Daddy's Prisoner (5 page)

If he did eventually kick us out of the house because we were making too much of a racket, he made Michael keep an eye on us. But my older brother hated having us trailing after him, because, as my eleventh birthday approached, Michael had hit his teens and started becoming a young man. He wasn’t a child like us any more – he was getting interested in girls and rebelling. The biggest change in him though was that Michael just didn’t seem to care any more if he got hit. Instead, he’d go to his room or leave the house when The Idiot started on him and I wished I was a boy because Michael was brave and being brave meant more freedom.

Beside the dirt and stink, the TV was the only other constant in our home: day or night, it was never switched off. Mostly the screen flickered with cowboy or horror films as my father lay on his bed in front of the TV watching hour after hour of Indian gun fights or masked murderers stabbing knives into screaming women. But as I got older I realised that the films he watched at night often showed pictures of men and women with no clothes on.

Mum tried to shoo us out of the room when those films were on but I saw enough to know I didn’t like them. The grunts and shrieks of the people in them sounded painful and sometimes I got scared at night if I woke up needing to go to the loo because I had to walk past the lounge where The Idiot was watching TV. So I’d creep past hoping Dad wouldn’t see me, waiting all the time to hear the sheets on his bed rustle, because I knew that if he did catch a glimpse of me then I might get a slap which would send my head spinning.

I was eleven when my body started to mature and Mum told me that soon I’d have to get a bra. I didn’t understand what it all meant because I didn’t know the facts of life yet but soon after that day, I went in to give Dad a cup of tea as he lay on the bed watching TV.

Just like always, he was wearing a T-shirt because he never really dressed properly when he was at home. But he had managed to shave earlier in the day with a razor, brush and bowl Mum had given him. He said nothing as I bent down to hand him his tea – not too weak, not too strong, two sugars. But as I held out the cup, I felt something on my leg and looked down to see his fingers creeping up my calf like spiders, edging their way up my skin.

I didn’t understand. Dad never touched me except to smack me. I stood still as my heart beat. Staring down, I watched his nicotine-stained fingers climb higher. Up and up, underneath my skirt, cold and sweaty, until I felt them pull aside my pants. There was a burning feeling between my legs as his jagged nail scraped me. I did not dare move as he touched me.

‘Did you like that?’ he asked when he’d finally finished and taken a gulp of his tea.

‘What?’

‘Did you like how that felt?’

I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and felt sick and afraid as he looked at me and I desperately tried to avoid the sting of his hand on my face or the whack of his walking stick across my legs. Dad said nothing more so I kept silent as his hand moved towards me again, this time creeping underneath the edge of my T-shirt and on to my bare chest. His arms were powerful thanks to the weights he lifted in front of the TV, his skin covered with bristling black hair and his hands rough. Where was Mum? Would she get hurt like me if she came into the room?

‘I want to see if you like it or not,’ Dad said, his voice husky.

I couldn’t speak. I’d seen the films on TV, knew this was something men and women did but I didn’t like it. I stood still and silent until it was finally over and Dad picked up his tea once more as a half-smile played across his lips.

‘This is our secret, Alice,’ he said. ‘No one can ever know. I would be very angry if anyone found out. Do you understand?’

His eyes bored into me as he spoke. They were dark, black as night and I knew what they were saying. Dad was in charge of everything that happened to us and now he’d found a new way to control me. We had a secret that I must keep and if I dared breathe a word about it he’d hurt me more than he’d ever done before.

It was after we moved that The Idiot finally realised Mum wasn’t smacking us as hard as he wanted her to. We were still playing the game of yelling loudly whenever he told her to punish us, which happened a lot because you never knew what might annoy him – someone tapping their toe too quickly, one of the little ones crying too loud or the temperature of his tea too low. Without warning, he’d throw his cup and start shouting. Constantly alert, I tried to second guess when he might explode so that I could get Laura, Kate and Charlie out of the way. But sometimes I didn’t manage it and a cup would bounce off one of us as we scrambled out of the room.

I’m not sure how he worked out that Mum wasn’t belting us hard enough. It was probably because we were usually making a noise again within a few minutes of being punished and he knew how scared and quiet we were after he’d given us a doing. However he found out though, he went wild when he realised Mum wasn’t doing as she was told. We were in the living room one day when he told her to smack us and after she had done it his eyes darkened as he stared at her.

‘That’s not right,’ he said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ Mum asked as she turned to him.

‘You haven’t done it properly. Do it again.’

‘But I’ve told them off.’

‘Not properly,’ he insisted. ‘Do it again.’

Mum looked around at us.

‘Off to bed now,’ she smiled as we looked at her. ‘I’ll be in soon to say goodnight.’

I could smell anger in the air, knew it was curling all around us even as we started walking towards the door to get away.

‘Don’t move!’ Dad roared. ‘You will not leave this room until you’ve learned your lesson.’

He stared at Mum, his eyes black and dead.

‘Deal with it or I will, you dirty bitch.’

Mum was quiet. Ever since Charlie had been born, she’d had trouble getting to the loo in time. Sometimes a stain spread wet across her skirt and it was one more thing The Idiot used to humiliate her. I felt sorry when I heard him taunt her about it because I knew how it felt when he laughed and jeered. Now he stared at Mum, daring her to disobey him. I knew we’d pay for whatever Mum decided: if she didn’t hit us again, he’d do it himself far harder than she ever would. But if she did do it, I knew she’d hate herself.

‘Do it now, you fucking piece of shit,’ he said, his voice low.

She looked at me, unsure for a moment before her hand smacked my legs.

‘That’s not right,’ Dad hissed. ‘Do it again and harder this time.’

Mum turned back towards me. There were tears in her eyes as she raised her hand once more. I gasped as she hit me much harder.

‘That’s better,’ I heard him say. ‘Now get them out of here.’

From that day on The Idiot watched Mum smack us to make sure she did as she was told. I didn’t feel angry with her when she did it. I knew just how Mum felt when she lifted her hand to us. It wasn’t just Dad’s thick arms or big muscles which made sure he got his own way but the look in his dark eyes as they bored into you. Mum was the same as me. We both had to do as we were told and now that he had started hurting me secretly as well, I felt even sadder about what he did to Mum. Only I understood how terrifying he was.

After the day that Dad started touching me, he did it more and more often. I’d come in from school wearing my uniform – a dark green skirt and sweatshirt – and he’d shout for me to bring him a cup of tea. Panic would fill me when I heard him yell and my heart would beat as I poured the water into the cup I knew I had to take him. When Mum was busy with the little ones and Michael had gone out, I’d go into the living room, every muscle in my body tensed as I waited. After taking the tea, he’d balance it on a tray beside him on the bed before moving his hand towards me. Sometimes I’d stare at the greasy roots of his hair as his fingers crept up my skin or fix my gaze on the filthy carpet as I waited for him to stop, wondering why he was touching me and wishing he wasn’t.

‘Do you like it?’ he’d ask over and over as I stood there shaking, part of me scared of being alone with him and another fearful that one of my brothers and sisters might run into the room.

Sometimes The Idiot would look at me as he touched me, daring me to whisper a word, or he’d ignore me until it was finally over and push me away. Feeling sick and scared, I’d run up to my room and lie on my bed, trying to forget what had happened. But for hours afterwards I could feel him on me, my skin and chest blotchy from where his stubble had scraped me, my breasts sore from being pinched and pulled.

I felt so confused. Was it my fault because I’d started growing up? Had I done something to make Dad do this? I didn’t understand why he was so nice in those silent minutes when he called me to him – quiet, his voice soft. Maybe I was a good girl now?

Part of me longed to tell Mum about what was happening but I knew I couldn’t. I was eleven years old and felt shame burning inside me even if I didn’t understand why. Somehow I knew what Dad was doing to me was terribly wrong and I became even more convinced when I pulled down my knickers one day to find blood staining them. I knew Dad was hurting me and now I was bleeding because of it. But when I told Mum, she just smiled at me.

‘You’re a woman now,’ she said. ‘One day you’ll have babies, a family of your own.’

I looked at her, dreaming of the day when I would be away from Dad, and Mum could come to live with me just as Michael and I had always promised. I couldn’t wait for that day. She and I would be safe, Michael would be happy and the little ones would be with us too. But I should have known by now that my dreams would never come true and it was after my periods started that Dad found a whole new way to torture me. It was a couple of weeks later when I arrived back from school to hear him shout for me and my heart hammered as I walked into the living room, knowing what was waiting.

‘Get yourself changed,’ Dad snapped.

My chest felt fluttery as I ran to my bedroom before going back downstairs. The Idiot stared at the skirt I was wearing with a T-shirt.

‘Have you got your pants on?’ he hissed and I turned to run out of the room.

I knew he was annoyed with me. I’d been stupid again. He did not like me to wear underwear. I must do as he said.

As I ran upstairs, I heard the front door slam and the house go quiet. Walking back into the living room, I looked at Dad.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘I sent them out so we could have some time alone together,’ he said as he fixed his eyes on me. ‘They’ve gone to the shop. Now lock the front door.’

My heart thumped as I walked out of the living room. I had never been alone in the house with him before. What would he do to me this time? How long would it be before Mum got home? Turning the key in the front door, I felt a soft click as the lock slid into place. I was alone now, trapped on the inside with Dad. I pushed down tears as I walked back to where he was waiting.

‘Lie down,’ he said as I walked to the edge of the bed.

My stomach twisted. He’d never asked me to get on to the bed with him before. Heaving himself on to his feet, I saw he was wearing one of Mum’s long T-shirt nightdresses – it was white with a picture of a teddy bear on the front.

‘Lift up your skirt,’ Dad said as I lay down and he crawled on to the bed beside me.

He threw himself on top of me, his weight crushing the breath out of my body, spit clinging in strands at the side of his lips. His hands gripped my arms as he moved on top of me. He stank of smoke. I couldn’t breathe. He was killing me. I could feel his hands clawing at me, his huge belly crushing the air out of me as pain exploded inside.

‘Do you like it?’ he panted.

I did not make a sound as he carried on hurting me.

‘Do you like it?’ he said more roughly and I knew what I had to tell him.

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

Afterwards I lay on my bed, my knees drawn tight up to my chest, as I waited for the pain to ease. I stayed hidden upstairs when I heard Mum and the kids come home and fill the house with noise just like always. I felt so scared because I was sure Mum would know what had happened when she saw me. It would be written on my face just as her fear was. But I could not hide any more when I was shouted downstairs for tea and knew I had to go.

‘You look pale,’ Mum said as I got my food.

I stared at her – a part of me almost hoping that somehow she’d see my secret and rescue me from it; that she’d know what was happening without words just as I knew what was happening to her even if I didn’t always see the bruises. But Mum didn’t seem to notice as she carried on serving out the watery sausage stew she’d made for that night’s tea.

I took my food and went to sit down on the living room floor where we always ate. Looking around, I stared at my brothers and sisters. Little Kate, who was two, six-year-old Laura and baby Charlie. Then there was Simon and finally Michael, my brave older brother whom I knew would never let such a thing happen to him.

‘Do you want yours, Alice, or shall you give it to me?’ he asked as he smiled at me.

‘You have it,’ I said, and pushed my plate towards him.

‘Michael!’ Mum said with a laugh. ‘You shouldn’t be taking Alice’s food like that.’

Michael laughed as he piled his fork and shovelled a piece of sausage into his mouth. I stared down at my hands as they twisted in front of me. Ever since Dad had started touching me, I’d kept asking myself one question: what had I done to deserve it? Now I knew the answer. I must be what Dad had told me I was – a good-for-nothing little bitch – if the people I loved most in the world couldn’t see the pain carved inside me. I deserved what was happening. Just as he kept telling me I did. It was our secret and no one must ever know how bad I was.