Deliver Me From Evil

A SADISTIC FOSTER MOTHER, A CHILDHOOD TORN APART

For my beautiful daughter

Authors Note

1
Finding My Voice

2
Bright Eyes

3
Struggling

4
George Dowty Drive

5
Brainwashed

6
A New Religion

7
Taming the Devils Child

8
Good Books and Bad Books

9
Beaten

10
The Farm

11
Imprisoned

12
Slaves

13
Starvation

14
Growing Pains

15
Any Means of Escape

16
Tragedy

17
Aftermath

18
Abandoned

19
Mistakes

20
Justice

21
A New Life

Acknowledgements

In March 2007 I stood up in court to testify against Eunice Spry, to describe publicly for the first time the horrific abuse she put me through. A court order protected my identity and I was simply known as Child B.

It is my choice to waive anonymity and write now under my real name. The last thing I want to do is cause any more pain to the other children still living who suffered at Eunice Spry’s hands for so many years. For that reason I am not using their real names in this book. And although I cannot tell my story without telling theirs to some extent, I have tried not to go beyond the information already given in court.

In fact, some of what came out in court from their testimony was unknown to me before – Eunice did her best to keep us divided and although we lived together we did not share everything. So this is my story about my childhood; their experiences will be slightly different.

I am proud of all of us, for surviving and making new lives for ourselves. We have a long way to go yet but I have faith that we will in the end be able to put the past firmly behind us. Writing this book was an important step on the road to recovery for me. Eunice terrorized us into silence for many years – now I have found my voice at last.

CHAPTER 1:

It’s her eyes. I can’t bear to see her eyes. A hard, dead grey they will bore into me, into my very soul, and then I’ll be lost. I know I’ll buckle. I’ll believe her vile words as she spits them at me, stabbing me through the heart with every accusation.

‘You are evil scum. You’re the Devil’s child. You have to be taught a lesson that you’ll never, ever forget
.’

I’ve stopped breathing. I gulp in air and everything suddenly comes into focus. The black shiny car I’m trying desperately to disappear into the back of pulls into Avis Car Hire. Thank goodness for the tinted windows. Although it’s dim in the garage forecourt, I see a couple of people I recognize waiting for us. Then the door opens slowly. I’m relieved when a warm, friendly face appears and Detective Constable (DC) Victoria Martell slides in beside me, while a male officer gets in the front.

The DC is dressed in a smart black suit and shoes – she always looks very professional, but glamorous. There’s a waft of perfume as she turns her attractive face, framed by long, dark hair, and touches my hand lightly. ‘How’re you doing, Alloma?’

I’m so glad she’s there. I’m beginning to breathe more easily again. I swallow hard and try to speak, but I can’t get the words out. My tongue feels like it’s a large sponge and my stomach starts churning. I awoke at dawn after a restless night of fitful, nightmare-filled sleep and couldn’t eat breakfast. Now my stomach gurgles – I’m not hungry, but I somehow feel sick and empty at the same time.

To distract myself I start fiddling with my pretty bead bracelet as feelings of panic begin to bubble up through my body I like the feel of the smooth chunks of coloured glass as they roll between my nervous fingers.
I don
’
t know if I can go through with this.
I steal a glance at DC Martell’s face as the car’s engine purrs into life and we glide into Bristol’s busy morning traffic. She looks very determined, while I feel extremely wobbly inside.

Pink blossom hangs in heavy clusters on the trees and there are masses of fresh green leaves: spring has come early. I love to see nature coming into its own, bursting with new life. This time of year really thrills me; I’d like to be out in my back garden now, enjoying the fresh air and the pretty spring flowers. More than anything I’d like to be holding my beautiful little daughter, Ivy, in my arms and spinning her around in the park, or listening to her delighted giggles as she strokes one of our six cats.

In fact, I’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, right now, other than heading for a grim day in court.

‘You look nice, Alloma, very smart.’ DC Martell is smiling encouragingly, as the car nudges through heavy traffic. ‘Glad you were able to borrow some cash and get to the shops.’

I look down to my legs, clad in unfamiliar smart brown trousers. I see the edges of my crisp fawn jacket and clean white shirt cuffs. A formal style, so unlike my usual casual jeans and glittery T-shirts, the only concession to the ‘real me’ being my long, sparkly ‘gypsy’ earrings. My curly black hair is tamed into a half ponytail and I fiddle with the hairband. I try to breathe more deeply, as I learned to when I had Ivy, but I just can’t keep still.

Although DC Martell’s is a reassuring presence beside me, I can still remember scrawny hands around my throat, trying to stop me from speaking out, squeezing the life out of me to ‘teach me a lesson’. Remembering that my foster mother, Eunice Spry – the owner of those terrifying hands – is safely in police custody, I finally find my voice, even though it’s a bit croaky and dry. ‘Thanks, Victoria. But are you really sure there’ll be a screen?’

DC Martell’s face softens. ‘I’m sure, Alloma. She’ll be brought into court after you’ve arrived, so you really won’t see her face. I promise.’

I nod slowly, trying to take this in.
God I hope you’re right,
I think, because if she can see me, she can get me. The minute I’m skewered by her gaze I’ll think I’m bad. Dirty. Evil. It happens in an instant. I can’t hold onto myself in her presence. The minute she’s anywhere near I feel I’m a terrible person.

‘Don’t forget, you gave evidence to me for your statement on video, so you won’t have to go through all that painful detail again, ’ the DC says.

How could I forget?
But she’ll be there,
I think
She’ll know.
She’ll be staring at me with hatred, through the screen, trying to psych me out. She’s very good at that. And when she hears me speak, she’ll call me a liar, she’ll throw everything back at me. She’ll never, ever forgive me, that’s for sure. I imagine those steely eyes coming towards me, bearing down on me with calculating malice. Like they have a thousand times since I was small. I feel myself shudder.

‘Are you sure you’re OK, Alloma? You’re white as a sheet.’

DC Martell leans towards me, concerned. My careful make-up job clearly doesn’t conceal everything. I can’t speak I’m so terrified. Words often fail me when I’m scared, especially as I’ve been forcefully taught to be quiet and not speak, most of the time.

Then suddenly we are gliding through a gate and drawing up to the back entrance of an imposing Regency-style building: Bristol Crown Court. DC Martell has already told me that we need to avoid the crowds of photographers and reporters gathered at the front, but the officer in the front seat turns and explains they’re being extra careful because my case is big – as big as the Fred West case was, in nearby Gloucester.

This freaks me out.
I didn’t die,
I think.
It wasn’t that bad.
No one actually died because of Eunices treatment, although we often thought we would.

The car comes to a halt and the door swings open. DC Martell hops out and shepherds me towards some steps where we’re swept up by officials in uniform. Once inside, I’m frisked by security (I set the beepers off with my metal buckle and jewellery) then ushered into a little box room where I have to read through my long statement again. I’m very nervous about being cross-examined and, although the statement is all my own words, I fear I’ll forget to say something, or maybe even keel over and die with fright.

The brusque court official tells me that I mustn’t discuss my statement with anyone. Then she brings me a cup of tea and I ask for loads of sugar – I need the energy as I have not eaten yet. I’m warned bluntly that I might have to wait all morning for my turn. To be honest, I don’t care if it never comes as I dread being questioned and having to talk in front of so many strange and official-looking people. But I don’t like being shut in this little box room either, so it needs to start soon.

After so many years of suffering in silence – since I was six and a half, when Eunice first took me over – I suppose another few hours won’t make a huge difference. I just feel as though I am on a precipice, looking down into an abyss. There’s absolutely no way back and only one way forward, but I don’t know yet if I’m brave enough to take it. What’s more, now that I’m in the middle of this huge legal process, everything is out of my control.