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liked with – and that went a long way back then – we had two or three hours of real fun, especially on the thrilling rides where we would scream with pride, ‘Nana, Granddad, look at me!’ Nana would smile and wave at us with a tear in her eye, so happy to see us full of joy. Granddad would nod his head and blow a kiss at us.

      Once we’d spent our money, we would move on to our walk along the pier. Then at two we’d go for our regular fish and chips at one of the local restaurants across the road from the beach. By now, our hearts would already be turning from happy to sad as we knew that the time was drawing nearer for us to go back to the place that I can only describe as hell. But there was still a couple of hours on the beach before Granddad would say, ‘We have to go soon.’With us being obedient children, we’d not say a word to try to change his mind, though I think that our faces said it all. We hated that time of day, and the fact that we had to go home, as well as facing school the following day, often ruined what was one of the best days we’d had all year.

      Walking away from the beach to the car with our heads down, we never wanted to look back on our brief happiness. We knew that we had to move forward and hope for the best. At those times, I often wished that I could tell Nana about my father’s abuse, but, as he’d warned me that he would shoot both of my grandparents with his friend’s gun, I couldn’t say a word.

      The dream Carl and I shared of going home and Dad being pleased to see that we’d had a wonderful day never came true, because as soon as we got back we always received the same treatment. In fact, it was worse because he was envious of the fact that we’d had fun. We would bring him some Blackpool rock, in the hope that it would stop him harming us, but he was angry that we’d enjoyed ourselves with what I would call our true parents. He would show his jealousy by waking us in the middle of the night to beat us, for instance, because he couldn’t find his passport. It was like that for a long time and nothing much seemed to change at all. Our only aid to survival was the knowledge that we had our Nana and Granddad for comfort, love and happiness on alternate weekends.

       3

       The First Time

      On my fifth birthday, my father forced me to take the day off school, as he did most days. He waited until my mother had left for work, put me into a pretty little red dress and told me that he was taking me out for the day. The entire time he kept on assuring me that he had a very big surprise for me. On the way, he explained to me that I’d have to stay with his girlfriend Emma for a while, as he needed to run some errands. It was nothing unusual, as he often left me with her for short periods of time while Mum was at work. Emma seemed to be a nice enough woman, but what I didn’t realise at the time was that she was a hooker.

      I was very excited, not knowing what we were about to do. I’m going to get a big birthday treat, I was thinking. But, as the minutes went by, I soon realised that what I was about to experience was quite the opposite. Emma took me with her to see one of her clients. At first, I was curious as to why she’d taken me to a tool shop for my birthday surprise and I was even more baffled when the man there handed her a large sum of money. It quickly became obvious what was going to happen when she took me behind the shop and forced me down on to a workbench. After tying me to this, they shoved a dirty cloth in my mouth. The man paced about the room, then took out some tools from his kit, as I kicked and struggled as much as I could. At the time, I knew that it was wrong, if only because my dad had said that he was the only person on earth allowed to touch me in those places. I was filled with fear and physical pain, not knowing what else he might do to me or if I’d be leaving that place alive.

      What I did know is that I needed to get out of there, so I persevered with my battle and eventually Emma gave in, untying me while he was in the toilet. I ran as fast as I could towards the door, but it seemed to be so far away. Running past electrical tools really put the fear of God in me – they always seemed so loud and dangerous. Yet they were not as threatening to me as he was. He was behind me now, so close that I could feel and smell his tobacco-reeking breath on the back of my neck. I was running to that door with all the speed that my tiny legs could summon. I put everything I had into getting out of that shop and away from them. It seemed to take for ever, because with every step that I took he was right there behind me, breathing down my neck, getting closer to me and shouting, ‘Stop right now, you little bitch! Stop, you filthy little whore!’

      It was a dingy electrical tools store, so cold, dark and grubby, in the middle of a busy high street. No wonder the shop was closed in the middle of the day – he probably never had any customers. He was a scruffy, dirty old man with crooked teeth and ripped trousers without a zip. I’ll never forget his face; I’ve never seen a man so ugly. I could just about see the door now but he was so near I had no choice but to bite him. I can still remember his scream and, when I think about it now, he even sounded like a pervert. I must have torn his skin, because as many times as I tried to brush away the taste I could still taste the dirt from his hands in my mouth days later. As he whimpered in pain, I crawled between his legs and scrambled outside. I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw my mum. I blinked, rubbed my eyes and smiled with joy and such relief when I spotted her standing on the other side of the road. There she was, taking her lunch break from work, and saving my life.

      In a great panic, I ran to her, totally oblivious to the cars that were coming towards me. Mum screamed at the drivers to stop and I reached her safely. I went straight into great detail about what had just happened to me, wailing and collapsing into her arms. She took me to the local GP, who, after examining me, told her to tell my dad to keep me away from strange men, and sent me home with some antibiotics. Wow, although it seems like yesterday to me, I can see just how different things were back then. That wouldn’t happen nowadays; instead, the doctor would call social services straight away.

      How I hated taking those antibiotics, but I used to be on them all the time. I know why now, but back then I used to think there was something seriously wrong with me physically. I never thought that it was being caused by my father. No wonder I was a hypochondriac! I always had something wrong with me, even when I was healthy, and even at that age I was always in pain somewhere. I suppose all those vaginal infections didn’t help. Mum used to go mad at me for not wiping myself properly when I went to the toilet. ‘I’m fed up with taking you to the doctor’s, Sara,’ she’d say.

      That was a line I would hear from her regularly. But, while she was dragging me off to the toilet and showing me how to wipe myself, little did she know that it had nothing at all to do with my personal hygiene. I knew exactly how to use the toilet; if only she could have guessed that it was all down to being left alone with my father and what he was doing to me while she was gone.

      When Dad came home, in the middle of the night, Mum told him what had happened with Emma earlier that day and he got very angry. He beat her up severely, hitting her time after time, slapping, kicking and punching her and accusing her, ‘Yuh just jealous of Emma. Yuh have to make tings up feh mess up my shit, yuh jealous bitch.’

      I now know that he knew the truth about what they were going to do to me. He must have, because if my kid had run away like I had I would have gone home straight away to check if she was there, but he waited until the middle of the night to come back. He was beating my mother out of guilt, covering his tracks again, trying to protect himself against getting into any trouble, and she paid the price for trying to look after me. How could he? He really scared me. Sometimes I would look at him and wonder if he was the Devil.

      He left the house after beating Mum, and she went straight to bed. Carl and I tried to comfort her but we knew that she was in awful pain and all she wanted was to be left alone. Her eyes were bruised, her ribs were badly bruised and she could hardly breathe in. He had really hurt her this time, and we were worried for her health. We all hoped that he would be spending the night at his girlfriend’s house but we weren’t so lucky. He came home an hour later, very drunk, and my heart sank because I knew what was coming next.

      I heard his footsteps on the landing. He was heading for my room and there was nothing that

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