Sarah's Story Page 3

  Bill appeared as normal at the house that Saturday morning. It was earlier than usual. He often came early at weekends to pick me up to help him ‘make the sandwiches’ – Saturdays were always a hectic day both at the bingo hall and for him generally. After all, there was football to be watched. Bill had to make sure everything was prepped early because he always needed extra sandwiches at weekends. He also did his shopping on that day for him and his wife. I still got to ‘help’, but it was usually after I had been to the flat and he had done whatever he needed to do.

  I hated Saturdays. They lasted longer.

  I didn’t tell Bill at first about starting my period. I waited until we were at the flat. He came up to me and led me to the bed, a bed that I found more repulsive each time I saw it. He tried touching me, but I pulled away, rejecting his advances, and he became angry. ‘I’ve got my period,’ I told him defiantly. ‘You can’t touch me.’

  The change in him was terrifying. His face became distorted by rage, and he seemed a different man to the one I vaguely knew. He had become even more of a monster, desperate for revenge. He stood up, moved a couple of steps away from the bed, then turned and looked at me for what seemed like hours, but I suppose it could only have been a few short moments; then he stamped away from where he had put me and moved into the lounge area. I slowly rose to a sitting position on his polluted bed, and as I did so I began pulling at my skirt to hide my exposed body as best I could without making any sudden movements.

  Bill turned around, gritting his teeth so hard I thought he’d lose them. He was so irate, his whole body seemed to shake with rage. I thought for a moment that he was going to hit me. Instead, he stared at me, clenching his fists against his sides. ‘Why didn’t you say before I drove you here?’ he asked. His resentment was clear in each of the words as he spoke them.

  Suddenly, I was delighted for the first time in months. So delighted my heart lifted a little while it was moving out of the storm clouds. He couldn’t touch me. I was momentarily free from him. Free from his touch. Free from his smell. Free from his poking and prodding and his evil ways. I had won, for a little while.

  My heart didn’t stay lifted for long. I soon realised that he was counting the days of my menstrual cycle, like a man possessed, waiting patiently for the all-clear. At the end of the week, he had called in at Mum and Dad’s with a look of glee in his eye, and before the hour was up I was once again back in the flat, desperate to break away from him. I was a prisoner once more, a caged bird unable to use its wings to fly away from the impending dangers. I was trapped in a spider’s web, held fast in the delicate weave, danger vibrating through each silken thread that I felt underneath me.

  As he did what he did, touching me and moving on top of me, he began talking to me. ‘Do you know that it’s safe now?’ he asked me.

  I didn’t want to talk to him while he was touching me, so I never answered him, or even asked what he meant.

  He spoke again, smiles curling at the corners of his mouth as he did so. ‘I could come inside you … and you wouldn’t get pregnant because you’ve just finished your period.’

  I struggled beneath him, but he held me fast. All I could think about was that in twenty-eight days I would be free again. Free to live and be a child, a normal child, even if it was for only five short days.

  I remember clearly wishing a wish that day. I know it was stupid and, dear God, when I think of it now I know the thought would be unimaginable for any girl. But my wish that day was that a period could last forever.

  Five

  AS THE WEEKS and months continued to pass me by, I felt I was no longer living a life but an existence. I was there talking, moving, eating, sleeping and breathing the same air as everyone else, but I felt like I was no more than a visitor to a world I hardly remembered.

  Mum and Dad started arguing more and more, and to my young eyes it seemed that their marriage was breaking down. Dad was made redundant from his job at the mill, and Mum blamed him because once more they didn’t have enough money coming in. Day in, day out, the same arguments would be repeated. Our house sang out each week with their constant accusations. I hated it. I felt as if I had become embedded in a war zone.

  One day, Bill came round to ask if Mum would be at bingo later on. He wasn’t interested in her, of course; he just wanted to know if I would be along for his sick, perverted ride. Dad was still in a foul mood from one of their arguments that morning. He nearly exploded when Bill opened his mouth. I knew it was best to stay out of the way in these circumstances because in the past my sisters and I had all been pasted for getting in the way when he was angry at Mum. And Dad hit hard: his handprints usually lasted on our legs for the whole day.

  Dad was so angry he screamed at Bill to get out. ‘She won’t be going to bloody bingo ever again,’ he yelled.

  Normally, I would cringe in fear whenever Dad shouted like that, but suddenly I felt jubilant. If Mum couldn’t go to bingo, I wouldn’t have to go to Bill’s. Perhaps the abuse would stop. He had become more intense over the last few weeks. He had even forced me to watch him ejaculating. I had always looked away. I couldn’t stand seeing him, holding it, pulling at it while he grunted like a pig.

  My euphoria only lasted a few short minutes. Mum followed Bill out to the car, as I watched from the bedroom window that overlooked the front garden and our street. She stood there talking with him for what seemed like forever. I was desperate for him to drive away, but he kept glancing up at the window when he realised I was watching them both. Suddenly, I saw him pass Mum a five-pound note; she slipped it into her overall pocket, all the while looking round to see if Dad was at the door.

  My feeling of jubilation sank to the soles of my feet and slipped quickly through the carpet and down between the cracks of the floorboards. The wonderful feeling I had felt for a few short minutes was lost to me forever.

  That very afternoon, when Dad was out in the back garden in his greenhouse, Mum went out to see him. It had been two hours since they last spoke, and I knew she hoped he would have calmed down. He talked sharply to her, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that his temper had subsided a little. Mum told him that she was taking me to the shops down the lane and that we’d walk there and back so we would be out a couple of hours. He seemed to accept that we’d be doing what Mum said; he even gave me ten pence for some of my favourite sweets. In fact, I think even I believed I was off to get some shopping. After all, it was clear we couldn’t afford bingo, and Dad had been very clear that she couldn’t go – perhaps Mum had just borrowed the money off Bill for groceries. Maybe my father, in his anger, had unwittingly put an end to my ordeal. Perhaps I was being protected before anyone even knew I needed protecting.

  Sure enough, when we left the house, Mum took me straight to the sweet shop. She sent me inside to get what I wanted while she waited outside. As I walked into the shop, I knew instantly what I would buy: sherbet. I loved sherbet, little fine crystals of sugar candy in all sorts of different colours. I particularly liked the rainbow candy best. It didn’t taste any different to the plain pink sherbet, but it looked prettier in the big jar high on the shelf. As the lady in the shop poured my sherbet into the weighing pan, I watched in childish wonder as the different colours of the rainbow mixed and blended together.

  After I had been served, I went back outside to where Mum was waiting, my bag of sherbet grasped tightly in my hand. She held my hand and started walking in the wrong direction for the shops, but I didn’t realise where we were heading until I saw the bingo hall in the distance.

  I felt numb inside. Mum had lied to Dad; but she had lied to me too. I was being taken to the bingo again. I hadn’t escaped at all. As I looked up, I felt a little better when I couldn’t see Bill’s car in its usual spot; but I hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief before I saw it appear from a side street and pull into the car park.

  I started kicking my heels and dragging behind Mum. ‘Don’t dawdle!’ she shouted at me impatiently, an
d pulled at my arm.

  As the years have passed by, I sometimes wonder whether Mum would have acted differently if she had known what her ‘friend’ was doing to her daughter. Perhaps I have no right to suggest that she wouldn’t have protected her child; but I know that, at times, especially when things were not going well with Dad, bingo was the only thing that really mattered to her.

  Once inside the bingo hall, Mum queued for her tickets. I could not believe I was there, a prisoner once more. I saw Bill walking to the stage where the calling machine was. This was a big machine that had all the different-coloured numbered balls in it. It was standard practice to turn it on five minutes or so before the game started, and I remember wishing I was the heaviest ball trapped in the machine. At least that way Bill wouldn’t be able to get his hands on me. I heard the sound of the air blowing in the machine, but I didn’t look up. I watched Mum instead because I knew that if I looked at him he would smile at me.

  I hated his smile more than Bill himself now. I saw things in his smile that other people didn’t see. To me, it wasn’t a friendly smile but a smile that said, ‘I’m going to abuse you again today. I’m lucky. I’ve got a girl no one else knows about. I can do things to her and no one can stop me.’ It was a smile that reflected his perverted, immoral pleasure. Every second of his smile seemed to me to last an hour.

  That afternoon, after the first half of the bingo had been played, he went to talk to Mum while I was getting a drink of orange from the snack bar. As I opened the door leading back into the hall, he was standing in my way on Mum’s aisle so that I couldn’t get to my seat. ‘Excuse me, please,’ I said, as politely as I could.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied brightly as he moved slowly to one side. I still couldn’t get past him, so he moved again. This time I could get past, but as I did so he moved at the same time as I moved into my seat, and I felt him push slightly against me. I wanted to cry out loud, but the warning bell inside sounded louder than ever, echoing inside my head over and over again.

  ‘No one will believe you.’

  Sadly I knew Bill was right. No one would believe me.

  It was too late.

  I didn’t see Bill for three days, which was unusual because he would often come to the house every other day. When he finally appeared, Mum called me in out of the garden. I saw him standing there smiling at me and my legs turned to jelly. ‘Bill wants you to help him with the sandwiches today, love,’ Mum said cheerily.

  ‘Do I have to? I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘You’ll be OK. You’ll only be out for an hour.’

  I started to feel angry. I hated her. I hated them both. Why wouldn’t they listen to me? But yet again I said nothing. Yet again I had to go with him. I had no choice.

  I knew the sandwiches weren’t on Bill’s agenda the moment we drove past the bingo hall and the shop he usually bought the fillings from. ‘Why did you lie to my mum?’ I asked him. ‘Why aren’t we going to make sandwiches like you said you had to?’

  Bill didn’t reply. He just continued to concentrate on his driving and smiled at me again when we slowed at the traffic lights. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to jump out of the car but, as I put my hand on the door handle, he leaned over and locked the door.

  ‘I don’t want you falling out, do I?’ he chuckled.

  When we arrived at his flat, I noticed something different. Everything was in its normal place, but there was a towel placed on the bed. He made himself a drink while I stood by the chair, my nervous fingers fiddling with the cover on the back of it. I wanted to leave, and I told him so, but as always I was ignored. He didn’t want to waste time talking – he had other more important things planned for me that day.

  He took hold of my hand and led me over towards the bed.

  I pulled my hand out of his.

  I didn’t want this to happen again.

  He took me firmly in his hands, laid me on the bed and slipped my pants down. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said matter-of-factly. He turned away and I struggled to find my pants and put them back on when he came back with a bowl of water and some soap.

  I was confused. What was he planning? Why did he want the water? I soon found out. He started to wash me down below. ‘I’ve had a bath,’ I told him angrily, pushing his soapy hand away from my body. He ignored me and continued applying the soap and working it around my intimate parts. He seemed to be enjoying this, but I didn’t understand why. Grown-ups do weird things, I remember thinking. Gradually, he started putting his fingers inside me. I thought of other things – nothing in particular, just anything to make my mind leave the room.

  After about ten minutes, he rinsed and dried me. Then he kneeled in front of me on the floor and took off his trousers. He started taking out his penis, and asked me to hold it. Play with it.

  Why would I want to? I had dolls to play with. I didn’t want to play with this.

  I felt revolted and sickened by his request, but I knew he would get angry if I didn’t do what he asked. It felt weird. I had never felt anything like it. I pulled my hand away, but he grabbed it and put it back on him, this time holding it in place with his hand over the top of mine. ‘Do it like this,’ he said, as he guided my hand up and down. He started to breathe heavily, and funny stuff appeared. He told me this clear liquid was just as dangerous as the other stuff that appeared later because it could make a baby. I pulled my hand away.

  ‘I don’t want to make any babies.’

  He laughed.

  I detested him.

  He was vile, stupid and an idiot.

  I wanted to hit him.

  I wanted to hurt him like he was hurting me.

  He took me home about two hours later. I had noticed that he seemed to be keeping me at the flat for longer and longer. As usual, the first thing I did when I got in was to have a bath. I scrubbed my hands with Vim, desperate to wash off all of him by scrubbing off the layer of skin that had been in contact with him. Dad shouted at me for using all the hot water. Mum wasn’t best pleased either as she had washing to do. I was sent to bed for being inconsiderate and for not asking before I used the water.

  I hated them all.

  I went upstairs, closed the door, got undressed and jumped into bed. I picked up my newest Enid Blyton book, The Naughtiest Girl Again.

  I stopped reading and began to think. Had I been a naughty girl for using all the water?

  Why was it always me that seemed to be in the wrong?

  Was it all my fault?

  Six

  A FEW MONTHS later, Mum did what I was longing to do: leave home. She had come to the end of her tether with Dad and all the anger and arguments. She packed her bags and upped and left. I wanted to go too, but she wouldn’t take me; she just took Gemma with her, and promised to come back for me the following week. But she didn’t keep her promise, and she never came to get me. I only saw her about once a week when she came to visit.

  She moved into a flat close to town with a friend of hers, and not long after that she met another man and moved in with him. But she never once came back for me. She never rescued me. She left me behind, and the washing, prodding and poking of her twelve-year-old daughter continued.

  I had been Bill’s victim for over a year now. Every night I made myself ill trying to think of ways to escape him. I even tried telling him I was still on my period one week, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he became angry with me if I did that, and with the anger came a look in his eye that was so frightening that I went with him the next time he asked.

  I knew that the time would come when he would hurt me, and I was proved right soon enough. He had washed me as usual – this was something he did now every time he took me to his flat. I was convinced he thought I was dirty. He then lay beside me and pushed himself into me, entering me with such force I cried out in pain. I begged him to stop but he just continued heaving himself up and down on top of me. As he became more aroused, he pushed deeper inside me, hurting me so much I felt a
s if he was tearing me to pieces, ripping out my life. He moved out of me quickly and immediately ejaculated on my tummy. It was a sickening feeling, and my stomach churned harshly. I wanted to wipe it off with my hand but I knew I’d be sick if I touched it.

  I wanted him off me. I pushed him away but he pulled me back towards him. My dress had got his ‘stuff’ smeared all over it, and I wanted to tear it off quickly. The cloth felt wet against my legs. He tried to enter me again, but I pulled away. He grabbed me again, held me tight and kissed my mouth. He tasted sour and vile as I felt his dentures against my lips. He then asked me to touch it, his penis, but I didn’t want to, so he pushed my hand on to it, holding it with his hand over mine. I refused to move my hand, so he moved it for me. ‘It’s better if you hold it close to the top,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Please,’ I asked him – no, begged him – ‘let me get dressed.’ I desperately wanted to put my pants back on.

  He shook his head. ‘What’s started needs to be finished,’ he told me.

  I tried to pull away once more, but he was too strong and my body hurt.

  He started to make himself hard again by touching himself, pulling and tugging at his penis, and then he moved higher up on top of me. He kneeled up on the bed and put himself close to my mouth.

  I was so scared.

  I closed my eyes.

  My body cried.

  I wanted to swallow but I felt too sick.

  I couldn’t swallow, something horrible was in my mouth, making me heave. It seemed to last forever. I managed to push him away. ‘Leave me alone,’ I yelled in my head, but no words came out. ‘I want to go home.’ I didn’t hear these words either.

  That evening, I was late home. Dad wasn’t happy – he had made my tea and now it was ruined. ‘If you can’t get her home at the right time,’ he told Bill angrily, ‘she’s not going again.’