by Denis Ryan
I have battled with the demons every day for the past forty years. I have made mistakes in my life—plenty since I left the force and plenty while I was in it—but I maintain that when I was called upon to do my duty, I did it. I can’t say the same for many of my senior officers.
Day, Barritt, Kearney, the Catholic Mafia—I look back on it as a nightmare now. And it’s a nightmare that never ends. I still wake up in a cold sweat almost every night. It was all over bar the shouting forty years ago but the images of Day molesting children, Barritt standing over a parent or Kearney raping that poor young woman continue to haunt my dreams.
No doubt the royal commission will see a flood of apologies from any number of government and non-government organisations who have failed in their duty of care to children. It’s the first step in the process. It shouldn’t be the only one.
If apologies are going to be made, one to me from the Victoria Police force might be nice, too. But I won’t be holding my breath.
I’m Dinny Ryan and I have just turned 81 years of age.
DAY AND THE DARKNES:
THREE VICTIMS SPEAK
John’s story
John Fitzgibbon was 10 years old and in grade 6 at Sacred Heart Primary School when he was first raped by John Day in 1958. The sexual abuse continued for two years. Day referred to John as his ‘favourite’, and threatened him with being sent to a boys’ home if the boy told anyone about the abuse. John had been a good student at school and had received good reports in grade five, but once the abuse commenced, he lost all desire for education and feared school, as this was the place where Day abused him.
John has lived in Mildura all his life. With the encouragement of his friend Judy, whom he used to meet around the riverbank in Mildura when he skipped school, he began to write to ease the pain of his abuse. He filled exercise books with his thoughts and experiences.
Forty years later, he discovered the exercise books and began chronicling the pain he suffered at the hands of Day in a manuscript. Entitled Misspent Youth, this is a powerful and moving portrayal of John’s life and his lifelong struggle to overcome the trauma he encountered as a 10-year-old boy.
The following is an edited extract from John’s manuscript, detailing his first encounters with Day.
Two grades went that day: about 160 kids walked over to the church for confession. As usual the nuns organised the kids to each confession box so the numbers were even.
As I was walking down the aisle, Sister Claude stopped me and made me sit alongside her near the aisle.
Sister Claude gave me a poke with her leather strap and nodded in the direction of one of the four confession boxes. At first I couldn’t see but my eyes quickly grew used to the light. I could see a shadow through the partition, like a silhouette, and when the figure spoke, I could tell it was Father Day.
Unlike the other priests, he took a long time and kept asking me if there was anything else I should tell him. I didn’t have anything to confess but he persisted and urged me to tell him all of my sins.
All I could say was, ‘Bless me, Father for I have sinned’, but he didn’t seem to think that was enough.
Finally he let me go, telling me to say so many Hail Marys. I made a point of trying to avoid him at confession in future.
Later that afternoon in the church, Father Day gave a sermon. He went on and on about the fires of hell and told us that, as children, we must keep our souls pure through communion.
As we lined up to take communion, the altar boys were kept busy handing the sacramental bread to Father Day. As my turn came, Father Day put his hand on my head. He hadn’t done that with any of the other kids.
I kept thinking that he thought I might have lied to him in the confessional box and that he had special powers that could see into my soul and tell him everything that I had been up to.
The following day, I got into a bit of strife in Sister Claude’s class. She was a bully and a sadist, and everyone was frightened of her. We had seen her use the strap on kids, and others had their faces slapped so hard they would just burst into tears.
But kids were still kids and when she had her back turned, the boy sitting next to me and I started hitting each other on the legs. As I gave the boy a hard slap on his thigh, Sister Claude swung around and turned towards me.
‘Mr Fitzgibbon, you come up here now.’
It was nearly lunchtime and I didn’t think too much would happen. Maybe I’d have to stay in class over lunch but I figured she’d want her lunch break so I would probably avoid that leather strap she carried with her all the time.
I wasn’t so lucky. As the bell went and the kids filed out of the room, Sister grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out. My feet were barely touching the floor and my arm hurt from her tight grip.
She dragged me across the schoolyard and towards the presbytery. There were other kids pointing at me and somehow they knew that I was in deep trouble. Maybe most thought I was getting the strap but some of them would have known better.
I could see Father Day sitting on a chair on the verandah at the presbytery and he was looking at me as Sister dragged me towards him.
‘Excuse me, Father, but this boy has been naughty and I would like you to deal with him,’ she said, dragging me up the two steps to the verandah.
‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ Day replied. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
I took the two steps up on to the presbytery verandah slowly, unsure of my fate. I stood some distance from Father Day with my head bowed.
‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?’ he asked sternly.
‘I am sorry, Father,’ I blurted out. I was nearly peeing myself by this stage.
‘Make sure you say that at your next confession,’ he told me. ‘What will you say?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been bad in class, Father.’
‘Good boy. You don’t want me to tell your parents, do you?’
‘No, Father. Please, no.’
‘OK. You run along now and I will be watching you from now on. I will speak with you again.’
‘Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.’
As I walked back to the playground, I turned and looked at Father Day as he was going through the door of the presbytery. I walked past the peppercorn trees and remembered how the old nuns would use the branches as whips, belting us on the backs of our legs.
I couldn’t see any of my classmates but I could hear them in the distance playing in the yard. I could even hear the football being kicked around.
I looked up into one of the trees and decided to clamber up it as high as I could go. From my vantage point I could see the kids playing football. I was wondering what I had done wrong and why I was the only one to be sent to see Father Day.
I sat up there looking around, feeling safe. The bell went to end lunch but I thought I’d stay up in that old tree. I might get in trouble for being late but then Sister Claude wouldn’t know how long I’d spent with Father Day, so I thought I’d be all right.
I must have stayed in that tree for another hour before I climbed down and went back to class.
Sure enough, when I got back Sister Claude didn’t say a thing.
At afternoon play time, some of the kids asked me what had happened with Father Day. There was nothing to tell. All I told them was what he had said, that he’d be watching me.
A week later, the grade sixers were headed off for confession and mass again.
All week I’d been thinking about it. I wanted to avoid doing confession with Father Day.
Again Sister Claude was fussing around us, making sure the numbers were even around the confessional. I saw the four priests walk in, including Father Day. As he was about to get into his box, he turned and smiled at me.
I was desperate to avoid him but when my time came, Sister Claude nudged me with her strap in her hand and pointed towards Father Day’s confessional.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ I blurted out. ‘It has been five day
s since my last confession.’
I paused to hear his response. The confession box seemed darker than usual.
‘Yes, my son,’ Father Day replied finally. ‘What are your sins?’
‘I was bad in school, Father.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was messing around with another boy and I whacked him. Just messing around, Father.’
‘Hitting someone is not messing around, my son. So what other sins are on your soul?’
‘I swore in the school grounds, Father.’
‘You are at a Catholic school. We do not stand for that sort of thing. You know that, don’t you?
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Any other sins on your soul, my boy?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Your sins are serious, my son. I would like to see you soon about these, especially you hitting the boy in your class.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Your penance for your sins will be six Our Fathers and six Hail Marys.’
Father Day then said something in Latin while I waited.
‘You may go now, my son.’
As I walked out of the box, Sister Claude was giving me a glare as if I had done something wrong. I couldn’t work out why I was in such trouble just for messing around in class. I just wanted it to be over.
I knelt down and started to say my penance. I could feel Sister Claude’s eyes on me. Most of the other kids had finished their penance. There were only a few others left. Sister Claude moved down the aisle.
I thought, here’s my chance to escape, knowing that her veil was like blinkers on a horse. I moved quietly down the aisle, heading towards the exit. I was almost out the door when I felt Sister Claude’s sharp grip on my arm. She pulled me back to my seat and as I sat there two girls sniggered at me behind their hands.
I stayed there under Sister Claude’s fierce gaze while all the children filed out of the church, leaving me, her and the priests in the church.
Then I saw Father Day emerge from his box and come straight over.
‘Yes, young Johnny, isn’t it?’
I didn’t have a chance to say anything. Sister Claude chipped in.
‘Yes, Father. That’s him,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Sister. Now come with me, young man. You have a few lessons to learn about behaviour at school. Come now. I won’t bite.’
Father Day placed his hand in the small of my back and led me away through the front of the church and towards the presbytery.
‘Would you like a lemonade, Johnny?’ Father Day asked. His stern demeanour had slipped. He seemed friendly but in a way it was even more scary.
‘No, thank you, Father,’ I replied. A drink was the last thing I needed. I was busting to go to the toilet and being with Father Day in the presbytery had made it even worse.
‘Yes, you do, Johnny,’ Father Day said with that stern tone back in his voice. ‘You have a drink and we’ll have a talk, OK?’
He led me into a darkened room and went out to the kitchen to get me a drink. The room had a couch alongside one wall and a little table sat in the middle of the room with a number of books stacked up on it. On the other side of the room there were two armchairs side by side. Above the chairs there was a painting of the Last Supper.
Now I really wanted to pee and I started crossing my legs to ease the pressure on my bladder.
Father Day walked back in with a glass of lemonade in his hand. He pushed the books on the table to one side and put the glass down.
‘Here’s your drink, young man. Come over here and sit down,’ he said, nodding at one of the armchairs.
‘May I please use the toilet, Father?’
‘Well now, yes you could, but there’s a meeting in the next room. We can’t have you disturbing the meeting, walking through to the toilet,’ he said with a look of amusement on his face. ‘I tell you what, I’ll get a bucket for you. You can pee in that. It’s just outside. I’ll get it for you.’
The fear and my full bladder had other ideas. I was already wetting my pants, little dribbles coming out that I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried.
Day came back in, brandishing an old metal bucket.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Use this.’
I looked from side to side. I didn’t want to go to the toilet in front of a priest.
‘You and I have the same equipment. Would you like me to help you?’ Father Day said, still holding the bucket.
‘I’m OK. Thank you, Father.’
I took the bucket from his hand and put it on the floor. I turned around, my back facing Father Day for some privacy. As I fumbled with my fly, I started peeing myself. I weed into the bucket but most of it sprayed on my pants.
‘My, you did want to go, didn’t you, Johnny?’ Father Day said, smiling even more broadly. ‘I’ll get a towel and we will clean you up in no time. There’s a towel right here on the couch. Take your pants off and they will be dry in no time.’
‘It’s OK, Father,’ I stammered out, confused and in a panic. ‘By the time I get back to school, I’ll be dry.’
‘We haven’t had our talk yet, Johnny. So get those pants off and sit down.’
I didn’t get a chance to undress. Father Day came over and pulled my pants down. He pushed me towards the couch and I sat down as he pulled my pants off over my shoes and socks.
Then he grabbed at my underpants. I squirmed and grabbed at the band and pulled them back up.
‘It’s OK,’ Father Day said. ‘Let go now. You can’t have wet undies on.’
He pulled my underpants down and slid them off. I sat there covering myself with my shirt while he fussed around hanging up my pants and undies.
‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, son?’ Father Day said as he sat alongside me. ‘We can have our talk now.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘That’s my boy,’ he said as he slipped his arm around me. ‘Now let’s talk about you hitting boys in class. That is very serious, Johnny. Do you want me to tell your parents?’
‘No, please, Father.’
‘I think I should.’
‘No, Father. No.’
He started wiping my legs with the towel, moving up to my private parts then back down my legs.
‘Now that feels good, doesn’t it,’ he said. ‘Just relax. I won’t hurt you and I won’t tell your parents if you’re a good boy. Just lay back. Let your shirt go. It’s OK.’
He kept rubbing me with the towel, getting close to my private parts again.
‘You’re a very special boy,’ he said, looking at me. ‘Now roll onto your side and I’ll do the backs of your legs.’
He started wiping the towel over my bottom and between my legs. He clasped my penis with his hand. I felt a pain in my stomach and I was so frightened I couldn’t speak.
‘That feel good, Johnny?’ he said. ‘I’ve got one just like yours but it’s bigger. Would you like to look at it and see?’
He grabbed my hand and rolled me back over. I could see he had his pants down. His penis was hard and sticking out. I didn’t understand what was going on.
‘Give me your hand and hold it like this,’ he said as he took my hand firmly. I wanted to resist but he was too strong. He guided my hand towards his penis and made me hold it and move it back and forth.
‘Yours will be big just like mine one day when you’re older and it will get hard like mine,’ he said, moving my hand up and down his penis. ‘Now this is our secret, OK?’
I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to cry but I wasn’t game. The pain in my stomach grew sharper. My throat was dry.
He rolled me over again on to my stomach and put his knees on each side of me. I felt his penis between the cheeks of my bum, going back and forth. He gasped and then I felt something warm and wet on the backs of my legs. I thought he might have peed himself. But this wasn’t pee.
I lay there for what seemed like hours before he got up off me.
‘You’re special, John
ny,’ Father Day said, standing in front of me while I lay on my belly. ‘This is our secret, OK? You tell anyone and I’ll tell your parents that you’ve been bad at school. They won’t believe anything you tell them anyway.’
I didn’t understand what had just happened and I didn’t know what the warm liquid he’d squirted on me was. He started to wipe the cheeks of my bum with the towel again.
‘Now, my son, get dressed. Your pants and undies should be dry by now,’ he told me. ‘Get dressed and I’ll get something special for you.’
He walked out of the room. I scrambled for my pants. I couldn’t get dressed quick enough.
Within seconds, he was back in the room again.
‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘Here are some lovely chocolates for you.’
He handed me the chocolates.
‘Special chocolates for a special boy.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Run along and get back to school. Be a good boy. And don’t forget, this is our little secret.’
‘Yes, Father.’
I took off as fast as I could back to class but as I ran past the old peppercorn trees, I stopped and climbed up the big one again, going as high as I could. I sat there in the branches of that tree for an hour or more, crying. I didn’t understand what had happened but I felt an intense feeling of shame and fear.
I just knew I didn’t want it to happen again.
Kym’s story
In 1957, when he was 11 years old, Kym Burford was raped by John Day on four occasions. On each occasion Kym was in the company of Day for a weekend trip to Melbourne. Kym was raped at Day’s sister’s home in Williamstown. The tiny cottage had just one spare bedroom with one double bed. Day would demand that Kym sleep with him in that bed.
The memories never leave you. At a subconscious level, they’re always alive and lurching around in the dark corners of my mind. I never quite understand why they spring forward into the here and now when they do. I might be hosing the garden or messing around in the shed, loading up the ute or driving down the road. There’s no accounting for it and no telling when it will happen.