Silent Child

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Silent Child Page 7

by Toni Maguire


  ‘What do you see?’ he asked, his finger pointing to a minute brown speck. ‘You did that, didn’t you?’ he added, spinning me round to face him.

  I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about – the mark was hardly bigger than a pinhead.

  Bending down so that his face was just inches from mine, he engaged in such intense eye contact that I wanted to close mine: ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ And as I shook my head, I saw that red veil creep over his face and knew all hell was about to break loose.

  I had seen his tempers before, received his stinging slaps each time he blamed me for something that had gone wrong – a dish left out in the kitchen, a coat not hung up – in fact, anything he considered a mess had to be my fault. This time, looking up into his hard, grey eyes, my stomach lurched: this was going to be far worse than anything else.

  When he kept repeating what he thought the stain was, I knew I was in terrible trouble.

  ‘It’s your poo on there, isn’t it? You little slut!’ he yelled at me, running his finger along the wallpaper before holding it up to his nose. ‘I can smell it, so don’t deny it.’

  With that, he spun me round again and pushed my face hard against the wall.

  ‘You wiped your hands on it, didn’t you? I know you did!’

  No matter how many times I cried no, he still kept bouncing my head against the wall. It was only his hands holding my shoulders that prevented me from collapsing after he repeated that act a third and then a fourth time. I tried to glance at my mother – surely, she would come to my aid? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an expression on her face I had never seen before. With a sinking feeling, I saw it was amusement at what he was doing. She was taking his side, but she must know I hadn’t done it. Whether or not she did, I knew then there would be no help coming from her.

  And then he did something that has lived with me all these years: he propped me up against the wall before removing his rings slowly, one by one, from those thick fingers of his.

  ‘Take these, will you, Betty?’

  And there was my mother holding out her hand for him to drop them in her palm. I saw her fingers curl over them before she moved away without saying a word. One of his hands shot out and seized me by the neck while the other slapped my face so stingingly hard, I stumbled back.

  Left cheek first, then right.

  Up until then his stinging blows had only landed on my legs. This was worse, much worse – he really wanted to hurt me. Through the pain I heard him repeating, ‘Filthy little slut!’ before catching hold of my hair and practically lifting me up in the air with it. Red-hot searing pain tore through my scalp and I screamed. A hand went over my mouth, muffling the sound as he dragged me along the hall towards the bedrooms.

  ‘Right, now you’re going to look at yourself while you keep repeating your lies,’ he told me, releasing his hand from my mouth.

  ‘Mum,’ I screamed out, ‘stop him, stop him!’ but I only heard silence as her reply. I could not see her, but I knew she was there and then I heard a sound, the clip of heels as her footsteps moved away.

  He dragged my sobbing younger self not into my bedroom, but into the one he shared with my mother. In there was a tall mirror propped against the wall. He stood me in front of it and although he kept his fingers twisted round a chunk of my hair, he released it slightly.

  One move from me would bring back that searing pain.

  ‘Now, who do you see in the mirror, Emily?’

  ‘Me,’ I managed to stutter out.

  ‘No, you don’t, you see a liar. Say it . . . say “I’m a liar”.’

  But I couldn’t – I knew I hadn’t put the stain there and I also knew it was not poo on the wall.

  Another slap landed on my face.

  ‘So, you don’t think you’re a liar? Well, look in that mirror again and tell me the truth. Now, what do you see?’

  I saw a small child with tear-filled eyes and red welts in the shape of his hand on each of her pale cheeks. A child who was limp from fear and exhaustion while he, I knew, saw a victim – his victim.

  ‘Well now, what would your grandmother think if she heard about this? Don’t think she likes liars much either!’

  At my young age, I did not have the vocabulary or the courage to say she would hate a bully more.

  He shook me when it was clear I had no words left in me and told me to go to my room.

  That day, I learnt it is not the truth that will set you free.

  It took another ten years before I learnt what would.

  I blinked, forcing that image of my younger self to recede. But not before another memory slunk in: my mother and him sitting together on the settee, laughing as they remembered the beating he gave me. ‘Especially, that bit when it was wham, bam and then another slap!’

  Now, that really cracked them up.

  I could feel my heart racing at the memory, almost feel that old fear creeping back into me.

  A small hand slipped in mine. Blue eyes in a smiling face with the flawless skin, fine and delicate as mine had been when he marked it, looked up at me.

  Not the time for a panic attack, I told myself. Sonia is waiting.

  Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and pulled myself back to the present day. Looking back at my daughter, with that expectant expression as she waited for me to praise her artwork, I smiled down at her.

  ‘It’s lovely, darling,’ I said.

  For didn’t I want her to have only happy memories to look back on when she left childhood?

  Chapter 18

  Carl had won, there was no doubt about that. I would say every move he made from the first day he met us had been well thought out. From even before he tested my mother’s reactions to him ticking me off to when he raised his game to physically punish me. I’ve heard of children being groomed, but it’s only since the drawers started flying open and I had another look at those early years that I realised that adults can be too. But then perhaps I should have taken more notice of some of the cases that have made headline news.

  You know the ones – seemingly ordinary women meet men whose hobby is inflicting suffering on those who are smaller and defenceless. And what happens? Evil seeps into them until they too wear the label marked ‘monster’. I have studied Psychology at college, but never found the answers to explain just how these people are able to transfer their darkness into another. How Carl did it, I will never know – not even with my first-hand knowledge of seeing it unfold right under my nose.

  It had certainly not taken him long to progress from telling me what to do to hitting me so badly, I was just about traumatised. If I was aware of Mum’s barely concealed amusement when she watched those actions, then he must have been as well. And what had that told him? Not just one thing, but two.

  He had managed to bring out something in her which made them almost kindred spirits. Not that I understand how he was so sure he could manage to achieve that when he first met not just Mum, but me as well. In less than a year of him moving in, he had completed the first two stages of his plan and was confident that he was now ready to take the next step: progressing from physical to what anyone else but my mother would have called sexual abuse. Or, as I would put it, Stage Three could then commence.

  I feel now that he had known exactly what he wanted that very first day he had met me – a small plaything he could totally control and abuse, even though he was almost certainly aware that he could not go too far, too early on. The type of abuse he had in mind would have to start off quite subtly to begin with – little games that I would at first believe were just that. After all, this was not the dark ages of a few decades earlier, where abuse was never talked about, or if it ever came to light, then it was the child who became the pariah in society. This was the nineties, where social workers, police and teachers were beginning to be trained to deal with any suspicions of abuse, including physical as well as sexual. Goodness, if only I’d been able to speak out, they would have had a field day all ri
ght! But I didn’t, for I had no way of knowing that a child giving a detailed description of her mother’s lover touching her inappropriately would be listened to. Not only listened to, but action of some kind would be taken swiftly. Childline – the confidential service where children can talk about anything – was out there and now the public was becoming aware that all too often it was a trusted family member who used his position to groom or threaten youngsters into accepting years of abuse.

  Not that I ever heard about that organisation until I was a lot older. I’m certain both Carl and my mother were fully aware of it and made sure that I never saw their phone number when it flashed up on the TV screen.

  I doubt that Carl was overly concerned about me talking though. By then I think he was utterly convinced that I had become far too afraid of him to risk it – and he was right. In fact, I was more than just frightened, my new shadow was Fear. It had let me know it would be my constant companion and promised never to leave me while I lived under my stepfather’s roof.

  I’ve heard Fear described in many different ways, from lurching stomachs, shaking, sweats to fast-beating hearts. But that’s panic, not the deep-rooted fear I’m talking about. How I would describe it is as a white empty space forming in the mind where that little demon takes up residence gleefully. Once safely ensconced, it will stop all independent thinking and all reasoning ability. When it chooses a battered woman’s brain, she seldom leaves her fist-wielding partner for Fear mutters incessantly that she was to blame for him losing his temper. And wasn’t he sorry afterwards, didn’t he tell her he loves her more than anyone else would? So, believing no one else will ever feel the way he does for her, she pulls on her long-sleeved tops to hide the bruises and tells everyone about that stupid door that blackened her eye. There is even a novel about it – Roddy Doyle’s acclaimed work, The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.

  Now, I do know from both the newspapers and the news that there are some who find the courage to make their escape – the ones who recognise a monster when they see one. Some find a refuge that will protect them, others run as far away as possible and then there are a few who snap and pick up a knife, a hammer or whatever comes to hand, to batter or stab their partner to death.

  Even our country’s prisons are safer than the one they have been living in.

  But you need to realise that I’m talking about an adult’s brain. When Fear enters a child’s brain, it’s far easier for it to take complete control. Once inside their head, its spider-like tentacles reach out to take over their thoughts, speech, even their limbs. If that’s not enough, it trespasses into their dreams, turning them into nightmares.

  It’s a peculiar thing that children find one of the worst threats made to them is not being beaten, but being taken away and put in a home where both the windows and doors are locked. They are told when that happens they will never, ever see their family again. Like the child I was, they are even more afraid of losing the very people who are cruel to them – they just want the bad things to stop. Which means the fear of being ripped away from everything they know is strong enough to silence them. Like me, they have been told not to talk – so they don’t.

  That is one of the problems that social workers have to deal with. Like my dad, and my grandmother, they might suspect something is wrong, but little can be done when they are faced with a child who denies it. And in my case, as I’m sure it has been for all the silent others, the abuse gradually became almost a daily ritual.

  Another trick that Carl put in play was aimed at confusing his victim. Maybe if I’d been allowed to just simmer with hate during my childhood, that would have been easier. But no, he turned me into someone who wanted to gain his approval. That way, he was able to control me even more. He really perfected that part of his plan to a tee. Little deeds of kindness followed by praise to make me feel almost special. Trouble is, when that happens so seldomly, the victim begins to feel grateful for just a few crumbs of attentiveness – sad, but true.

  He would be all smiles and friendliness, sometimes for a day, sometimes even longer. Then just for that short time I would begin to feel safe. He would tell me he loved me, that he saw me as his daughter and that the lessons were only there to help me, that he wanted what was best for me. Sometimes he would even buy me little gifts (some hair ribbons, a pencil case once and the odd bag of sweets), read to me and even allow me to watch TV with him and Mum once or twice.

  Those times made me almost forget, though not quite, about the little demon living inside my head. And once he was sure that I’d slipped under his spell, with warm smiles and a look of interest on his face, he began to take an interest in a hobby of mine – my painting.

  Apart from being an avid bookworm, like my daughter, I have enjoyed both painting and drawing ever since I was old enough to hold a crayon or a paintbrush in my hand. Today, it’s something Sonia and I often do together. It’s always more fun for a child, isn’t it, when another person admires what they’re doing? It gives me such pleasure when I see her eyes sparkling with happiness each time I praise her on one of those occasions when I have managed to persuade her to paint on paper in the hope that she will continue to stick to that.

  Not that this was what Carl encouraged me to do. Oh no, he had a completely different idea! To paint on skin – his. An idea that must have formed in his head when he saw me drawing little pink stars on my arms. If I was unable to resist using the background of my pale skin as a canvas then I could also use his too, couldn’t I, he told me magnanimously. Especially as more than once he had watched me extend my drawings to my legs as well.

  This was something my mother objected to, even though it was easy to wash off. To my surprise, for once Carl took my side and said it was OK with him: ‘It looks pretty,’ he said laughingly.

  I was certainly fooled by that burst of good humour as I was when he came home with an assortment of paints and some more brushes.

  ‘Maybe she can train to be a tattooist,’ he told Mum. ‘You only have to have a good eye for that and then plenty of money comes in!’

  She didn’t make any comment.

  I was so busy admiring all the paints he had put in front of me that his words went straight over my head.

  ‘Do you know what that means?’ he asked me and I shook my head. ‘It’s drawing beautiful pictures on people’s skin. Some people are covered everywhere with them – their arms, their necks, even their backs. Now, let’s see how well you can paint on me as well as yourself,’ he suggested, rolling up his sleeve. ‘After all, it will save on paper, won’t it?’

  At this I heard an underlying amusement in his voice which made me feel uncomfortable without understanding why. I might not have come to like him, or even trust him, but it still made me feel good when he admired what I was doing. To begin with, he made me paint pictures on his arms, which was almost fun. Though I did not like touching the dark hair that grew on them. Not that he was satisfied with that for long.

  ‘Come,’ he said, once I had drawn the same stars on his wrist that I had painted on mine. ‘I think we can do a little more, don’t you? Let’s see what you can draw on the top of my arm.’

  Rolling his sleeve up a little further, he pulled a towel under it.

  ‘There you go, it’s a blank canvas.’

  Not blank enough, though.

  I remember looking at it with something like revulsion – my skin was clear and light while with his sleeves rolled up, all I could see was that thick, dark hair. I wanted to pull away but his eyes bored into mine, holding me there.

  ‘Come on, Emily, I’m waiting for you . . .’

  Obediently, I dipped my brush in one of those small pots and painted on a dark blue circle.

  That was a start of something I did not understand, not then.

  Now, I do.

  When he appeared bored with circles and flowers on his arms, he suggested I try on his legs.

  Legs were longer, weren’t they?

  To begin with, it was just the r
olling up of his trousers; his eyes would flick between my mother and me. And when she appeared only amused, the trousers were rolled higher . . . until the day he decided to take them off.

  Still, she said nothing.

  A rug was placed on the floor and I, fighting back something I had not a name for, did as he asked and painted away on his legs.

  ‘Higher,’ he told me.

  Bracing myself, I did as he said. When I had covered his legs and then his back with paint, I sat back, exhausted at doing something that so revolted me. That was when he announced, ‘Shower for us! Got to get this paint off, haven’t we?’

  It slowly dawned on me that he meant both of us together.

  I looked up at Mum, hoping she would not agree to such a thing.

  ‘Your dad will take you,’ was all she said.

  I wanted to say something, ask her to take me. Young as I was, I was fussy about who helped me shower – I didn’t want him to see me undressed either.

  ‘Oh, just run along, will you?’ she said impatiently.

  Powerless to do anything else, I followed him out of the room.

  That first time he got in with me, rubbed soap on my body and then asked me to do the same to him. I hated having the water pouring down on me. Didn’t they realise it stung? Not only that, the steam was making it hard to see and I was scared the water would get in my eyes. That was something that really scared me, so I closed my eyes and kept ducking my head.

  Not that I wanted to look at his body so close to mine. There was that thing sticking out that I didn’t want to touch. I knew what it was – I had too many little male cousins not to know it was how they peed. But his was much larger than theirs.

  That first time we were both in the shower, he didn’t touch me in those places I thought of as private, he just lifted me out, wrapped a towel around my body and rubbed me dry.

  ‘Pop off to your room and get your pyjamas on,’ he told me. ‘I’ll make you a cup of hot chocolate.’

 

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