Daddy's Prisoner (6 page)

Maybe it made sense to The Idiot’s twisted logic, but I didn’t understand why he slapped me less often after he started abusing me. The others soon noticed and teased me for being his favourite. It felt as if they were backing away from me, or maybe I was backing away from them, but whatever it was it made me feel lonely. I would far rather have got the slaps and beltings than what happened to me when Mum and the kids were sent to the shop.

Locking the door just as Dad told me to, I’d try to escape as he heaved himself on to me by imagining I was somewhere else – a beach, far, far away, a warm and quiet place where no one could hurt me. Cutting myself off from the stink of his skin, I’d wait until he’d taken what he wanted before pulling down my skirt and leaving the room.

A few times he gave me money afterwards.

‘What’s this for?’ I asked.

‘You,’ he replied. ‘But don’t tell anyone about it.’

Once, Mum asked him where a five-pound note was that I knew was hidden in my pocket because he’d just given it to me.

‘Don’t know, don’t care, just get out of my fucking face,’ he hissed.

Mum didn’t say anything as she left the room.

‘Do you want it back?’ I asked The Idiot, feeling my fingers wrap around the note.

I didn’t want an argument or for Mum to get hit for asking too many questions because of me.

‘No I don’t. Just get out.’

I used the money to buy sweets for the younger ones but as they pleaded for more, I felt something inside me snap. They were so tiny and clingy, I could never do enough for them. I just wanted to be on my own, lying on my bed, hiding from the noise, cries and laughing. I spent more and more time alone now in my room, shutting Laura, Kate and Charlie out and telling them to look after themselves. I hated myself for being unkind but was sure that somehow I’d made Dad do what he’d done to me so I had to keep away from them because I didn’t want the kids being hurt like me. But each time I tried to clear my mind when I finally lay down on my bed, all I could hear were Dad’s words ringing round my head.

‘You can never tell anyone about this, you know.’

‘I’d make sure you paid if you told.’

‘No one would believe your lies.’

It usually took about twenty minutes for Mum and the kids to get back from fetching bread or milk at the shop. But no matter how much I tried to blank out what was happening when they were away, it was always real. Sometimes I’d pray Mum would hurry home but she never could because the little ones were with her and they walked so slowly. I was left alone with Dad until it was finally over, he told me to unlock the door and I let the world back into our house.

The Idiot mostly hit us on the body where the bruises didn’t show but as I got older I saw the marks he sometimes left on Mum. I must have been about eight when I first noticed her lip bleeding and from then on I’d see it was cut every now and again, a trickle of blood running from her nose or finger marks on her wrists.

‘Pete’s ride, dirty slag,’ I’d hear him screaming.

‘I’m not,’ she’d cry.

‘You are, you stupid bitch. You can’t do anything. You can’t even cook, can you? You’re fucking useless.’

There were times, of course, when he left his marks on us – like the day we were all carrying on upstairs and he shouted up for us to quiet down because he couldn’t hear the TV. But the kids were too small to take much notice and soon we heard him climbing the stairs.

‘What did I tell you?’ The Idiot roared as he walked into the bedroom where Laura, Kate and I were hiding under the bedclothes.

I wrapped my arms around them as we lay in the semi-darkness. I could hear him shuffling towards us and the sound of his belt slicing the air as he lifted it.

‘I’ve told you all again and again,’ he screamed as the weight-lifting belt crashed down on us. ‘Shut the fuck up when I’m watching TV.’

The belt came crashing down – feet, head, face, it didn’t matter which part of us it hit and I pulled Kate to me. She was only tiny and I could hear Charlie screaming in his cot.

‘And you can shut that little bastard up too,’ Dad screeched when he’d finally finished, his breath coming in gulps after giving us a doing.

There was never a question in my mind that Dad would carry out his threats if he really wanted to. He had knives and swords hidden under the bed and kept a lump hammer and tomahawk near him all the time. There was also a stiletto knife with a long diamond-shaped blade that he had under his pillow in case anyone attacked him. I don’t know where he got the idea from that he might one day be the one who got beaten, but he seemed to be permanently preparing for it. His fascination with weapons only grew stronger as I got older and he built up a knife collection which he constantly cleaned. As well as a Rambo knife with a huge blade and a compass at the top of the shaft, there were throwing stars and knuckledusters. He also had two dozen throwing knives which he kept wrapped in cloths and hidden in a locked metal box. After oiling them, he’d practise throwing a dozen, one after the other, at an old door he used as a target. Sitting on the bed, he’d fling the knives across the room as we stood by.

‘Pick ’em up,’ he’d yell when he finished, and we’d scurry to collect them.

Sometimes when he was angry he’d hold the knives up as he looked at us.

‘You’d better buck up your ideas because you’re not going to get away with your cheek,’ he’d hiss, and my stomach would swoop as I looked at the long, sharp knife in his hand.

I think that’s why secrets were never spoken of in our house. For so long after Dad started hurting me, I longed for Mum to stop him. But it felt as if whatever happened, she’d never realise what he was up to. One day she got back from the shop with the kids to find the door still locked. The Idiot had taken longer than usual and I hadn’t had a chance to open it yet.

‘Why’s the door locked?’ Mum asked when I finally turned the key.

‘He told me to do it,’ I said as I turned away from her, not wanting to look her in the eyes.

Mum didn’t say anything as she carried the shopping in with the kids following her. They were dragging after her – Kate whining, Charlie crying, Laura lagging behind – as she walked towards the living room.

‘Can you change his nappy?’ she asked as she handed Charlie to me. ‘He’s wet through and I need to get your Dad’s tea on.’

Nothing more was said as I took my brother and started walking upstairs. I understood why Mum did not see what was happening: she was too scared to.

By the time I was twelve, Michael had grown up. Even though he was just a couple of years older than me, he looked so big now and, almost as tall as Dad, he refused more and more to play by The Idiot’s rules.

‘Where have you been?’ Dad would scream when my brother walked in late from school. ‘You’re supposed to walk your brothers and sisters home.’

‘I got a detention,’ Michael would shout back. ‘And anyway, I’m not their bloody chaperone.’

Black anger pooled in The Idiot’s eyes as he swung his walking stick and my brother dodged out of his way.

‘Get back here, you little bastard.’

But Michael would run upstairs or out of the house as we scurried away.

‘Leave him,’ Mum would sometimes softly urge.

‘Shut up,’ Dad would yell. ‘He’s under my roof and I will not have that little bastard disobeying me.’

But nothing he said or did seemed to frighten Michael any more and it made Dad really angry. He was used to getting what he wanted because we were so young and easily scared. But Michael had used Dad’s weights to build up his muscles, and getting stronger physically seemed to make him braver. My brother refused more and more often to do as he was ordered. Sometimes he didn’t come home at night or would disappear for hours in the day and The Idiot’s rage would fill the house.

‘Get upstairs, all of you,’ I heard Dad screaming one day when I was in the kitchen.

Michael had just come home and I ran into the hall to find The Idiot pinning him to the wall by his throat.

‘No, Dad,’ I screamed. ‘Leave him.’

But The Idiot wouldn’t listen and he clamped his arm tighter across Michael.

‘I said get upstairs now or does one of you want it too?’ The Idiot roared.

I grabbed the little ones and we hid in a bedroom. Downstairs I could hear shouts until the house eventually quieted down and Michael came upstairs. There was a red mark on his face and his eyes were blazing.

‘One day I’ll kill him and then I’ll run away,’ he spat.

I think that was the reason why I never dared tell Michael about what was happening to me, because I was sure he might try to carry out his threat if I did and then he’d be the one killed. As my brother became more and more rebellious, I could feel The Idiot’s anger spinning out of control: he was the one in charge, the one who threw things, slapped or whipped to keep us in line. But nothing he did now made Michael afraid of him. The battle raged until one night Michael stayed out again and Dad called the police to bring him home. The Idiot did that whenever he felt like it: rang the police to make trouble for someone he’d fallen out with. I’d been out to the shops when I walked in the door to find my brother lying half on, half off the stairs with The Idiot standing over him.

‘Do you think you can do what you like in my house?’ he screamed. ‘Do you think you can use this place like a fucking hostel?’

The veins on his neck bulged as he spat at Michael lying beneath him.

‘You are going to do as you’re told, you little piece of shit,’ he screamed.

Michael’s eyes blazed as he struggled to get up.

‘I will not,’ he shouted. ‘I won’t hear a word you say, you evil old bastard.’

‘Aaaah,’ Dad roared as he lunged towards Michael with a broom.

Grunting with the effort, he started beating him with it.

‘Stop it,’ Mum screamed. ‘Leave him alone.’

But Dad wouldn’t listen. Again and again, he smacked the wood against Michael, swearing as he did so. The kids cowered behind me as my brother was beaten. Dad wasn’t going to stop. He would kill Michael this time, make sure he could never defy him again. I knew I had to get the kids away. Grabbing them, I pushed them up the stairs. But as we ran into the bedroom, I heard a loud crack as the brush handle broke across Michael’s back.

‘Get off me, you old bastard,’ my brother yelled as he screamed in pain, and there were bangs and thuds as they fought.

Seconds later I heard the front door slam and ran to the window. Michael was running down the path as Dad stood at the door screaming at him.

‘Don’t ever come back, you little bastard. This is my fucking house and I will not have you in it.’

I wondered if that was really it this time but was pretty sure it wasn’t. Where else would Michael go? And how could he leave us? He had always promised that one day he’d take all of us away and he wouldn’t leave without us. The house was quiet for the rest of the day and no one mentioned Michael. But the next day when I walked into the kitchen with Mum to make a cup of tea, I noticed her hands were shaking as she lifted up the kettle.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked as she turned on the tap.

‘He’s not coming back,’ Mum said softly.

‘Who?’

‘Michael.’

I stared at her. That could not be true. Michael would never leave us. He always came back in the end.

‘What do you mean? He’ll be back.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Mum said as she turned towards me.

There were tears in her eyes.

‘He won’t be coming home. He’s going to live with Granny Ruby.’

‘But that’s miles away! How will we see him?’

‘We won’t.’

‘What do you mean, won’t?’

‘I mean he’s gone, Alice, and he’s not coming back. You’ve seen what it’s like. Your father and Michael just can’t see eye to eye. It is better for all of us if he isn’t here.’

My heart hammered in my ears. I couldn’t believe what Mum was saying. Michael could not have gone. He was the one who stood up to Dad, he was the one who would save us all one day when he ran away and we went to live in the big house he’d get for us.

‘But he can’t be gone,’ I whispered as I stared at Mum.

She didn’t look at me as she bent her head.

‘He is, love. He won’t be coming back now.’

I was alone.

Kate’s nickname was Kitty Kat. Small and skinny, she started topping and tailing herself from the age of five because she was so independent. She also learned how to plait hair and loved playing with mine at night as we sat in our bedroom. Laura had a fiery temper and a softer side in turns, while Charlie would cry for hour after hour when he was a teething baby and I’d have to take him out in his pram so that he wouldn’t disturb The Idiot. By the age of three, he still wouldn’t be without a bottle and Dad would smash them against the wall because he didn’t want him having them any more. But Charlie would scream so much without it that eventually Simon would have to go down to the shop late in the evening to buy him another.