathroom floor. It was him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Debbie,’ he said. ‘I can’t carry on the way we are.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said calmly. ‘I know I’ve been a nightmare but don’t worry. You ain’t going to have to put up with me no more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, panic rising in his voice. ‘What have you done? Answer me, Debbie!’

  ‘Bye, Rob,’ I said and hung up.

  I reached for the bottle of white wine and gulped down the rest in one go. I’d taken too many pills but I didn’t care. All I knew was that I didn’t want to feel like this any more. Thankfully my body was starting to go numb now, my head was all fuzzy and I was slipping down into the water.

  ‘Open this door, Debbie!’ I heard Rob yelling outside, rattling the lock.

  But it was as if his voice was coming from somewhere far away. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. All I could do was sink further and further down until I was fully submerged by the water….

  Boom!

  There was a massive bang as the bathroom door was kicked off its hinges.

  ‘Debbie, it’s the police,’ someone shouted. ‘We’re coming in.’

  Suddenly I felt myself being pulled, coughing and spluttering, out of the bath. I stood there, dripping wet and completely naked, in front of three police officers but I was too out of it to care.

  Rob was standing by the door, looking worried.

  ‘What the heck are you playing at, Debbie?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled.

  I hadn’t intended to kill myself but I knew I’d taken enough tablets to do some damage.

  ‘I’m afraid for your own good we’re going to have to take you to hospital, Debbie,’ said a policewoman.

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ I moaned. ‘I ain’t going anywhere.’

  ‘I’m afraid you either come of your own free will or I’ll have to handcuff you,’ she said.

  She led me to the bedroom and insisted on staying with me while I pulled on some tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a dressing gown. Then she marched me downstairs.

  ‘Right, Debbie, we’re going to take you to hospital now,’ she said.

  ‘I told you I ain’t going nowhere,’ I slurred. ‘Now piss off!’

  ‘Sorry, Debbie, that’s it,’ she said, slapping some handcuffs around my wrists.

  She led me outside, where a police van and an ambulance were waiting, blue lights flashing.

  I bet the neighbours are having a field day, I thought.

  I could hear Rob talking to the officers.

  ‘I don’t think she meant it,’ he said. ‘It was just a cry for help.’

  They bundled me into the police van and I was taken to Accident and Emergency at Eastbourne Hospital where I worked. I knew a lot of the staff that were on duty but I was too drunk to care.

  The on-call psychiatrist was sent to examine me.

  ‘I can’t assess her properly because of the amount of alcohol she’s drunk,’ I heard her say to the nurse. ‘I need to come back tomorrow morning when she’s sobered up.’

  I spent the night on a trolley in A&E so they could observe me. By the next morning, I was terrified they were going to section me. I knew if that happened it would mean an end to any court case.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill myself, I was just drunk,’ I told the psychiatrist. ‘If I’d really wanted to I would have taken more tablets.’

  Thankfully, she believed me.

  ‘We don’t believe that you’re a suicide risk,’ the doctor told me. ‘It was just the alcohol talking.’

  I was so relieved. A couple of hours later I was discharged and went home. Rob was there. He was upset, but more annoyed than anything.

  ‘You can’t keep doing this,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair. How do you think the kids felt, seeing their mum drunk out of her mind, being marched out by the police in handcuffs?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  I felt awful but I was on the path to self-destruction and I couldn’t stop myself.

  The months passed but there was still no update about Ryan and whether or not he would be charged. I felt like my life was on hold until I knew what was happening.

  Every week the police or paramedics would be turning up at our house, usually because I’d rung them drunk and made threats or I’d threatened to harm myself. One night I phoned them and said, ‘I’ve got a knife and I’m going to go and find Patrick Ryan.’

  I passed out and forgot all about it. A few hours later I’d sobered up, so I took the dog for a walk. I couldn’t understand it when I got back later to find the street full of panda cars.

  ‘The police are here again,’ said Rob wearily.

  ‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘What do they want this time?’

  I’d forgotten that I’d even called them. I never carried out my threats but they always took me deadly seriously; they had to.

  One night when I’d been drinking I rang Victim Support.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ I told the woman on the phone. ‘I can’t wait any more to see if there’s going to be a trial. I’ve got a gun here and I’m going to go up to London and find Patrick Ryan, then I’m going to shoot him.’

  It was a lovely summer’s evening so afterwards I staggered out into the garden where Rob was and knocked back some more wine. Ten minutes later there was a loud rapping at the door. I opened it to find two police officers standing there.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  ‘I think you know what we’re here for, Debbie,’ said the female officer. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘You’re going to whether I say yes o
r no, aren’t you?’ I said.

  I was so aggressive and mouthy but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Can I come in then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘If you want a smack in the mouth.’

  The next minute she had my hands behind my back and I was being handcuffed. Rob and the kids were all in the garden, wondering what was happening.

  I was taken outside while they searched the house. They turned everything upside down looking for the gun. I was just sat there when I happened to glance at the barbecue. The policewoman must have seen me.

  ‘Is there anything in here we should be looking for?’ she asked, lifting up the grill.

  ‘Not unless you want a fucking barbecue,’ I said.

  I was their worst nightmare. I knew I was behaving badly but I didn’t care.

  Of course I didn’t have a gun, so they didn’t find anything but Carol phoned the next day.

  ‘This has got to stop, Debbie,’ she said. ‘You can’t go taking the law into your own hands.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been waiting long enough for you lot to do it so I might have to,’ I said.

  Ever since I’d given the police my statement, five months ago in January 2012, I’d been having constant nightmares and flashbacks and it wasn’t only about Patrick Ryan. I was about to have a counselling session one day when my counsellor Lorna walked through the doors of her office. They were big double doors with a glass panel across the top and as they swung shut I suddenly had a horrible memory about where I’d seen doors like that before. They were just like the ones in mine and David’s bedroom at the foster parents’ house.

  It was like seeing them suddenly triggered something inside me. I felt dizzy and I started to hyperventilate. All of a sudden it was like I was back there at that house. I could see Uncle’s piggy eyes peering through the glass, feel Auntie’s cold hands touching me under the blankets. Then my father was there, pulling my clothes off.

  ‘Debbie, are you OK?’ I heard Lorna ask but I couldn’t respond because I knew he was there too.

  It was like Patrick Ryan was in the room with me. I could smell his stale, sweaty stench and feel the air being squeezed out of my lungs as he climbed on top of me.

  ‘Get off me!’ I yelled. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Debbie, talk to me,’ I heard Lorna say but I was shaking with fear as it felt so real.

  In the end Lorna was so worried, she drove me to A&E at Eastbourne General. The psychiatric officer came to examine me and gave me 10mg of diazepam, and very slowly over the next few hours I started to calm down.

  ‘It was like they’d all merged into one and they were all there in the room,’ I told her. ‘I could feel them on me, abusing me again.’

  I’d go to bed and wake up in the middle of the night screaming. I’d end up punching poor Rob in the face even though he was just lying there minding his own business.

  ‘Get off me!’ I’d shout.

  ‘Debbie, it’s OK, it’s only me,’ he’d tell me. ‘You’re safe.’

  I had panic attacks too, along with the flashbacks. One morning I was walking home from the doctor’s. One minute I was fine, the next my heart was racing and I was sweating and shaking. It felt like I had pins and needles all over my body and I couldn’t breathe. I was halfway up the road, literally yards away from home, but it was as if the nearer I got to my house, the further it moved away.

  ‘Somebody, please help me,’ I whispered as I felt my legs give way, but there was no one around.

  I knew I was going to keel over so I managed to cling onto a neighbour’s wall while I tried to get my breath back, but I couldn’t move; I was frozen to the spot. I could see my house but I couldn’t get to it.

  Eventually I managed to get my mobile out of my bag and phone a cab. The taxi driver must have thought I was crazy as it was literally a one-second journey across the road but I knew I couldn’t do it on my own.

  It wasn’t just the psychological problems either. One of the things I was most ashamed of talking about when I was giving the statement to the police was the fact that Ryan had urinated on me after he’d abused me. It made me feel so dirty and worthless.

  When I went to the loo, I’d be sat there and I’d think of him and what he’d done to me, and then I couldn’t wee. I was desperate but no matter how hard I tried, nothing came out. It got to a point where it was so bad that I hadn’t been able to pass urine at all for three days and I had severe back and stomach ache.

  I was too ashamed to go to the doctor’s until Mum found me at home doubled over one morning.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t wee’d for nearly four days,’ I said.

  She was horrified and called an ambulance straight away. I was admitted to Eastbourne General again – I think they were sick of the sight of me in there. I lost it when they said they needed to put a catheter in.

  ‘Nobody’s touching me down there,’ I told Mum.

  ‘It’s for your own good, love,’ she said.

  In the end three nurses had to hold me down while they did it because I was kicking up such a fuss.

  ‘You’re very lucky,’ the doctor told me afterwards. ‘Your bladder was holding three litres of liquid and almost perforated.’

  I knew it was extremely dangerous and I could have died. I described my symptoms and they did test after test but they couldn’t find any physical reason that would be preventing me from going to the loo. In the end I had to learn how to self-catheterise up to five times a day to stop the same thing happening again.

  Just like when we were children, Laraine and I coped in different ways. Unlike her, I managed to cover up my drinking quite well. I didn’t want her to think: ‘My God, she’s doing the same thing that I did’.

  I managed to function to a certain extent. I wasn’t falling down drunk and I could always get the kids off to school and make them their tea. But I think she suspected as sometimes I’d ring her up and ask her about the court case.

  ‘Are you OK, Deb?’ she’d ask. ‘You sound drunk.’

  ‘I’ve just had a couple of wines,’ I’d tell her.

  Her way of coping was not to talk about it at all, whereas I was obsessed and that was all I wanted to talk about to anyone. Every day I would phone or text her.

  ‘Do you think he’s going to get charged?’ I asked her one day. ‘Have you heard anything from the police or the CPS?’

  ‘I don’t know, Deb. We’ve done all we can, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘How can you be so matter of fact and calm about it all?’ I said, getting annoyed. ‘You can’t want him to get away with it!’

  Laraine sighed.

  ‘Deb, just pack it in,’ she said. ‘All you ever talk about is him and I don’t want to. I’m fed up of hearing about it.’

  It made me so angry as she was the one who had started all this.

  It was almost like she had closed up after she’d given her statement. It was as if she’d got it off her chest and that was enough, whereas I was the opposite. She wouldn’t even discuss it with her own family. It was ages before she’d been able to tell Brendan and the boys what was going on.

  ‘I’ve told Brendan,’ she said. ‘It was so hard, Deb, but I did it. He’s been really supportive but I don’t want him to know any of the details about what happened.’

  She’d told Mitchell and Jordan, too.

  Eight long months after I’d made my statement against Patrick Ryan, I was at work one day when I saw that I had four missed calls from PC Carol Day.

  ‘Debbie, please can you pick your phone up?’ she said in her message. ‘It’s urgent.’

  But whenever I tried to ring her, she was on the other line. I was just coming off my break and walking back to the ward when she rang again.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some news for you: Patrick Ryan is going to be charged. The CPS have decided there’s enough evidence to prosecute him.’

  I lite
rally stopped dead in the corridor.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, not able to take it in.

  ‘Debbie, there’s going to be a court case.’

  I was absolutely ecstatic, but in a matter of seconds that quickly turned to dread.

  ‘Oh God, Carol, I don’t think I can do this,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she told me. ‘It’s thanks to the strength of your evidence and everything that you remembered that this is finally happening.’

  My first thought was what Laraine was going to say, but Carol said Jo had already phoned her to tell her.

  ‘When will he have to go to court?’ I said.

  ‘We haven’t got a definite date yet but anytime from the beginning of September.’

  I still couldn’t believe it. My hands were shaking as I called Rob and my mum and told them that after all this time it was finally going to court.

  Then I rang Laraine.

  ‘We’ve done it, Lal,’ I said. ‘They believed us. I’m so pleased that it’s going to court.’

  But she didn’t sound as happy as I’d expected.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her. ‘Aren’t you pleased that it’s finally happening after all this time?’

  ‘Course I am,’ she said. ‘I’m just worried. Deb, we’re going to get ripped to pieces in court if there’s a trial, you know? There’s no evidence – it’s just two against one.’

  ‘Well, the police and the CPS must think it’s a strong enough case otherwise it wouldn’t have gone this far,’ I said. ‘We should be proud of ourselves.’

  ‘I’m just scared.’

  ‘We can do this together,’ I told her.

  I was on a high. Without any DNA or forensic evidence, purely on the strength of our statements and the details we could remember, there had been enough to charge him.

  The police told us that Ryan would have to appear at Woolwich Crown Court in a couple of weeks. I wasn’t surprised when I heard that he’d pleaded not guilty; I was expecting that as he always was a cocky so-and-so.

  ‘It looks like there will definitely be a trial now,’ sighed Laraine.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m glad.’

  I hadn’t wanted him to plead guilty as chances were he would have got a lighter sentence: I wanted him to be found guilty. I wanted the chance to go to court and look him in the eye and tell everyone what he’d done. Finally, after thirty-five years, that was going to happen. It was what I’d waited for and wanted for so long but I was absolutely terrified.