Читать книгу Stolen Voices: A sadistic step-father. Two children violated. Their battle for justice. - Terrie Duckett - Страница 12

The memories of being happy when Mum told me and Terrie that Peter was moving in were fading fast. The feeling of being in a family where I could live the life of an eight-year-old, carefree, loved and having fun, was also disappearing. Every night now for the last few weeks Terrie had screamed, shouted and cried. I felt for her but didn’t want to go in just in case Peter had a go at me and I ended up being the one screaming and crying. It felt selfish and I did feel guilty, but Terrie was bigger and older than me, so I thought she’d be able to take whatever it was better than me.

It seemed to really wind Peter up if I went into Terrie’s bedroom, not just in the evenings, but even during the day at weekends. I didn’t get it, though. The less time I spent with Terrie in her room, the more Peter did. A few months before I would have felt upset, but now I was actually beginning to be happy. It came down to a simple equation: the more time spent with Peter the more you were likely to be in pain and crying; the less time, the happier you were.

Mum said it was hard for us to accept having a new father figure in our lives, and it was normal to be a bit overwhelmed and rebel against the rules, but it didn’t feel like that. We just couldn’t do anything we wanted any more. She said we’d get used to it soon, but I think she missed the point – we didn’t want to get used to it.

I’d often come home to find Terrie and Peter having play fights. I didn’t join in any more as Peter was a lot rougher with me than when we first played games and I’d inevitably end up getting hurt from an extra hard pinch, a foot in the stomach or a stray fist. I assumed Terrie still found it fun, though.

Peter’s secret camera stunt really upset us; now we had to look over our shoulders and follow a strict routine every day of every week of every month. We already felt like servants and, while we had an ever-growing list of jobs to do, Peter just lay on the sofa watching films and eating.

For the next few days I kept checking to see if the camera was back but it had disappeared and I hoped that him recording us had been a one-off. Instead of worrying about it I focused on remembering what jobs I needed to do so I could catch up with TV after. If I was this busy at the age of nine I didn’t want to be 10!

The next day I took Sam for a walk, but as I returned Peter was waiting for me with a now familiar disapproving look behind his glasses.

‘Paul, that wasn’t a long walk,’ he said gruffly. ‘Come with me.’ He grabbed his coat and keys. ‘I’ll show you exactly where you need to walk Sam every day.’

He walked down the long alley that started across the road from the house and then around the corner of another one until we reached an oval of grass on the estate.

‘Now,’ he said, pointing around the area. ‘I want you to walk Sam around the perimeter of grass three times, and only then can you come home.’

He tapped his watch. ‘That should take at least 12 minutes. Go.’

It was so precise and exact. You freaky twat, I thought to myself. The next thing he’ll be doing is marching me around, ‘Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left.’

The following evening Peter looked a bit grim-faced as we ate our beef burgers and mash.

‘Paul,’ he said. ‘Did you remember to walk the dog?’

‘Yes!’ I beamed. ‘I did!’ I had ensured I had followed the route exactly and even delayed going home by 30 seconds to make the walk 12 minutes exactly.

‘Brilliant,’ said Peter, although he didn’t look too thrilled.

We carried on cutting up our food. I noticed Terrie was quieter than usual.

‘Did you also hoover the sitting room?’ Peter asked.

‘Oh,’ I replied, stabbing my fork into my burger. ‘No, I forgot about that.’ I was desperately thinking of when he had told me to do it, but for the life of me I couldn’t actually remember him telling me to hoover.

‘Hmm, okay,’ smiled Peter. ‘Tomorrow you’ll need to do the hoovering and, to make up for forgetting today, dust the living room too.’

‘Okay,’ I said, glancing at Terrie. But her eyes were looking straight at her plate.

‘And don’t forget to walk the dog and do your homework,’ he added.

I stared momentarily at the ceiling. Hoovering, dusting, dog walk, homework, I recited to myself. No time in there to watch TV or play with my toys.

‘Yep, got it,’ I said.

The next afternoon I raced home knowing I’d be busy; I wanted to get the jobs done as fast as possible so Peter would have nothing to moan about. I worked though my rota, did the hoovering, ensuring I moved everything to get underneath and even put the soft brush on so I could get the cobwebs off the top of the walls. Exhausted, I flopped down at the kitchen table and did my homework.

Over dinner later that evening, I expected Mum and Peter to be chuffed. But instead, Peter looked at me as if I’d done something else wrong.

‘Did you do all your jobs?’ he asked.

‘Yep!’ I replied without hesitation.

‘No you didn’t,’ he said, punching the air with his index finger. ‘What happened to the dusting?’

I smacked my head with my hand.

‘Oh no!’ I said. ‘I forgot again.’

‘Oh no!’ Peter mocked. ‘Yes, you forgot, didn’t you? That’s the second time now, Paul. I think you’re forgetting on purpose because you’re too lazy to help around the house.’

The following day I had my ‘normal’ rota – this list already had over 20 items on and at the end of the rota was a new line: Check with Peter if there are any other things he wants you to do.

Great. That last line means we can never technically finish our jobs.

With extra determination, I did everything on the list, paying particular care to get each and every job right. I didn’t want him to have any excuse to keep adding to it!

Tea time arrived and the four of us assembled around the table. But before I’d even managed to fully sit down, Peter blurted out: ‘You didn’t do the washing up. You didn’t put the rubbish out. And you didn’t check with me to see if there were any other jobs that needed doing.’

I just stared at my plate. Now I knew I had done the washing up and I couldn’t ask about other jobs because he had only been in the house 10 minutes.

Putting the rubbish out – eh, what the fuck? That’s not on my list and he hadn’t told me to do it, I thought furiously.

‘I did the washing up. I put a tick by it,’ I said, pulling the rota from my pocket and passing it over for him to look. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning putting the rubbish out and you weren’t here to ask if there were any other jobs,’ I offered, feebly, already knowing the outcome.

‘You missed my coffee cup that I left in the bedroom,’ Peter informed me happily. ‘And you’re using an outdated rota. The correct one is stuck on the fridge. It includes the rubbish, and you could have asked about additional jobs before you sat down to eat.’

I glanced at the fridge and a new rota had appeared – it wasn’t there 10 minutes ago. It felt like he was doing things just to make it look like I was lazy, forgetful or just useless. I’ll just have to be more careful and try and stay one step ahead of him, I thought to myself.

I started lifting the first forkful of food to my mouth when Peter started again: ‘Right, Paul, here’s a notepad and pen for you. You need to write down the tasks that I ask. Then we’ll both know where we are, won’t we?’

I stared at the notebook. I couldn’t be bothered with this on top of the rota, but I had no choice.

‘Okay,’ I sighed, taking it from him.

‘Aw, Paul,’ said Mum. ‘If you didn’t keep forgetting you wouldn’t need it. Why don’t you just listen a bit more?’

‘I’ll try harder, Mum,’ I promised, but inside I was thinking, am I the only person that can see Peter is making stuff up to make me look bad?

Terrie was given a notebook too. They were pocket-sized, so, Peter said, we could keep it on us at all times. As we would find out later, forgetting to have the pocket book on us would carry its own punishment.

Days later, my notebook was filled with tasks. Peter was constantly coming up with things. He said the bathroom windows needed cleaning, the skirting boards dusting and the kitchen cupboards wiping – chores I’d never thought about before. I was sure Mum didn’t even do them. But by the third day I’d forgotten to clean the bath, another job suddenly added.

‘Right,’ said Peter to Terrie and myself before Mum got home. ‘Every ACTION has a REACTION, remember that. So in this instance you are both going to do some lines.’

‘Lines?’ I gasped. Lines? This wasn’t school.

But Peter already had a pen and paper to hand and placed them in front of us, the pen at a precise horizontal angle to the paper.

‘I want 500 lines,’ he said, politely. ‘I must do what Peter tells me because Peter is always right.’

I looked at him, swallowing hard. This sounded mental. But he looked quite calm, like it was the most usual request in the world.

‘It’s for your own benefit,’ he said. ‘Help you both to remember that if I say something then it needs doing.’

I sat down and started writing them. I was keen to get back in his good books again just to minimise further punishments.

I looked at Terrie; she looked furious. ‘Stinky German twat,’ she mouthed, mock-saluting behind Peter’s back.

It made me giggle.

After about 50 lines, my hand started aching. So I decided to write the words down in columns instead. All the ‘I’s first, then the ‘must’s and so on. Terrie saw what I was doing and decided to do the same.

‘Finished!’ I said, almost proudly. Terrie finished a few moments later.

Peter picked them up and ripped up the paper in half, glaring at us over his glasses.

‘I said write lines, not columns. Do not disobey me. Who’s idea was this?’

‘Mine,’ I said.

‘Write them again, but this time 600 times,’ he ordered. ‘I must write lines not columns when I’m asked to write lines.’

Sobbing, I picked up the pencil. Terrie protested and Peter ordered her upstairs.

My hand was killing me, my eyes ached, and by the time I’d finished I felt exhausted.

As I went upstairs to bed, I heard Mum cry out; she’d found the sheet with the lines on.

‘Peter!’ she snapped. ‘Do you really need to hand out strings of punishments like this?’

‘Do you want them to learn or not?’ Peter replied.

The new notebook and schedule system were a pain, but we managed to scoot around doing our jobs as fast as possible, or we’d get in first and relax for a bit and then do them. Thankfully, there was no sign of the camera again. Then, one Saturday evening, as we were watching Blockbusters, Peter had another suggestion:

‘Now then,’ he said, wiping his moustache with his fingers. ‘As part of the new routine, we’re going to have a weekly accounts review.’

‘Accounts what?’ Terrie asked, scowling.

‘A review, so we all know where we are,’ Peter said.

‘Eh?’ I said. I’d no idea what he was on about.

‘Every single penny you have, I want to know about it. So no money is wasted.’

‘But we hardly have any money anyway!’ I cried.

‘I want to know what you have in your piggy banks, what pocket money and birthday money has to be accounted for too. And if you spend anything it needs to be noted down.’

He drew lines on a piece of paper to show us how he wanted his system to be operated. We had to keep track of exactly what money we had and what we spent, and then every Friday Peter would carry out a review.

‘But I only ever buy the odd magazine or 10p mix,’ Terrie said.

‘Okay, well then, that’s all that will be in the book,’ said Peter.

‘What about birthday money?’ Terrie asked. We were always allowed to spend our birthday money on whatever we liked.

‘Half of it goes in the bank, the other half can be spent,’ Peter continued.

‘But we don’t have bank accounts,’ I said.

‘Well, you can open one at the weekend,’ Peter retorted. ‘I want you to count out a pound from your piggy banks. That’s all you need to open an account. You need to learn how to save.’

That Saturday we went down to a branch of Midland and I felt quite grown up as they asked for my signature. I was also thrilled with my free Midland Bank green money box, which sorted out the change when you slotted the coins in the top of it.

‘It’s a good idea of Peter’s,’ Mum said on the way home. ‘Saving from a young age makes sense.’

But one bank account wasn’t enough. Peter made us each open a second as well, insisting we needed it, but never fully explaining why.

He warned us in the sternest terms about keeping track of the passbook for each account. ‘I need them to audit your accounts,’ he said. ‘If I see anything that doesn’t add up there will be consequences. You must keep them safe and have them available at all times when I ask for them.’

Mum came home from work and Terrie told her what Peter was planning.

‘It does seem a bit over the top, Peter,’ she said, quietly.

‘Over the top that the children save and open bank accounts?’ he asked. ‘And learn how to manage their money?’

Mum looked worn out and sighed. ‘Yes, I guess,’ she said.

‘Cynthia, I’d have thought you’d be more grateful. Few stepparents would take as much interest as me.’

I tried hard to make sure I knew what I’d spent, but sometimes I couldn’t quite remember whether I’d bought five- or ten-penny sweets or how much the comic I’d lent my friend Mark had cost.

Very soon, things didn’t add up. Just a week later, Peter was sat counting out the coppers I’d placed on the kitchen table.

‘You are out by 13p, Paul,’ he said, sternly. ‘Why is that?’

I shrugged. I had counted everything myself, and just assumed it must be because I had got some sweets I’d forgotten about.

Peter sighed, looking at Mum. ‘Now, it seems like we’ll need to ask for receipts. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Right, Terrie, Paul, I want a receipt for everything you buy.’

‘Everything?’ gasped Terrie.

‘Yes, everything,’ he said. ‘That way we’ll all know where we are, won’t we?’

The following morning, I was home from school before anyone else so I sat on the doorstep waiting for Terrie, reading my book. Terrie was the only one with a spare key, but Peter arrived first.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Reading,’ I shrugged, turning back to my book.

‘But where did you get that from?’ he persisted.

‘From the house,’ I said.

I often took a book to school to read at lunchtimes, in case the other boys didn’t let me join in football. There was nothing better than burying my head in a book to escape.

‘Right,’ said Peter as he turned the key. ‘New rule. You are NOT to remove anything from the house without permission.’

‘Eh?’ I was confused.

‘And I am going to check your bag before and after school every day,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

I wondered what he was on about, but didn’t bother to ask. I just did my jobs fast that evening and kept out of his way and then went to my room.

Next morning, just after Terrie had set off for the day, Peter put his arm out across the front door and stopped me from following.

‘Pockets,’ he said. ‘And bag please.’

I slowly turned out my pockets and unzipped my bag.

Peter grabbed my tiny Warhammer figures, some sweets, a book and a half-eaten bag of my favourite crisps, Spicy Nik Naks.

‘This is all confiscated,’ he said grimly. ‘Now hands up.’

He forced me to hold my arms up like a passenger in airport security as he patted me down.

‘Good,’ he nodded. ‘Now lower your trousers and your pants.’

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘Urgh no.’ This can’t be normal, I thought to myself.

‘Do it now or get punished for disobeying me,’ he ordered, glaring at me.

I was going to be late if I didn’t leave soon. The last thing I wanted was detention. So I whipped down my trousers. Peter pulled down my underwear and then spread my buttocks.

‘What do you think I’ve got?’ I asked. ‘A pencil stuck up there?’

‘Don’t be so fucking cheeky,’ Peter barked, putting his face an inch from mine, the smell of his stagnant breath washing over me.

I pulled my pants up again, burning with humiliation.

I went to school with nothing in my bag except for my textbooks and pens. Anything that would provide me with any pleasure or entertainment had been confiscated. All the way to school, my heart was beating wildly, as I thought of what Peter had done. It seemed so unfair, but he made it seem so normal. My head was spinning by the time I got to school. I sat down in the classroom, feeling so depressed as I opened my almost empty bag. Looking inside, I wondered what else Peter could take away from me.

Over dinner that night, Peter started telling Mum he had more ideas to improve behaviour within the household.

‘I’ve noticed sweets can spoil dinners,’ he said, peering at us over his glasses. ‘I think the kids shouldn’t eat anything before dinner. Or before bed, as all that sugar prevents proper sleep … do you agree, Cynth?’

Mum nodded. ‘I guess so, Peter.’

‘Ah yes, well, don’t you agree Terrie and Paul are better behaved now?’ he beamed. ‘I mean, since we started the schedule. It’s a real turnaround, isn’t it?’

Mum looked at us and smiled. Mum was much happier now with Peter to mete out the punishments and hand out the chores. She could relax when she got home from work, all the housework completed and two children who acted like robots to meet her and Peter’s every need.

The perfect children: quiet, invisible, helpful and obedient.

‘Yes, Peter,’ she agreed.

‘Oh, and I cancelled the subscriptions at the corner shop for the Beano and Terrie’s girls mag. It’s much more productive for kids to read proper books.’

‘But they like those comics,’ Mum said.

‘Yes, but you’d prefer them to do well at school, wouldn’t you?’ Peter replied immediately.

After dinner he asked me to make him a cup of coffee. So I made him my newly invented ‘Paul’s Froth-a-chino’. I poured in the milk, spat in it and then frothed it up with spoon.

‘There you go,’ I said, bringing it through to him with a grin. ‘Made just the way you like it.’

It sounds pathetic, I know, but I needed to do something, anything, to get back at him. It felt like a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless. I got enormous satisfaction as I watched him take a slurp.

Just before bedtime, I walked into my bedroom to find Peter pacing back and forth.

‘Paul!’ he snapped. ‘Look what I found. Did you think you could get away with this?’

He was holding a fluff-covered penny sweet in his hand, pointing at it.

‘I … I …’ I spluttered, trying to work out where it was from. It must’ve been an old one, lost in a jacket pocket.

‘Every ACTION has a REACTION, Paul,’ he spat. Then, raising his hand, he whacked me hard on the backside.

‘Arghhh!’ I screamed, as he stood over me.

‘You deserved that, you devious little shit,’ he screeched. ‘Don’t defy me again!’ Then he stormed out of the room.

For minutes I just lay there crying, clutching my backside. He’d walloped me as hard as he could and I had a perfect replica of Peter’s handprint to prove it. Then I scrambled to my feet and went and laid on my bed, sobbing. For some reason, knowing that Peter had been through my wardrobe to find that sweet made things even worse. He wanted to catch me out.

Wiping my eyes, I thought back over what had happened over the past week. Peter seemed like a different man. The schedule, the pay review, the body checks, and now he had physically punished me. Was there no end to this? How much worse could it get?

Later that night I overheard Peter continue his rant as I slipped out of bed to use the loo.

‘Cynth, I know you’re doing your best as a mum but clearly there are problems with the kids. They’re a pair of compulsive liars. Both of them have lied about their doing their chores and the amount of food that’s going missing … for Christ’s sake, that’s where all your money is going. They need a firmer hand.’

As he went on and on, Mum just listened.