Daddy's Prisoner (29 page)

‘You can do it, you know,’ the woman told me.

‘Do what? It’s all in the past. It’s forgotten. Anyway, the police wouldn’t believe me.’

‘They would,’ she replied. ‘I know they would because I did what you are going to do.’

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘You mean actually go to the police? I couldn’t. I’m too scared.’

‘You’re stronger than you know, Alice.’

I could hardly take in what she was saying. Go to the police? Dredge everything back up that I was trying so hard to forget?

‘I can’t do it,’ I sobbed.

‘Yes, you can. You have to, Alice. You deserve justice.’

I stumbled out of the room and back to where Donna’s friends were still laughing and chatting.

‘How did you get on?’ Joan asked as I walked in.

I was silent as the fortune teller’s words rang in my ears. Could I really do what she had said? Was I really ready for that?

‘I could still get him charged,’ I gasped as I looked at Joan.

The women around me stopped talking as I stood shaking, my mind racing.

‘What do you mean?’ Joan asked.

I looked up at her, suddenly remembering where I was and who I was with.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.’

But I couldn’t forget what the fortune teller had told me after I got home. Could I really go to the police after all this time? The idea frightened me but as the days passed I realised that I might be finally ready to hear the message I had been given. I’d never thought properly about going to the police because of what had happened when the kids were taken and Jonathan was born all those years ago. They’d wanted to help me then but I’d refused and I’d always thought they would never listen to me again. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew the fortune teller was right. I would never put the past behind me if I did not confront it.

I’d spent so long running and where had it got me? I was on medication for depression, my marriage was crumbling and I longed to be a better mum – and all because a river of poison inside kept drowning me. I had flashbacks and bad dreams; the feelings of shame and worthlessness were as strong as they had been when I was a girl and my father touched me for the first time. I’d run from The Idiot but he was still controlling me: frightening me in my dreams and refusing to allow me to see Mum. I was almost as scared of him as I ever had been. I had to do something. It was time for it to end. I must try at least – however frightened I was. I had to do something for myself instead of running.

My courage failed me a dozen times when I looked up the number of the local police station and went to dial it. My fingers froze as I picked up the phone and I couldn’t bring myself to carry on. Steven had said he’d stick by me if I reported Dad and I knew it was what he wanted. I wondered if maybe it would finally show him that however much my past was still dragging me down, I loved him and the girls more than anything. But I just couldn’t pick up the phone. I was too scared. By the time the weekend arrived, I was still turning it all over in my mind when Steven and I took the girls to visit Joan. Donna was with her when we arrived and Joan shooed Steven out of the house with Emma and Lily.

‘Take them to the shops and get them a treat,’ she told him. ‘I want to speak to Alice.’

Joan, Donna and I were left alone and we got a cup of tea before sitting down in the lounge. I knew what Joan wanted to talk about – the fortune teller. Everyone had noticed how upset I was after seeing her.

‘I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth,’ Joan said.

‘Okay,’ I replied uncertainly.

‘You’ve told me about your miscarriages and Jonathan and Caitlin.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I’ve always known something wasn’t right, Alice, and what you said at the fortune teller’s convinced me.’

I gulped my tea and waited for her to speak again.

‘I don’t want you to be scared but there is something I need to ask you,’ said Joan. ‘Did your father hurt you? Was he your babies’ father too?’

I couldn’t believe Joan had said it, spoken the words as if they were believable. I didn’t know what to say.

‘You can tell us, Alice. Donna and I want to help you.’

I stared at them.

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

Joan got up to hug me as I started to cry. Neither of us spoke until eventually I stopped crying and Joan turned to me again.

‘Why did you never tell us, Alice?’ she asked kindly. ‘We would have helped you.’

‘Because I wanted to get away from it, have a normal life like everyone else. I wanted to forget.’

‘But how can you do that without help?’

‘I don’t know,’ I cried. ‘Steven said he’d help me.’

Joan looked at me silently for a moment. I knew now that Steven wasn’t going to do that. He was too young to cope with all this and too disgusted by what had happened to me to see past it.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Joan asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do, Alice.’

Joan stood up and got out the phone book from under the telephone. She copied down a number and handed it to me.

Later that afternoon, after Steven and I had got home and the girls were playing, I picked up the phone and dialled the number Joan had given me. It was for the local police station.

My heart hammered as the phone rung.

‘CID,’ a voice said, and I took a deep breath.

‘I want to report a crime,’ I replied.

I almost backed out a thousand times when I knew an officer was going to come and see me. I couldn’t believe I’d actually made the phone call and felt terrified when there was a knock on the door a couple of days later.

‘I’m Detective Constable Patrick O’Mara,’ an officer said as I invited him in. ‘I’m here to talk about the crime you reported. This is my colleague Susan.’

I could tell immediately that Patrick was a kind man. He had that look about him – tall with dark hair, he seemed open and friendly.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked nervously.

‘Sure,’ Patrick said.

It felt so unreal that the police were actually in my house and I wondered where I was going to begin.

‘At the beginning,’ Patrick said when I asked him. ‘Take us right back to when you were a little girl and tell us what you remember. We’ve got as much time as you need.’

So I started speaking and the words tumbled out of me. Patrick asked some questions but mostly he let me talk and didn’t look shocked or disgusted – he had the same calm look on his face throughout everything I said.

When I finally finished, I had just one question of my own that I wanted to ask Patrick.

‘Do you believe what I’m saying?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

After that first meeting, I had to go down to the police station to be formally interviewed by Patrick and it took two days to take my statement. It was very hard going through everything because I had to give details that I’d never spoken about before. I knew it was necessary but there were moments when I could see the shock on Patrick’s face and it made me wonder what other people would think about what had happened to me. I realised other women had been abused as children but was sure I must be the only one whose father had forced the worst possible sin on her. It was disgusting and I felt embarrassed talking about it but Patrick never once made me feel uncomfortable. He listened to me and that was what mattered.

‘I’ll be the one investigating your complaint, Alice,’ he told me. ‘But it could take some time. There are medical records to go through, social services reports to obtain and maybe laboratory tests to run. We have to be sure we can get enough evidence to charge anyone with a crime and that takes a while.’

In the months that followed, I rang Patrick regularly to get updates on what was happening. I knew he was working as hard as possible, talking to hospitals and social services, schools and police. I just hoped he’d be able to find enough evidence because in cases like mine – where the crime happened many years ago and was hidden from everyone – it was difficult. The specific details of events I had provided helped, of course, but there was little else to back up my story because I had been so hidden from everyone; for instance, I hadn’t seen my doctor during one pregnancy because I’d miscarried so early and had given a false name when I attended hospital for another. Even the four pregnancies on my medical records weren’t proof that my father had abused me. There was just one thing that would prove him guilty beyond all reasonable doubt – physical evidence. But would Patrick get it?

I prayed he would find what he needed and worried about the case continually. Had I done the right thing? Would The Idiot be made to pay? And what would he do to me or Mum if he was? I was in no doubt that Dad might try to take revenge and the thought made me shudder. I also felt petrified of the truth coming out because I’d hidden it for so long and wasn’t sure if I could bear people knowing. But I just kept telling myself that I’d done the right thing. I’d done what I had to do and I was going to finally finish what Dad had started more than two decades before. It had been six years since I’d run away and now I was finally strong enough to stand up to him.

Steven was relieved when I first went to the police. But as the months went on, things slipped back to how they’d been for so long. I sometimes wondered if I should ever have gone to the police. Would it really be worth it if it didn’t make the difference to my marriage that I’d hoped it would and Patrick didn’t find enough evidence? Then I’d have been through all this for nothing.

I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been to the police but a few weeks later Steven and I went to visit Michael and Julie. I left the two men in the lounge as I chatted to Julie in the kitchen but a few minutes later I heard Michael calling me.

‘What’s going on, Alice?’ he asked as I went in to see him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Steven’s told me everything,’ Michael snapped.

‘Told you what?’

‘About what that fucking arsehole did to you.’

Michael sounded really angry. I couldn’t believe that Steven had told him. I didn’t want anyone knowing because I wasn’t even sure if Dad would get charged or not. When I knew one way or the other then I’d decide what to do about telling people, but not now.

‘Why did you tell him?’ I shouted at Steven. ‘You had no right.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Michael yelled back. ‘I can’t believe you kept this secret. We took you in. You must have known you could have talked to us.’

‘No! I thought you’d kick me out if you knew.’

‘What?’ Michael roared. ‘I would never have done that. You’re my kid sister. You should have told me. I could have helped. I never had a clue, Alice. I really didn’t.’

‘I know,’ I said.

Suddenly I could see that Michael wasn’t angry – he was upset. He never really showed how he felt but his eyes blazed as he looked at me, just as they had when he was young and Dad had taunted him.

‘I would have dealt with it,’ he said quietly.

‘And got locked up?’ I cried. ‘You know what he’s like and I knew he’d punish all of you even more if I said a word.’

‘But what about that time I came to visit you when you were pregnant with Jonathan? I asked you then if what the police were saying was true and you said it wasn’t. I believed you, Alice. I never imagined . . .’

‘No one did and I didn’t want you getting into trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t have cared!’ Michael cried. ‘At least you’d have got away.’

‘He’d have killed you. Don’t you remember the weapons, Michael? The knives he had?’

Michael was silent as I spoke. I knew he was remembering the things he’d seen – snatches of memories which somehow now made sense: why I’d suddenly become so withdrawn when I was young; why I’d hidden myself away for hours on end; why I’d wanted so desperately to run away with him.

‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ he kept repeating. ‘You should have told me.’

We looked at each other for a moment.

‘Maybe he’ll finally get what he deserves,’ I said quietly.

‘I hope so,’ my brother replied.

After that day, Michael and I spoke a few times about the police investigation but not often. I knew he felt terribly guilty about what had happened and blamed himself. He was tortured by the fact that he’d left me with The Idiot and, however much I tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t believe me. It made me sad that Michael was hurting again and in a way I wished he didn’t know. I didn’t want to cause him any more pain because he had done nothing wrong and although it was hard telling strangers about what had happened, it felt even more difficult to tell the people I loved like Michael because I was worried they might judge me as Steven had.

But Michael and Julie were as kind as ever and I told myself that if I wanted to see the police investigation through then I would have to be prepared for people to know everything about me. It was hard but it would be worth it if The Idiot was made to pay for what he’d done. That was all I could think about as a new feeling filled me – anger. Over and over, I imagined Dad opening the door to find a police officer waiting and, as much as I wanted the moment for myself, I also wanted it for Mum.