That had been the start.
The men would sit us on their knees and bounce us up and down. We didn't know it was wrong. I remember one man who used to live down the street. He had what I now know to be a huge hard-on. I remember he joked that he had something for me down his trousers. Everybody laughed. I didn’t understand then, but now I know why they all found it so funny—the sick bastards. At the time, I was puzzled and upset that I didn't get my present from him.
One night one of Dad's friends woke me. He spoke in hushed whispers, telling me to lie still.
This was the first time warning bells went off in my head. I was on the top bunk, Andrew underneath. I didn’t want to wake him so I never made a sound.
The man pulled the bedcovers back and twisted me around so my head was wedged up against the wall, and my legs hung over the edge of the bed. He pulled off my pyjama bottoms and underwear and stood there looking at me.
After a series of grunts, he made a long, groaning sound and then hurriedly pushed me back into bed. He tucked my clothing under the pillow and whispered that I'd be in a lot of trouble if I told anybody what I'd done. He said he wouldn't tell on me if I was a good girl.
I was petrified.
I didn't want to be in trouble. I didn't even know what I'd done wrong.
I lay still for a few minutes and then pulled my pyjamas out from underneath my pillow. I couldn't find my panties. I needed to pee so I put the pyjamas on and climbed down the ladder as quietly as I could.
Out on the landing I saw down into the hallway. The man was standing by the front door with my dad. I was worried that he was going to tell him what I'd done and get me into trouble. They were speaking in whispers, but I heard him thank my dad. They shook hands and Dad patted him on the shoulder as he left.
Looking back, I realise that maybe if I'd caused a scene that night it might have gone no further. My silence and cooperation gave my dad and his sick mates the green light they wanted.
But I was only eight years old!
Emma's pink, fleece bedspread was half on the floor. As I bent to pick it up I noticed the sparkly seahorse fastened to the corner of it. I'd put in my jewellery box the day after the zoo—I didn't want to chance Emma losing it before we found out where she’d got it from—bloody Michael. He must have given it to her again.
I sat on the bed. Another wave of sadness came over me and I pulled the bedspread across my legs and buried my face in Emma's pillow to stifle the sobs.
Chapter 18
Brian
The house was eerily quiet.
Brian had been sitting in Barbara's armchair since getting home from the police station in the early hours.
He'd waited until he knew the girls would be awake before making the necessary calls. They both said they would come over as soon as they could.
He also called a couple of close friends and now he had no energy left. The rest would have to wait until later.
Telling his daughters their mother had died was the most terrible thing he'd ever had to do.
It hadn't come as a complete shock to them, however. Barbara’s health had been getting worse for a long time, and although they didn't often visit, the girls spoke to her every week.
Pamela had taken it the worst. She hadn't been able to talk and in the end her partner, Clive, came on the phone. She called back a short while later and confirmed she'd come over as soon as she could arrange a child-minder for little Amy. I suggested she bring her too, but Pamela insisted it was no place for a sensitive four-year-old.
Alison had been much calmer, but she always was the cool one in a crisis. She said she would be there as soon as she could. She was coming from Manchester, which was a fair way off. He didn't expect to see either of them until later today or maybe even tomorrow.
His stomach growled. He'd not had a thing to eat since last night's frozen lasagne. So much had happened since then. His eyes pricked with tears once again.
Shuffling into the kitchen, he set about fixing a ham sandwich and a cup of tea—not his usual choice of breakfast but he'd had no sleep so it seemed more like supper.
Everything was a massive effort. He suddenly felt ancient and couldn't imagine life without Barbara—she'd been his rock for as far back as he could remember.
He took two cups from the sideboard and proceeded to brew a pot of tea for two. As he poured the amber liquid he realised his mistake and with an animal-like roar he snatched up the white china cup from the bench top and slammed it across the room to the wall. It shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. He let out another pained cry and put his head in his hands and sobbed.
He'd always been a very calm man. He'd never lost his temper with his wife or children, and he didn't see the point in wild displays of affection or grief. He was usually much more subtle than that. This outburst shocked him. He'd never experienced emotion this close to his soul and didn't know how to cope with the raw pain surging through him.
After a few minutes, he wiped his eyes on a tea-towel and reached under the sink for the dustpan and brush. He began to clear up the fine shards of porcelain. The gaping, empty ache in his stomach was much worse than any physical pain he'd ever experienced.
He was on his hands and knees when there was a knock at the door. He glanced at the clock—barely eight o'clock. "Who can this be?" he mumbled to himself.
Knees creaking, he got to his feet and emptied the contents of the dustpan into the rubbish bin.
The knock came again, louder and more urgent this time.
"All right, all right, keep your hair on," he called, shuffling into the hallway.
As he reached the door, he lifted the security chain and as he was about to secure it he shook his head and let it drop instead.
A tall, well-dressed blond woman stood on the doorstep. She was familiar but for the life of him he couldn't place her.
"Hello. Can I help you?" he asked.
"Hi, Brian. Can I come in?" the woman asked as she shoved past him and stomped into the living room.
"Hey! Hey, hold on a minute. Who the heck are you?" He followed her.
She had sat in Barbara’s chair and had her back to him as he tentatively shuffled into the room, his hands wringing together in fear. Why would this woman scare him so much?
"Ca-can I help you? Who are you? Please leave!" Brian cringed at the sound of his own whiny voice.
She turned to face him and another flash of recognition hit him but was gone as fast as it came.
"Surely you remember me, Brian?"
Her voice was husky and sexy, and no doubt if you were into that type she would be incredibly attractive.
"I-I can't play games with you. What do you want? I lost my dear wife last night, so I'm sure you'll understand that I'm not being rude by asking you to leave."
"Always the gentleman, hey, Brian. Ever so polite when really all you want to do is drag me kicking and screaming from your home." She smiled. "What a shame Barbara isn't here for your unveiling."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, feeling light-headed. His breathing had become very shallow, barely reaching his lungs.
"I'm sure you do, Brian. Though I've got to hand it to you—you certainly pulled it off all these years. She didn't have a clue, did she?" She raised one well-groomed eyebrow as she awaited his response.
"You're talking in riddles," he said, his voice rising even higher. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trouser legs and then put his hands in his pockets.
"What's in your pocket, Bri? Is it the old trouser snake?"
He gasped and it was as though a couple of mousetraps had gone off in each pocket—he pulled his hands free and held them out in front of him in absolute horror. His blood ran icy cold.
"All those innocent little girls. Do you think the part you played was any less sick than all the others?" Once again, she raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. Brian was aware of his rapid heartbeat and realise
d he hadn’t taken his blood pressure pills. “I must insist you leave. I'm expecting my daughters any second now."
"Do you still ogle them, Brian? Little Pamela and Alison?" Her lips turned up at the corners, not quite a smile, and a glint of amusement in her eyes. "I bet they won't let you anywhere near their kids. They know what you are. You may have kept it from everyone else, but they have always known."
He couldn't stand any longer. He sat heavily on the sofa, tears pouring down his face. He made no effort to cover them up, and they flowed freely. He couldn’t believe it, this stranger was killing him with her vicious words. How could she know so much?
"Aw, poor Brian, what a shame. There, there," she jibed.
"Who are you? Did Dennis send you? Is that what all this is about?" he whispered. “What does he want? He can have anything if I’ve got it to give. Please—please just stop this, I can’t stand anymore.”
She smiled, shaking her head. "Don't you remember me, Brian? How you bounced me on your knee when I was little? How you encouraged my dad to help you get your rocks off with his own kids? You even paid him for the pleasure, you sick fuck! You allowed the abuse to go on, Brian."
"But it was going on anyway! I didn't touch anyone—it was them, all them. I swear to you."
"Have you listened to yourself? Is this how you justified the part you played for all these years? By telling yourself you're innocent, because you didn't actually touch anybody? Well whoop-dee-doo—my mistake. If it’s all so innocent then, you won’t mind sharing your story with the police, will you?"
"What do you want from me?" Brian screamed, his voice was more like a squeal.
"What do you think?" The woman got up and stood over him.
He was petrified. Couldn’t imagine what she was about to do. He cowered—covering his face with his raised arm, he peeked over the top of it.
She reached into the large grey bag she had slung over her shoulder, pulled out a blowtorch and pressed a couple of buttons. A tight blue flame blazed from the nozzle.
Brian was now glued to the seat with fear, his thoughts rioting through his mind. "What the …?" He shook his head. His breathing was now noisy, short pants, and sounded like someone sawing a plank of wood.
"For all those children, Brian. I'm going to make sure you never look at another little girl ever again—not here or in hell."
She bent towards him. The intense heat of the controlled flame closed in on his face.
"No, please! I beg you," he cried. Moving much faster than he had in years, he pushed backwards and caused the sofa to tip. Then he rolled sideways, scrambling to his knees with more agility than a man half his age, and still crawling, headed for the front door.
Even though he’d picked up speed he knew it was pointless when halfway down the hall he heard the sound of her heels as she caught up with him.
He screamed as she grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Then her high heeled leather boot stamped down on the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor.
The gurgling sounds that escaped him made him think he would die that way. He couldn’t breathe at all. Her strength blew his mind. She pulled his head back in an unnatural angle, and his arms flailed uselessly at his sides.
He heard the tell-tale crackling, before he felt his hair singe. The incessant roar of the torch was driving him mad—there was no way to escape it.
The white-hot pain, when it arrived, was like nothing he'd ever experienced. The flame licked at his right eye, the tearing metal of the torch prodded his melting eyeball. The smell was unreal.
He felt his eyeball pop and heard the squelching sound as she pushed it into his brain.
Chapter 19
Amanda
The incessant ringing of the phone broke through to my dreams and I wished someone would answer it. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Sunlight poured into Emma's bedroom window and I remembered I was alone.
I ran down the stairs taking two at a time, praying it was Michael. I reached the phone just as the answering machine picked up.
"Hello, Michael?" my voice echoed from the kitchen followed by Michael's answer phone message. "Hold on a minute," I said.
I waited for the message to finish and the machine to beep. "I'm sorry—who's speaking, please?" My voice still boomed from the kitchen.
"Hello, Mrs Flynn?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Jeff from PK Plumbing just confirming our appointment today in Kingsley."
"Oh, bloody hell, I forgot. What time?"
"I'm about finished here, so … say, an hour?"
"Any chance we can make the appointment a bit later, or tomorrow? I don't have a car."
"Sorry, love. If you need to re-book, the earliest would be next week. We're chock-a-block."
Of course you are, I thought, sighing. "No, don't worry. I'll see you there in an hour."
My plans had been to ring DS Stanley and to get the car sorted out. Instead, I'd wasted almost three hours sleeping. The car would have to wait since the drains were far more important. I couldn’t work with that terrible stench for any longer than necessary.
It’s at times like these I regret not getting to know the neighbours. Being a loner suited me most of the time, but it left me with nobody to turn to in an emergency. I heard Dr Freda's voice in my head saying, "Yet another symptom, Amanda." I screwed up my face and blew a raspberry at the imaginary voice.
Next, I called a cab. The fact it would cost a small fortune was the least of my worries right now.
I threw on a tracksuit, stuck my hair up with a few clips and was ready to leave a few minutes later.
In usual London fashion, the journey took ages. When we pulled up outside the property, I could see the plumber sitting in his van on the other side of the road. I paid the cab driver and got out just as the plumber started up his van.
I ran across the road, jumping and waving my hands about like a mad woman. I reached the van as he was about to pull out into the road.
"Hey, hey, where are you going?" I cried.
The pounding on the bonnet startled the plumber. He slammed on his brakes and wound the window down. "Watch out, lady, you almost got flattened!"
"Where are you going?" I shrieked. "I've just had the cab ride from hell to get here and find you're about to leave."
"I've been waiting twenty minutes already. I told you I was busy!"
"Well, I'm here now and you're going nowhere until you fix my drains."
I stood my ground, my hands on my hips, trying to appear forceful. I was so angry I could have thumped him and I think he knew it.
Begrudgingly, he got out of the van, his mouth set in a firm line, and pulled a large toolbox out from the back of the van.
Running on ahead, I opened the front door and stepped into the hall. "See what I mean? It’s terrible, eh?" I said and buried my face into the crook of my arm.
His head snapped back as though I'd slapped him. I showed him to the cellar door and he pulled the front of his sweater up over his mouth and nose and squinted his eyes before going down the steps.
I raced through to the kitchen and opened the windows and doors, filling my lungs with fresh air. I stood on the back step and waited.
Within a matter of minutes, the plumber was back upstairs.
"What made you think you had a plumbing problem?" he asked, his face screwed up as though he had shit on his top lip.
"Because of the stink. The house has been shut up for years and I thought it must be a blockage."
"You didn't see a blockage then?" His lips turned down at the corners and he gave a smug backwards nod.
I really didn’t like this man’s attitude, but I needed him to get the problem sorted. Keeping my voice as level as possible was an effort. "No, but how else do you explain it?"
"I've no idea, but as far as I can tell it's not your plumbing. I'll check outside but it all looks fine to me."
“I don’t know how you can possibly think it’s fine when you can’t even brea
the in here.”
I followed him out into the garden and watched as he pulled up the manhole near the front gate. He got on his knees and peered down the hole, then replaced the cover.
He walked over to his van and without a word put his tools away and opened the driver's door.
"Hey," I yelled across the road. "Where the fuck are you going?" My patience had completely left me now, and I felt as though I was about to blow a gasket.
"I told you, miss, it isn't your plumbing," he said, jumping into the van and starting the ignition.
"You can't just go!" I ran into the street, but I was too late. I watched as his van sped away and turned the corner.
As I walked back over to the house, tears began to fall. I slid down onto the doorstep, and as the anger fizzled away, I was left feeling sorry for myself.
I had no choice, I'd have to go down to the cellar myself and find out where that god-awful smell was coming from.
The last time I'd been in a cellar I was ten years old. Poor Andrew had spent a lot of petrified nights down there but once was more than enough for me.
I hadn’t misbehaved. All I was guilty of was refusing to cooperate while Dad and Annie were making one of their home videos. They were forcing Andrew to do things to me and it wasn’t right. I’d been carted off to the cellar as punishment.
My most vivid memory of that night was listening to the rats scurrying about. I remember burying my head into the dingy foam mattress on the floor, my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the sound. It was damp and so, so cold. I cried the whole night and didn’t get a wink of sleep.
I was relieved when my father unlocked the door and called me up into the warm kitchen where he had a mug of hot, sweet tea waiting for me. I was ready to agree to anything—and I had.
Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender Page 12