by John Nicholl
I looked first at my father and then at my mother: my tired, worn-out, lacklustre mother, beaten down by life; and I knew without a doubt that she’d seen it too, that look, the monster peeking out from behind his mask. My mother tensed, tight muscles changing the contours of her face. But she didn’t say anything; she never said anything, not a single word, or at least nothing meaningful. Nothing that could change anything for the better. I always hoped she would speak up in defence of her daughters, but it never happened, not even once. Denial was her survival tactic. I understand that now. It was a self-therapy of sorts. She raised invisible walls all around herself. High impenetrable walls I couldn’t hope to break down any more than she could. I stared at her, trying to meet her eyes, imploring her to speak out, as she averted her gaze to the wall.
I rose with warm tears welling in my eyes, and ran to the small first-floor bathroom, where I threw up until there was nothing left but green, acidic bile. I washed out my mouth with cold water and squirted a small blob of spearmint toothpaste into my open mouth before returning to the kitchen, tears still staining my face. And that was the end of my birthday tea, the party was over. My father silently headed to his garden office, to which he often retreated. And my mother tidied the kitchen, making the place ‘look presentable’, as she often put it. She wandered around the room as if in a trance, with me mirroring her every step, trying to speak, to really speak, from the heart. I wanted her to listen, to take me seriously, to do the right thing.
‘He did it again last night, Mum. He came to my room. He–’
She interrupted me. She always interrupted me. I should have got used to it but I never did. ‘Come on now, Alice, that’s enough of that silly talk. Fetch the plates from the table. There’s a good girl. They’re not going to wash themselves.’
I just stood there, statue like, not moving an inch, as if welded to the spot. It wasn’t the first time I’d attempted to tell her. I’d tried several times over the years. I’d even shown her the bruises. I repeated myself now, louder and more insistently this time, completing my statement despite her turning away. I knew she’d heard. How could she not have? But I may as well have not opened my mouth at all.
My mother’s gaze bounced from one part of the room to another. She was looking at anything but me. And then she finally spoke again, breaking the silence, high-pitched, urgent, desperate to silence me, a look of virtual panic on her face. ‘Now look what you’ve done, your sister’s crying. You are so ungrateful for your many blessings. I made you a nice cake with candles. Why spoil what’s been a lovely day?’
I wasn’t going to give up that easily.
‘What if he turns on Sarah next? Have you thought about that? Because he will, he definitely will. You saw the way he looked at her, just like I did.’
Silence, other than my sister whimpering to my left.
‘Didn’t you hear me, Mother? Didn’t you hear what I said to you?’
She’d heard all right, of course she had, like every other time I’d spoken out. But it made no difference. She picked Sarah up, headed towards the hall, up the stairs, and into her bedroom at the back of the house, where she closed the door against the world.
I was alone. My mother wouldn’t listen, and I didn’t believe anyone else would either. I’m sure now that wasn’t true. But it seemed that way to me. I’d once tried talking to a church elder, who’d simply told my father what I’d said, unbelieving, unable or unwilling to help. I was seen as the problem both within the family home and the church I’d attended all my life. I was the wayward child, a burden to my parents, a girl in need of counselling and prayer, their cross to bear. It was a more naive time when many people found it hard to believe that a significant number of men posed a serious risk to children: children like me.
As I lay awake in my single bed that night, jumping at even the slightest sound, afraid of shadows, fearful of his hand on the door handle, I came to a realisation. If my sister was to be safe, my father had to die. That’s the conclusion I came to at the age of thirteen. And I believed it too. I still believe it with every part of my being. There was no other option. It shouldn’t have been that way, but it was. The bastard couldn’t be allowed to live for a day longer than necessary. It didn’t really matter how he died, as long as he did. As unlikely as it seemed, I was going to find a way of putting him in the ground. I just had to work out how.
4
My father’s much-loved garden office was invaded by rats the following March, which pleased me more than I can say. The odious man had left various tempting foodstuffs readily available after a drunken night of whisky excess. And so the opportunistic little rodents had gnawed their way through the structure’s wooden floor with those prominent front teeth of theirs, before filling their bellies at my father’s expense.
I liked that! I liked it a lot. I can’t stress that sufficiently. It was more than a simple act of nature. It told me that he wasn’t all-powerful. That he had his vulnerabilities like everybody else. Nature had thrown him a curveball. For all his prayers, God wasn’t on his side. I took comfort in the fact that some things were beyond the bastard’s control. And soon, I would be too. I said it and almost believed it. I was desperate to believe it. I repeated it in my head time and again for only me to hear. In a short time, his world would come crashing down. If he thought the rats were a problem, there was much more to come. His reluctant plaything had become his nemesis, an agent of divine punishment. A flaming sword of vengeance and justice hung above his head in my mind’s eye. I wanted him dead. I had never hated anyone more.
I can clearly remember the bastard’s outraged reaction, as he paced around the kitchen table, his face reddening, tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow. He was going to kill the rats, every single one of them. He yelled words to that effect as he searched for his car keys, and then he left the house, slamming the front door behind him so hard that it shook in its frame. He returned about half an hour or so later with several large, shiny steel traps, and two white plastic containers of poisonous, blue-stained grain. He held one of the two plastic receptacles up in plain sight for both myself and my mother to see.
‘This will put an end to the little swines! How dare they? Have you seen the state of the floor? It’s a complete disgrace.’
My mother forced an unconvincing smile, hugging my little sister while confirming that she had indeed seen the floor, and uttering words of encouragement to shut him up. And I tried to fade into the background while they talked, making myself smaller, and watching from a safe distance as his anger intensified.
If the poison could kill the rats, it could kill him too. That’s what I told myself, less than convincingly. It could, couldn’t it, if he ingested enough? Maybe this was the answer I was looking for – the key to my plight, and my sister’s too. A resolution delivered direct to our door. Maybe it was fate, already written, the Creator’s will. Or perhaps it was me, just me alone, searching for meaning, for reassurance in a frightening world.
I followed my father out into our back garden, with its multicoloured spring flowers bordering the manicured lawn. But I didn’t see the beauty. It didn’t register even for a moment. I was focused on him and only him, as he often was on me with all the horrors that held. I stood at a distance, well out of his reach, but close enough to watch as he administered the poison, dropping several heaped spoonfuls of the blue-stained grain into the uneven hole in the wooden floor.
I stayed in the garden after he returned to the house, muttering as he went. I considered my next step, thoughts spinning in my head, weighing up my options. I experienced a heady mix of excitement and fear as adrenalin surged through my bloodstream, flight or fight but with nowhere to run. I knew I had to poison him, but how? That was the question, how?
I walked around the edge of the lawn, glancing from one window to another, up, down, from left to right and back again, hoping no one could read my thoughts. And then it came to me in a blinding flash of inspiration. Why not feign a new in
terest in cooking? That could work. I could help my mother with the family’s feeding and poison a meal when the opportunity arose. Yes, that seemed like a good idea. Perhaps a meaty stew or a hot curry with rice, something that would adequately mask the blue grain well enough for him to digest it in sufficient quantity. I’d have to ensure no one else ate any of the contaminated food, of course, that was essential. But I could do it, couldn’t I? If I used the right curry powder blend with extra chilli. If I held my nerve. Neither my mother nor my baby sister was fond of spicy food. I could use that to my advantage. Yes, the hotter the better!
The bastard would gulp it down like the greedy pig he was. He’d be dead in minutes, nothing but a memory, rotting in hell. I pictured events as I lay in bed that night and decided to act at the first opportunity. It was more than a female fantasy. I was going to do it. The decision was made. There was no going back.
I was both gratified and a little apprehensive when my mother encouraged my new-found interest in cooking in the coming days. It surprised but pleased her. I think that’s a fair summary of her reaction. And I was gaining confidence as my plan approached fruition. My father hadn’t changed, of course. Men like him never do. He still invaded my room at night when it suited him. And his interest in my little sister was growing as she approached her fourth birthday. I pleaded with him to leave her alone, but he just smiled thinly without parting his lips and walked away as if I’d said nothing at all. I knew only too well what was coming. It was up to me to save her. And I was running out of time. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if heaven can be a place on earth, then so can hell.
I decided the time had come. I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was all arranged. I was to cook a family meal the following Friday evening after school. Stew for the rest of us and curry for him. All I had to do was use two pots – one with spices and one without. Prawn vindaloo was my father’s favourite meal, and hopefully, his last. Although it seemed the rats had taken a little longer to die. That shocked me at first. Death took a bit of time and effort. Father administered the blue grain several times before the desperately thirsty creatures finally passed. It seemed the rats had become resistant to the toxic chemical. Here was hoping it was different with humans. I realised I might have to repeat the process, too. There may be other meals to cook and contaminate. I had to hold my nerve.
Friday evening couldn’t come quickly enough. I was like a happy child anticipating a Christmas morning. Mother has sourced all the necessary ingredients from the local supermarket, and I was mentally prepared. I’d pictured events in my head. I’d celebrated his death in my imagination. Now all I had to do was create that happy reality. I was ready to go, nerves jangling, but still determined.
And then it happened. Something unexpected, a complication I hadn’t considered even for a moment. My mother and father sat at the kitchen table that evening as I began cooking, and talked of a neighbour’s unexpected death. The poor woman was only in her early forties. A seemingly healthy wife and mother who often exercised, so full of life. As bad as that was, it wasn’t my neighbour’s premature demise that shocked and concerned me so very much. There was going to be a post-mortem. The authorities would find out exactly how and why she died.
My legs stiffened as I stood at the range cooker. I met my mother’s tired eyes across the room and asked the inevitable question. ‘Is there always a post-mortem after someone’s death?’
I think I knew the answer long before she opened her mouth to speak. My mother nodded twice, her head moving in jerks. She was tense as always, as if on full alert. Keen to answer, anything but silence. ‘Yes, yes, there is, if the death is unexpected, or the cause is unknown. That’s right, isn’t it, George?’
It was my father’s turn to nod this time, pompous, full of himself, always the expert on everything, as he poured himself another whisky, the third in a matter of minutes. He drained his glass before answering, making her wait. He always did that. It gave him power. ‘Yes, it’s a very necessary process. Best not to think about it at teatime. It’s all part of God’s great plan.’
That may or may not be the case. But what I do know is that my plan was torn to pieces in that instant. My gut twisted as my legs buckled, the room becoming an impressionist blur as I sank to the tiled floor.
I was lost in a sea of despair for weeks on end after that. All my hopes were dashed. I felt hopeless, more hopeless than ever before. It seemed my father was in control after all. I cried often and struggled to eat. My mother wanted me to see a doctor. To have a medical, to be checked out. But Father was never going to let that happen, not in a million years. I could have said something. I may have spoken out. I had before so why not again? And so the bastard placated my mother with offers of prayers. I’m sure she knew exactly what he was doing. But she went along with it. She always gave in, folding under whatever pressure he inflicted; anything for an easier life. Mother was a shadow of a woman, manipulated, isolated, and controlled. And he was good at it too, something of a master. It’s how he facilitated his continued offending, how he fed his grotesque and deviant needs. I can see that now through my more experienced eyes. I can see it as clear as day. His word was law, his and his alone. He was the god in our house, and my mother turned a blind eye, broken, defeated, anything to help her cope for one more day.
I may well have harmed myself in those dark days, had it not been for my sister. I certainly considered it – anything to bring my unhappy reality to an end. I thought of little else at times. But suicide is never the answer. Cling onto hope, that’s my advice. There’s often a light at the end of that very dark tunnel. I’d almost given up on any expectation of redemption when an unexpected opportunity arose, without any need for planning.
Give me a second. My mouth’s a little parched. I’ll fetch a glass of water to oil the creative wheels. And then I’ll tell you what happened next.
Okay, my throat’s eased, my thirst quenched, and so here we go again. I really like this part of my story. I can feel my spirits rising in anticipation of the telling. You may or may not feel the same.
My father liked walking, which meant we walked a great distance and often. He frequently took us on long country treks in the spring and summer. And the April in question was no different once the Easter church services were over. My sister was dropped off at my maternal grandmother’s nearby home, after which we headed to the beautiful seaside county of Pembrokeshire in our aged, faded-red estate car, which had long since seen better days.
We must have looked like an ordinary family to anyone who cared to look, unremarkable, not particularly surprising or different from the happy norm. But first impressions can be notoriously unreliable.
I was dreading the day because I’d spend it with him – the man who offered nothing but misery. He spoilt everything by being the man he was, by being there, by existing, simply by drawing breath. He was a dark cloud who shaped my childhood experience. A poison chalice from which I was forced to drink.
We left the car on a convenient grass verge at the side of a country road, and headed off towards Cemaes Head – with its spectacular high granite cliffs rising majestically from the sea. And that’s where it happened. In that glorious place of infinite beauty. God’s creation at its very best.
We’d been walking along the narrow stone-strewn path for about half an hour or so when Father suddenly stopped to peer over the edge of the cliff at something or other in the blue-green sea far below. Mother trudged on as he stood there, teetering only inches from the edge, holding his binoculars to his eyes seemingly without a care in the world.
And then I did it, instinctively, without a moment’s thought. I crept up behind him one step at a time, ever so slowly, ever so carefully, my heart pounding so very loudly that I feared he might hear it. But my fears were unfounded. I kept moving, one step, two steps, then another, then another. And then I threw myself forward when I thought the time was exactly right. I used all my weight and strength to send him sprawling,
flailing in mid-air as if trying to fly, as he plunged over 500 feet to the cold and unforgiving water below.
Brief seconds passed like minutes as he tumbled, seemingly in slow motion, until he hit a large, jagged rock only inches below the sea’s surface. Dark blood poured from a head wound, mixing with the salty water and then washing away. I knew that it was finally over. My sister was safe. I was free of him. It was a glorious moment. A celebration of my will to survive and conquer. Now all I had to do was get away with it. That was as important as the act itself. It was then and it is now. Punishment was never a part of the plan.
I felt no remorse, no guilt or regret, as I called after my mother, who was now about twenty metres away, still walking on along the cliff path. I bit my tongue hard, drawing blood, forcing tears as she looked back, puzzlement on her face. And then she asked the question I’d been dreading, her tone almost monotone, bordering on the melancholy. ‘Where on earth has your father gone?’
I pointed down towards the sea with a finger that wouldn’t stop shaking. ‘He fell! He– he was close to the edge, and– and he fell. There was nothing– nothing I could do.’
She appeared more animated now, her voice rising in pitch and volume, demanding to be heard above the sea breeze. ‘He fell?’
I pointed again as she walked towards me. ‘Yes, yes, he fell, over the edge, right down there into the sea. And he– he hit a rock.’ I thrust out my hand to show her. ‘That rock. Can you see it, the one below the water? I tried to grab him, but I was– I was too slow. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. There was nothing I could do.’
