Читать книгу Stolen Voices: A sadistic step-father. Two children violated. Their battle for justice. - Terrie Duckett - Страница 11

Our new routine was the same every night. At eight o’clock I’d get into my nightie, turn off the light, then Peter appeared in the doorway, softly knocking.

‘Fancy a little chat, Ted?’ he asked when he came in one night.

‘Sure!’ I said, budging up against my headboard.

He perched in his usual spot, making himself comfy.

‘Terrie,’ he asked me. ‘Can you tell me how you’re feeling about growing up?’

I squirmed a bit. What did he mean?

‘Have you noticed any changes in your body?’ he continued, casually, as if just asking me about the science homework he’d helped with the previous night.

I pulled my covers up a little. Girls in my class talked about sex sometimes in whispers behind their books in lessons, but it seemed strange Peter had brought it up.

‘Do you understand what I’m talking about?’ Peter persisted.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘when you become a teenager, hair will grow under your arms and down below. Do you have any hair down there?’

I didn’t know what to say, but at the same time I didn’t want to lie.

‘Yes,’ I whispered. Why did Peter need to know, though?

‘Can I see it?’ he asked.

‘No!’ I said, my voice rising with fear. I clamped my legs together, my heart racing. What was he on about?

Remaining silent, I watched him push a hand under the bedspread. He slid it up under my nightie and ran his fingers into my pants. I wanted to be sick.

‘Your breasts will get bigger too,’ he said, softly, moving his other hand up to touch them.

I could feel myself welling up in tears. I wanted to scream and push him off, but I feared upsetting him and this happy new home life we had. Instead my body froze.

A smile curled on his lips as he finally pulled his hand away.

‘Goodnight, Ted,’ he said, as if nothing had happened.

I buried my head in my pillow, guts churning. Why had Peter done this? Peter was a nice man. Wasn’t he? My mind whirred with confusion and horror, as hot tears soaked the sides of my pillow. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to pretend it never happened. Except I knew it had.

The next morning Peter acted like absolutely nothing had gone on. So I pretended it hadn’t either. All I could hope was it wouldn’t happen again. But that night, just as I was about to turn my light off, his shadow appeared in my door frame again. I slid across to the far side of the bed as he reached up to my captain’s bunk. In silence he lifted up the covers and swiftly pushed a finger inside of me.

‘When you become a woman,’ he said, his eyes half closed, ‘a man can slide things inside you.’

I was so tense with horror I could barely speak.

‘Stop!’ I managed to say.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘No!’ I hissed, rigid with fear.

He ignored me, and carried on.

‘I’m going to tell Mum,’ I gasped, tears streaming down my cheeks. ‘She won’t like you doing this.’

‘Ah, Terrie,’ Peter said, keeping his hand down below. His eyes opened wide now. ‘That’s not a good idea. You know how much your mother struggles with money. If she loses me she’ll more than likely lose your home. And then you’ll be separated from Paul and your mum and probably be put into care.’

I started sobbing as he suddenly pulled his hand away.

Paul wasn’t allowed in my room, Peter had put a stop to that within six weeks of moving in, so his visits were uninterrupted and my head hurt with confusion as he appeared the next night and the next. I so badly wanted to scream and stop him, but I felt too ashamed. He was always gentle with me, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. None of it made sense at all.

Each time I lay awake for ages afterwards not knowing what to do. I couldn’t tell Mum. What if she didn’t believe me? Plus she’d never been happier.

The feeling of helplessness on the fourth night of his visits made a rage I’d never experienced before bubble up inside me. I tried and tried to stop him. After he’d left my room tears flowed as I opened my mouth, barely recognising the sound of my own voice as it boomed into the gloom of my bedroom.

‘I hate Peter!’ I shrieked. ‘I. HAAAAATE. YOOOUUUU. PEEEEEEEETER!’

Repeatedly I screamed until exhaustion took over.

I half expected someone to come rushing or at least yell upstairs to see what was wrong. But no one did. No one heard my cries and nobody asked me what was wrong.

Over breakfast now, I saw Peter in a different light. The way he combed his greasy hair to the side reminded me of Hitler, and his pungent BO and stale coffee breath turned my stomach. His teeth were a funny brown colour, stained and rarely brushed properly.

I’d never noticed these things before, even during the play fights, but since his bedroom visits, touching me, he made me feel nauseous.

I had art first thing that Friday morning – my favourite subject – but I couldn’t find my homework anywhere. After a quick scout around, I was starting to panic.

‘Oh, where is it?’ I sighed, hunting under some old newspapers.

Paul was playing with his cars on the table and Mum was looking for her door keys.

‘I’ll be home late tonight, kids,’ she said, swigging down her coffee.

Peter was sitting very still at the table like an eye in the whirlwind of our family life. He’d been quiet all morning.

‘Mum,’ cried Paul suddenly. ‘Have you seen my PE kit?’

Mum looked harassed as she glanced at her watch.

‘I’m going to be late now,’ she sighed.

‘Right,’ said Peter, suddenly. ‘The mornings are a bit of a mess, aren’t they, kids? There’s no structure. We need to work out a routine.’

Mum nodded. ‘That’s a good idea, Peter,’ she agreed.

I could tell Mum had had enough of telling us off and nagging us. We often ignored her, as kids do.

‘How about we set a timetable?’ suggested Peter. ‘So we all know where we are?’

I shrugged, and looked at Paul; he was busy looking for his PE kit.

‘Well, I think it could work,’ agreed Mum. ‘And Paul, your PE kit is still in the washing machine, so we’ll have to wash it later.’

I didn’t think anything more of Peter’s idea until we got home. I opened the front door, chucked my bag on the floor and then flopped on the sofa as usual. I was knackered. I’d spent my lunch hour evading a group of spiteful girls and then I’d had to run all the way home as I’d been held up by a teacher talking about homework.

To take my mind off it all, I flicked on a cartoon. Then the door opened, and it was Paul, who kicked off his shoes and plonked himself next to me on the sofa.

‘Want one?’ he said, offering me one of his gobstoppers.

‘Nah, it’s okay, I’ve got some Black Jacks left.’

We often spent our pocket money from Nan and Pap on sweets. I pulled one out of my pocket and started chewing on that instead.

We heard a key in the lock. It was Peter. Sam started whining by his lead as he came through the door.

‘Anyone taken the dog for a walk?’ Peter said, as Sam’s big eyes gazed up at him.

‘No,’ we said in unison. ‘Mum usually just opens the back gate for Sam to have a run around.’

Peter rolled his eyes and then laid out pieces of paper and pens neatly on the table. ‘Turn the TV off and come out to the kitchen.’

‘Right,’ he said, once we were both sitting at the kitchen table. ‘I want you both to organise a routine. Write down a time when you’ll be up, when you’ll get showered, then when you’ll be dressed, what time breakfast is, etc.’

It seemed almost fun, so I wrote down my list.

7 a.m.: Wake up

7.15 a.m.: Have a shower

7.40 a.m.: Get dressed

7.50 a.m.: Have breakfast

7.55 a.m.: Clean teeth

8 a.m.: Get school bag sorted

8.10 a.m.: Leave for school

That looked about right to me. Paul could get up after me and then we’d both have time for a shower and plenty of time to walk to school.

Obviously, we wouldn’t stick to an exact rota every day, but it was a good idea to work out who could get in the shower first. I usually annoyed Paul by jumping in ahead of him. I held it up for Peter to look, but as his eyes scanned my words he shook his head vigorously.

‘No, no, Terrie,’ he tutted. ‘You’ve only put approximate times. You can shower quicker than that. It doesn’t take five minutes to brush your teeth. No, this is all wrong. I want something more like this.’ He picked up the pen and started writing furiously.

6.45 a.m.: Up

6.47 a.m.: Bathroom to shower

6.50 a.m.: Exit shower and immediately clean teeth

6.51 a.m.: Go to bedroom and put on clothes; tidy room

7 a.m.: Make breakfast

‘After your breakfast, you will immediately clear away the dishes and do the washing up. Paul, you can get up at 7 a.m. and follow the same timetable. As Terrie washes up you can dry,’ he said, his words firing like a machine gun. ‘Following this, you can do the hoovering, and clean the floors so I’m not walking through your crumbs all day.

‘One of you can walk the dog and the other can make coffees for myself and your mum and bring them to our room. Is this understood?’

At the bottom he also wrote a list of chores we each had to do.

‘It’s only fair,’ he said. ‘Takes the pressure off your mum.’

I felt uneasy, as he tapped his pen on the pad. He looked very pleased with himself, but it just made me feel more uncomfortable.

‘This is a proper timetable,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Minute by minute. Every second counts. No time is wasted.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Inside all I could think was: What the hell?

Still wanting to please Peter, we nodded, but in the lounge as we were playing a game of Mouse Trap we spoke honestly.

‘What the fuck’s all that about?’ I said angrily to Paul.

Paul was furious too. ‘I don’t like it either, Terrie.’

But we both knew we’d have to go along with it. There was something about the way Peter had spoken that made us know we weren’t to complain.

I overheard Mum talking to Peter through the air vent as she made him a coffee.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I know you’re doing your best, and I appreciate it so much. But try not to be so hard on them. They’ve been through a lot the past year.’

Peter sighed. ‘Of course, Cynth. I’m just learning as I go along.’

A little later, as I was walking out of the bathroom, Peter appeared in front of me.

I stepped back as he reached out with both hands to tickle me. He was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eye that I didn’t like.

‘Stop it,’ I snapped. As he brushed the sides of my breasts, I just wanted him to leave me alone, but he seemed determined to make me join in. At that moment, Paul appeared, but just as quickly he glanced over and disappeared. He no longer took part in Peter’s tickling games; I wished he would. I hated Peter being anywhere near me, especially when I was on my own.

I wasn’t looking forward to Monday morning and the start of our new schedule, but Mum seemed to support Peter’s idea.

‘They might not make it to the very second, Peter,’ she said. ‘But thank you for helping.’

‘No problem,’ said Peter. ‘You just focus on getting ready for work in the mornings and I’ll deal with the kids wherever possible.’

‘That is good of you,’ Mum said, looking relieved.

That Monday, Paul and I raced around, bumping into each other on the landing as our paths crossed as we cleaned our teeth and showered. But we were up and out of the house fast and things were a bit more organised even if we did have to rush.

Back home that afternoon we had our jobs as Peter had assigned. I was to do the hoovering and washing up, while Paul had to walk Sam. Peter had left a pile of plates and stained coffee cups from his day at home.

But nobody was home when we got back so we decided to relax for a bit.

‘Guess as long as we get the jobs done by the time he gets home it’s fine,’ I said to Paul. He nodded, heading off to the kitchen to get a drink. I was famished, so I made a beeline for the kitchen too, raiding the cupboards. Then Paul and I had a bit of a chat as we looked at the schedule.

‘Best get on with this then,’ I said, munching. By the time Peter was back, the dog had been walked, the cleaning was done, and we’d started our homework.

‘How did your schedule go?’ Peter asked, as soon as he came in.

‘Fine, thanks,’ I nodded.

That week, we felt things ran like clockwork, apart from Peter complaining about our cleaning. We both really hated how fussy he was: he’d carefully examine every item that had been washed up and he would put the whole lot back in the sink if he found anything with a speck on. He’d also wander around, his finger lightly dragging over surfaces searching for dust. We’d have to restart the jobs if they weren’t to his satisfaction. By the end of the week we were relieved it was Friday. Time to relax at last.

As I washed up, Paul dried. It was the last thing on our schedule for the week, thank goodness. Paul couldn’t resist having a mess around as we finished the last plates, flicking the tea towel around. I yelled at him to stop, but threw some bubbles from the sink at him when he didn’t.

‘Terrie! Paul!’ cried Mum. ‘Will you quieten down.’

‘Sorry,’ I laughed, as I dodged an incoming flick from Paul.

Then Peter appeared at the door, a frown on his face.

‘How did the schedule work out this week?’ he asked. ‘Did you stick to it?’

Paul and I dutifully nodded.

‘Really?’ pressed Peter.

‘Yes!’ we said, nodding in unison.

‘Can you please come into the living room?’ he said. ‘You too, Cynth.’

Puzzled, we all followed him. Paul and I exchanged confused looks.

We sat dutifully on the sofa facing the TV.

‘What’s this about, Peter?’ asked Mum.

‘Now, kids,’ started Peter, smoothing his moustache. ‘Did you stick to your specific timetable?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Though in my head I was thinking, not quite the way you wanted me to.

‘What about you, Paul?’ he asked.

‘Erm, yeah, me too,’ said Paul, glancing nervously at me. ‘We followed it exactly.’

‘Exactly, hmm,’ said Peter. ‘So you got home on Monday, came straight in and did the hoovering and dusting, did you, Terrie?’

My heart beat a little faster. I felt a bit nervous now; something wasn’t right.

‘Yes, of course!’ I said, shifting uncomfortably on a cushion.

‘Okay,’ smiled Peter. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

He picked up the remote and pressed ‘play’, his eyes not leaving my face.

We all turned and watched the TV as an image of me walking into the kitchen flickered onto the screen.

I gasped audibly, as I realised what Peter had done. The video camera that always sat in the same position in the dining room wasn’t just there collecting dust. It had been carefully positioned for a reason – for Peter to secretly film us.

‘Oh for goodness sake, Peter,’ Mum said, laughing nervously. ‘How utterly ridiculous.’

‘Just wait,’ said Peter, holding up his hand, his eyes still fixed on me.

There I was on the screen: I slung my bag on the floor and dashed to the kitchen cupboard. Flinging it open, I pulled out two slices of bread, crumbs flying everywhere. Then he forwarded to me smearing on ketchup and brown sauce, my favourite sarnie when no one was in. I knew Peter didn’t draw a line on either of these bottles, so I could help myself. Next I was browsing through a book, looking carefree, like I had all the time in the world.

As this all unfolded in front of us, I sat with my hand over my mouth. I kept glancing at Paul. I could see the fear in his wide eyes.

‘So,’ said Peter, pausing the tape. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

I nodded imperceptibly, my mind racing. Why on earth was this man filming us in our own homes? I felt violated, I felt sick.

Next up, Peter turned to an uneasy-looking Paul.

‘And what about you, Paul? Did you take the dog straight for a walk?’

Paul looked panicked.

‘Yes, I did walk Sam!’ he tried to protest.

‘Right,’ said Peter officiously. ‘Let’s see what Paul actually does, shall we?’

Peter pressed play and we watched as Paul rushed in from school, raced to the sink to get a glass of water to drink, grab a slice of bread from the bread bag and flop onto a chair before disappearing upstairs. Peter fast-forwarded the next few minutes, until finally Paul picked up the dog lead.

By now I was incensed. How dare he secretly film and humiliate us like this? My guts churned just like they did when he’d visited my bedroom at night. It felt like there was no escape.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

‘Shall we look at Tuesday’s rota now?’ he snapped. ‘Terrie, what was it you did when you got in from school?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I said. I didn’t want to be accused of lying again.

‘Think harder then,’ said Peter.

‘Erm, I might have made myself another sandwich?’ I offered. I’d no idea what I’d done.

‘Is that on your routine?’ Peter demanded, waving it in my face.

‘No,’ I almost whispered.

Peter went through each day methodically, looking at the schedule we’d drawn up and fast-forwarding to the relevant days. Other scenes showed me and Paul using dining room chairs to peer into cupboards in case Mum had hidden treats at the back. Then we opened the two doors leading from the living to the dining room and ran around madly, playing chase with each other.

We were, by all accounts, just acting like ordinary kids. But suddenly, thanks to Peter, our every movement looked like we were being naughty.

I couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘That’s an invasion of our privacy!’ I cried, standing up.

‘Well, obviously you need it invaded when you can’t be trusted to do as you’re told!’ Peter yelled back.

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘We still got the jobs done. We still did as we were told.’

‘Now you’re just being argumentative,’ Peter snapped.

Paul and I just stared at him. It was both awkward and surreal. This was mind games, beyond anything we’d experienced before. I looked at Mum, pleading with my eyes for her help. Thankfully, she threw her hands in the air and stood up.

‘Okay, Peter,’ she said. ‘That’s enough. You’ve made your point. Kids, you will try harder now?’

Paul said he would, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond. Instead I just glared at Peter.

That night he came upstairs again and touched me. After he left, I lay there again in tears. I was angry, I was scared, and I was full of rage.

‘I HATE PETER!’ I screamed. ‘I HATE PETER! I HAAAAATE PETER! I HAAATE PEEEEEETEEEEER!’

But afterwards all I got was the same response: complete and utter silence.