Broken (18 page)

One weekend I
spent the whole of the Sunday working on my bets for the following
Wednesday and, as they looked to be certain winners, I eagerly went
to the betting hall early on the Monday morning, knowing that the
odds were likely to shorten on the horses that I’d backed by
Wednesday. The betting hall hadn’t yet opened by the time I got
there and I realised that it would be nearly an hour before it
opened. As I stood on the pavement on the opposite side of the road
I saw the door of the hall open and Mister Eksteen, the book maker
that I placed all my bets with, hurry out carrying a bulky leather
briefcase. As he hurried away I decided to follow him.

Mister
Eksteen hurried to the bank, less than two blocks from the betting
hall. He went inside and less than fifteen minutes later he came
out again and I noticed that the briefcase was now far less bulky.
Obviously the bookmaker had taken the cash that he’d taken in
during the Saturday’s race meeting to the bank. When placing my
bets with Mister Eksteen I had noticed a large black safe at the
back of his cubicle. As the banks were all closed by the time the
Saturday race meeting ended the book makers all had to leave their
cash takings in their safes until they could take them to the bank
on Monday mornings.

When the betting hall finally
opened I went in and placed my bets. I left the hall and walked
home. I made myself a mug of coffee and went into the lounge. I sat
down on the couch and began thinking about what I’d witnessed
before the betting hall opened.

I
acknowledged to myself that I had been stupid and reckless by
relying on gambling to make me rich although I still believed that
if it was done diligently and with patience, betting on the horses
could yield the wealth that I wanted. The problem was
tha
t I didn’t have the time. I had lost
almost three quarters of the money that had been in my aunt’s
investment account and I had to replace it urgently. If Misses
Phillips found out what I’d done, the Child Welfare Board would
limit my access to the account severely or even stop it completely.
I would then be forced to find a job, and with my limited academic
qualification it would inevitably be a menial job; something that I
found impossible to accept.

The more I
thought about my predicament, the more obvious it became that I had
to do something drastic. Either I had to take a huge chance and bet
what was left in the investment account on one do-or-die bet and
hope and pray that it would come off, or I had to resort
to something illegal such as stealing something
valuable. And the only valuable thing that I could think of was the
money that Mister Eksteen took to the bank on the mornings after
each race meeting. I tried to analyse the two
possibilities.

If I used
what was left in the investment account on one big bet and it
didn
’t come off, what was the worst that
could happen? My income would be severely curtailed and monitored
and I would be forced to find employment. I would still own the
house and, if I was patient, I could take out a bond on the house
when I turned eighteen. And owning the house meant that I wouldn’t
have to pay rent, usually the biggest monthly expense facing people
who didn’t own a house and rather rented their accommodation. And,
who knows? The Child Welfare people might find me a nice easy job
that paid well and that I enjoyed doing.

On the other
hand, if I resorted to crime and got caught I would end up going to
jail. Unless, of course, there was no violence involved and I
appeared before a lenient judge who treated me as a juvenile and a
first offender. Then I would probably get a suspended sentence and
I would still have the money in the investment account and the
house. And if the Child Welfare people found me a decent job, I
wouldn’t be all that badly off. And if I wasn't caught I'd have
everything that I wanted.

I gave myself a week to come to
a decision.

***

“
Your
Honour.” Paul Greave, my attorney, said, addressing Judge Warren
Bester. “Once again we would like Garth Gilmore to step down from
the witness stand and allow Cindy Bedford to continue with her
testimony.”

The Judge nodded.

CHAPTER 7

“Cindy.” my attorney, James
Foster, said after I’d made myself comfortable on the witness
stand. “You were telling us about your having left school and
starting your job as an assistant accountant at Checkers. You also
told us about the start of a more meaningful relationship with
Garth Gilmore. I’d like you to continue from where you left off,
please.”

***

It was now the year two thousand
and seven and I would be turning seventeen in June. I continued to
work diligently at my job and when my birthday finally arrived, I
received the salary increase that the Checkers management had
promised me. The increase helped a great deal as, although my
father had demanded a similar percentage increase in my rent, I was
still determined to leave home the minute I turned eighteen and
needed to get as many household items of my own before this
happened. I was also determined to save as much money as I could as
I was resolute that I would avoid any kind of debt.

My
relationship with Garth
flourished,
although the effort that it took came mainly from me. Garth showed
a disturbing indifference to our relationship which often left me
frustrated and unhappy. He seldom showed any real affection for me,
even during our love making and, if we went anywhere together, I
was always the one to take his hand. And as the weeks went by he
seemed to become more and more pre-occupied and withdrawn, and
whenever I asked him what was bothering him, he became angry and
dismissive.

One Saturday
afternoon after we’d made love and were lying on the bed in Garth’s
bedroom, I tried once more to break through the invisible wall that
was steadily growing between us. Garth was lying next to me staring
up at the ceiling.

“
Earth to
Garth. Earth to Garth.” I said. “Come in Garth.”

Garth
glanced at me.

“
What’s that
supposed to mean?” he asked.

“
Well, you
seemed so far away that I thought you were in outer space.” I said.
“What’s bothering you?”

“
How many
times must I tell you that nothing’s bothering me?” Garth
said.

“
Come on,
Garth.” I said. “I can see that you’re worried about something.
You’re becoming more and more withdrawn and distant. You know, I’m
not just your lover; I’m your friend as well.”

“
I told you;
there’s nothing worrying me.” Garth said.

“
You can say
that until you’re blue in the face.” I said. “But I know that
something’s wrong and it’s worrying you. I may not be able to help
you but it’s often helpful if we talk to each other about our
problems. Is it me that’s causing the problem?”

I could see
that Garth
was becoming angry.

“
What’s wrong
with you, Cindy?” he asked. “I keep telling you that nothing’s
wrong but you won’t believe me. Watch my lips: There is nothing
bothering me.”

“
Okay.” I
said.

Garth
got off the bed, pulled on his trousers and
walked out of the bedroom. I felt devastated and so helpless. I
wanted desperately to get closer to Garth, and yet, by doing this,
I seemed to be driving him away. All my life I had tried not to
anger people and now I had inadvertently angered the one person
that I really loved.

I heard Garth
go into the kitchen and open the fridge. He cracked open a can of
beer and walked along the passage and into the lounge. He switched
on the television and I heard him sit down on the couch. From the
sound of the commentary I could tell that he was watching that
afternoon’s horse race meeting.

I climbed off
the bed and got dressed. I went to the kitchen, got myself a beer
and went into the lounge. I sat down next to Garth. A race was in
progress.

“
Which one
did you back?” I asked.

Garth
glanced at me quickly and then looked back at
the television.

“
What makes
you think that I backed one of them?” he asked as he continued to
stare at the screen.

“
Garth.” I
said. “I’m neither blind nor stupid. You never used to have the
slightest interest in horse racing but now you watch the races
every Saturday afternoon, there are race meeting programmes on the
table in the kitchen, on your desk next to your computer and even
on your bedside table. I know that it’s your life and your money
and I have no right to interfere with either of them but I’m your
friend and I care and worry about you. Anyone can see that you’re
worried about something. All I’m trying to say is that, if I can
help in any way, please tell me.”

Garth
was watching the television screen so intently
that I felt sure that he hadn’t heard a word that I’d said. As the
race ended he sighed.

“
Damn!” he
said.

“
Your horse
didn’t win.” I said.

Garth
glanced at me angrily, stood up and left the
room. I heard him get another beer from the fridge. He came back to
the lounge and sat down on the couch next to me. He opened the can
and took a sip.

“You’re quite right when you say
that it’s my life and my money.” he said. “And I don’t need any
help with either of them. Everything’s great. Okay?”

Feelings of
fear, anger, frustration and helplessness had been a part of my
life for as long as I could remember and now these
feeling were reinforced by Garth’s indifference
towards me. On top of this, my father seemed determined to find an
excuse that he could use to assault me and I couldn’t help feeling
that this stemmed from the fact that in less than a year I would be
eighteen years old and free to leave his house without needing his
consent. And I was determined to do just that. Not for a single
second would I remain there for longer than I had to.

By now my
body was almost fully developed, something that thrilled me and
made me feel proud of myself. I was excited every time I saw the
lust in the eyes of boys as well as mature men whenever I caught
them staring at me. I was also quite a bit taller than my father
and this seemed to add to his anger. The fact that he had to look
up to me whenever he shouted at me somehow made him feel inferior
and to counter this he began to berate me for my misdemeanours
while we were eating
our meals at the
kitchen table as, when we were seated, I didn’t appear to be that
much taller than him. But I still had a terrifying fear of him. His
anger was frightening in its intensity and the violence that he
threatened to unleash on me was still a real possibility. I
therefore took great care not to antagonise him, even though there
were times when, no matter what I did, he would become infuriated
with me. Then, about six weeks after my seventeenth birthday the
inevitable happened.

My mother and I were sitting at
the kitchen table eating our supper when we heard my father arrive
at the front door. As usual he had been drinking at his club and,
by the way he struggled to open the door, it was obvious to us that
he was drunk. Finally he got the door to open and stumbled into the
house, almost falling as he turned to close the door, having
managed to slam the door closed with a great deal of swearing and
cursing, he turned towards the kitchen and, with his first step,
tripped over the carpet in the passage. He flung his arms out and
fell flat on his face.

I was sitting
at the far side of the table facing the front door and as my father
crashed to the floor, I let out a nervous laugh, not so much
because of my father’s drunken antics, but in fear of what he might
do in his inebriated state.

Not only did
my father hear me laugh, he looked up so quickly from where he lay
on the floor that I was unable to change my expression before he
saw me. His face went red with fury. He staggered to his feet and
lunged into the kitchen, his eyes wild with rage.

“
So, you
think that my falling over the rug was funny?” he screamed at me.
“You fucking little bitch! I’ll show you what happens to sluts like
you who laugh at me!”

I was
paralysed with fear and before I could move my father leant over
the table and punched me as hard as he could. Even in his drunken
state, his aim was good and his fist hit me directly on my left
eye. The force of the blow knocked me and the chair I was sitting
on over backwards. The back of my head hit the hard kitchen floor
and I lost consciousness.

When I
regained consciousness I was still lying on the kitchen floor and
my mother was sitting next to me and gently wiping my forehead with
a cool damp cloth. I winced as pain lanced through my head. I also
couldn’t see out of my left eye.

“
Don’t try
and get up.” my mother said. “Just lie still until you’ve regained
your senses.”

“
Where is
he?” I asked.

“
He’s in the
bedroom lying on the bed fast asleep and snoring like a drunken
tramp.” my mother said.

“
My head
hurts and I can’t see out of my left eye.” I said.

“
Yes. You
banged your head on the floor when you and the chair fell over.” my
mother said. “And your eyes badly swollen from the punch your
father gave you.”