Living With Evil (12 page)

I forced the icy cider down my throat even though the sharp taste made me want to spit it all out the second it touched my tongue. Only the thought that it would help me sleep, just like Mammy said, made me swallow it. I wanted to sleep. I felt very tired, and the nuns at school were forever telling me off for not concentrating.

I got into bed that night with my head feeling thick and fuzzy. It was aching inside and itching on the outside. I tried to tell myself tonight would be a good night. Daddy would go to sleep and not touch me. I would fall asleep soon, once I’d heard his long, slow breaths, and I would wake up in the morning feeling grand. I wouldn’t be exhausted like I normally was. I wouldn’t have black rings under my eyes and a sore head. And I wouldn’t be in pain.

My tricks didn’t work. My body didn’t listen to my head. Lying in bed, I started to tremble and quiver like I always did. My heart started hammering, and I instinctively pressed my legs together, hoping Daddy would leave me alone.

I heard his footsteps. Was he staggering around? Had he drunk lots of beer? It didn’t matter. It didn’t make any difference. If he wanted to touch me and hurt me he would, I knew that. It wouldn’t matter if he was laughing and joking or shouting and cursing when he came in. It didn’t give me a clue about what he was going to do once he was in bed with me.

He was in the house now. He had ignored Mammy. She was knitting by the fire and watching a show on the telly. He was on the stairs. I felt so frightened I wondered if I should I jump out of bed and scream for help. No, how could I? All hell would break loose. I’d be beaten severely. Mammy and Daddy would go mad if I woke the little ones up, and they were fast asleep in the cot in the same room, as usual. I wished I could sleep like them.

I had no choice but to lie there and let Daddy do what he wanted to do. But how could I stand the pain? He hurt me so much. I didn’t want to be hurt. Why couldn’t Daddy just go to sleep? Please, God, please make him go to sleep tonight. I pressed my hands together in a prayer position. ‘Please, God, please! Hear me tonight. Make him go straight to sleep tonight!’

A foul smell descended on the bed as Daddy used the toilet bucket. The thick air felt like an extra blanket, so heavy and suffocating on top of me. The cider in my belly felt as if it was burning a hole in my stomach, and I wished I could vomit to get rid the foul stench catching in my mouth. But it was too late to move or do anything.

Daddy was in bed. He was naked, and he was pushing himself into me and turning me towards him. This wasn’t going to be that thing with my mouth, was it? I couldn’t stand it.

No, I could feel him hovering over me now. I was afraid he might fall and crush me, and I held my breath, petrified of the pain I knew was coming.

His face was right in front of mine. I stared into his eyes, looking for a flicker of light. Could he see my terrified eyes? Could he see my face, frozen with fear? I was too afraid to speak. It felt like my tongue was glued to the bottom of my mouth. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want to breathe. I didn’t want to smell his foul smell. I wanted to spit out his smell, not breathe it in, but I was trapped and paralysed.

I felt like the little bird I’d seen in the garden when the neighbour’s cat caught it in its jaws. It seemed to give up the second the cat’s jaw locked, like it knew struggling would only make things worse and prolong the agony.

Daddy was doing something different tonight. I felt the clawing down below that I’d felt before, and I screamed inside my head: Not there again. Please don’t hurt me down below. Daddy carried on scratching and pushing into me, and then I felt him lower himself on top of me again. It felt dangerous, like he was crushing the breath out of me.

I was so afraid of what he might do next. I thought he might kill me, and I didn’t want to die in pain. ‘Please stop, Daddy!’ I gasped desperately. ‘Please, no.’

It was too late. This time Daddy really was killing me. I was going to die, I was sure of it. He was inside me again. I could feel him moving like I had before, but I didn’t want to believe it was happening.

I couldn’t take it in. It was different to last time. It was even worse. The pain wasn’t in my bottom, it was right between my legs.

It wasn’t like a knife slitting me open this time. It was ten times worse, like my bones were being ripped apart and then I was being stabbed and stabbed.

I was burning inside, and the pain was shooting right though my tummy and chest and heart and head. I could feel it in my fingertips and eyelids, in my little toes and in my throat. The pain was everywhere, the agony unbearable. I thought I was going to be torn in half and die in two pieces, wrenched apart. ‘Please,’ was all I had the strength to gasp. I thought I might pass out. It felt like the life was being punched out of me.

Daddy’s hard voice cut through the air like a knife. ‘It’s your ma’s fault I have to do these things to you,’ he said coldly, without looking at my face.

I gasped in shock. Daddy could hear my pleas! He knew he was hurting me very badly. He was almost killing me with pain. But he didn’t stop. He was making excuses!

‘It’s all her fault because she won’t let me do it to her.’

What did he mean? Why would he do this to Mammy? Why would he want to hurt anyone in this horrible way? Should I tell Mammy what he was doing and what he said? My head just swam. Nothing made sense. ‘Go down and tell her what I’m doing to you. It’s all her fault!’

I was so sore, all my energies went into coping with the pain. I couldn’t think straight. Maybe he wanted me to tell Mammy what he said, but I didn’t trust him. How could I trust him after he had hurt me so badly? Was it a trap? Mammy might thump me and beat me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of any more pain. I wouldn’t tell Mammy, if that’s what Daddy wanted. I would do what Daddy wanted after he had hurt me so much.

After what felt like ages, Daddy shoved himself as far away from me as possible. Did he hate me so much that he didn’t want me near him? I felt hurt by that, even though I didn’t want him to touch me ever again. I couldn’t understand why he got so close, far too close, if all of a sudden he didn’t want me near him. Nothing made sense.

Eventually the burning in my body subsided into numbness, like I’d been beaten black and blue inside and out. No, I couldn’t tell anyone at all. I definitely couldn’t risk another beating. Another beating would kill me, I was sure of it. I had to be extra good. I had to help Mammy and keep the peace. I had to keep this secret.

Besides, Christmas was coming. Christmas might make things better. Remember that time Daddy took me to Woolworth’s and I got a mug of milk and a pink wafer biscuit?

Perhaps this Christmas would be the best ever, the start of good things. We had lots of drink and cigarettes, so Mammy would be happy. I looked at Daddy sleeping on the edge of the bed. I was pressed against the wall. I didn’t want to wake Daddy. I didn’t want to annoy him in any way. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow had to be better. It just couldn’t be worse.

About three weeks before Christmas, Daddy surprised me by telling me to pick out what I wanted for my present. Mammy and Daddy gave us separate presents, and Daddy usually let us choose what we wanted.

I’d already spotted a miniature blue piano and a matching stool in a shop window in the main street. My heart melted when I saw it. It was the same baby blue as the old cot, and it had fancy carvings on the legs.

I never thought for a moment I might actually be able to own it, but now Daddy had told me to pick my present I shot straight down to the shop and told the woman behind the counter, ‘I’m havin’ that! It’s mine! Don’t sell it to anyone else!’

She looked me up and down and reluctantly agreed, but told me to come back soon. ‘I can’t keep it for ever, you know. Tell your da he needs to pay for it real soon!’

On my way to the shop I had convinced myself that if Daddy really did buy it for me, it would mean he loved me and the bad things would end.

I couldn’t wait to get the money off him, to prove he loved me and that life was going to change. Daddies who bought their little girls beautiful Christmas presents had to love them and care for them, didn’t they? Wouldn’t I look just the one, playing the piano! Maybe Mammy would even sing along while I played it. I didn’t have a clue how to play, but it didn’t matter. I had to have it.

I ran straight out of the Golden Gift shop and went racing round the pubs looking for Daddy. I went in about three smoky lounges, my eyes stinging as they scanned the room looking for his Brylcreemed hair or his tweed jacket with the scuffed leather patches on the elbows.

I went in the Club, Hogans and the Queens. ‘Are you lookin’ for your da, Cynthia love? He hasn’t been in here tonight,’ a succession of men told me. I felt so out of place in those bars.

Every man in the room seemed to turn his gaze to me when I edged in the door. They frightened me, these smoke-breathing giants.

Where was my Daddy? I needed the money. I needed that piano, I really did.

When I finally found him, in McDonagh’s, I could have cried with relief. ‘Daddy, Daddy! I’ve found it! I’ve picked out my present. I need the money now to pay for it…’

He didn’t smile. In fact, I thought he looked as if he might try to hit me, and I held my arms in close to my side and took a step away from him, bracing myself to duck.

‘Not now, you’ll have to wait another week,’ he scowled. I cried all the way home, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.

The same ritual went on every week for three weeks. Those smoky giants in the pubs didn’t bother me in the end. I’d have fought through flame-breathing dragons to find my daddy and get him to give me the money for my piano.

On Christmas Eve, I finally found him in the Arches, at about quarter to five. When I told him how much money I needed he reacted as if it was the first time he had heard the news. He banged down his pint angrily and said, ‘No way - d’you think I’m made of money? It’s way too much. No chance! What are you thinking of?’

I felt like crying, but I bit my lip and looked at the floor, wondering what to do now. Maybe if I cried Daddy would give me the money to get rid of me! Now that was a great idea. I had to try it.

I started to snivel pathetically, looking at him with big, sad eyes, and letting the tears trickle dramatically down my cheeks.

‘Shut up, you’re shaming me,’ he snapped.

That was the idea, and my plan worked a treat. One of the men in the pub heard the commotion and said, ‘For God’s sake, Peter, it’s Christmas Eve, give the girl what she wants.’

Daddy grunted and scowled again, took a long slow slug of beer, put his hand in his pocket and gave me the money.

I raced to the shop like my life depended on it and bought my present. ‘Take that upstairs,’ Mammy tutted when I fell in the back door with it, panting with the effort of carrying the big box home as much as from the euphoria of winning my prize.

But what a prize it was. It told me Daddy loved me, and he wasn’t going to hurt me any more.

The piano was placed unwrapped at the end of my bed, which is what Mammy and Daddy told us to do with our gifts every year. I don’t remember getting a wrapped present, or a surprise present ever, apart from the little trike that time.

Daddy didn’t touch me in bed that night, and for once I fell asleep without trembling with fear. My plan had worked.

Christmas morning was magical. Mammy had prepared all the Christmas dinner the day before, so she could have a lie-in. The house was filled with the smell of turkey and stuffing and roast potatoes. The fire was roaring, and my brothers and sisters were happy and smiling.

I sat myself down at my piano feeling like the cat who’d got the cream. It made a great tinkling sound, and each note I bashed out made me happier and happier.

Yes! Daddy bought it for me! He won’t hurt me now, I told myself over and over again as I sang along, belting out one of Daddy’s favourite songs, ‘Scarlet Ribbons’. What I liked about that song was the idea that one day I might have scarlet ribbons for my own hair.

Daddy was still in bed when we had our dinner, and I offered to take his food upstairs.

‘Sit on the bed and wait till I’ve finished eating,’ he said quietly when I carried the plate to him.

I happily obeyed. The daddy who scared me had gone. He had disappeared in the night, and now I had a daddy who bought me a special present and wanted to spend time with me on Christmas Day.

I watched him start to eat his turkey and all the trimmings. ‘Did you like the dinner, Daddy? Did you hear me play my piano? Isn’t this the best day ever?’

Daddy was too busy eating to talk to me, but he looked quite calm and relaxed. When he finished eating he put his knife and fork down tidily on the plate and put it on the chest of drawers nearby.

‘Move closer to me,’ he ordered suddenly. ‘Come over to me.’

The way he said it made goosebumps bubble up all over my skin. He wasn’t smiling. It was like his face had turned to stone.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up now. I knew what he wanted, and I couldn’t move. I sat there like a little statue, feeling sick and scared and horribly confused.