Lillian Wade had lived through two world wars. After taking one look at June, she grabbed a towel and a pair of scissors, and forty-five minutes later young Mickey Dawson let out his first cry.
Johnny Fuller arrived home five days after his son was born. Unbeknown to June he’d met some old scrubber, eighteen years his senior, from the Whitechapel area and had been staying at hers. After spending less than an hour with his first-born, Johnny headed off to the pub to wet the baby’s head.
Life grew harder for June from that moment onwards. Money was scarce, and as time wore on she was left more and more alone with her son; Johnny was usually nowhere to be seen. But June, being a fighter, learned how to cope on her own with her boy. Her neighbours were wonderful, and whenever her so-called partner stayed away for long spells they helped her out with Mickey, making sure that both of them were okay. Many a cold night June and the boy sat huddled around a neighbour’s coal fire for a bit of warmth; the rest of the time, they sat indoors with their coats on and a blanket over them.
As the years rolled by, June and Mickey settled into a nice routine. By now, Johnny hardly came home at all. If he popped in twice a year, he overstayed his welcome. Working up North was his excuse, but truth be told he was living with a bird over in Dagenham, playing Daddy to her two kids.
June’s pleasant routine ended on the morning of Mickey’s sixth birthday. Lily had baked him a cake, all the neighbours had chipped in to buy him a second-hand bike and a party was planned for him that afternoon. Hearing the front door open and slam shut, June thought it was Lily bringing the cake in.
‘I’m in the kitchen, Lil.’
To her horror, it wasn’t Lily at all. It was a drunken, unkempt, old-looking Johnny carrying a bin liner full of belongings in his hand.
‘I’m home, darlin’,’ he slurred. ‘For good this time, there’s no more work up North.’
Life got a lot worse for June from that moment on. Nursing a broken heart and an alcohol addiction, Johnny drank for England, refused to work, and took out all his frustration on her and the boy.
The beatings started within weeks. First it was just the odd clump here and there, but within months he was knocking seven colours of shit out of her.
June hated him, wished he was dead, but she was trapped.
Due to his drink problem, he’d stopped wanting regular sex but she dreaded the nights he beat her. It wasn’t the pain, she could handle that, it was the aftermath. The violence seemed to arouse him and he’d then force himself upon her. It was on one of these nights that Debbie was conceived.
A couple of weeks after June’s pregnancy was confirmed, Johnny did another disappearing act. Money was still tight and life was tough, but once again the neighbours helped out and June began to smile again.
Debbie was just over a year old when her father returned from his last jaunt. This time his behaviour was worse than ever and the beatings became more frequent. Things came to a head a few months later when, instead of just knocking his wife about, he started beating the living daylights out of Mickey boy as well. After a particular vicious attack on her son, June confided in her neighbour Lily, who knew exactly what to do. The lad was rushed to hospital and the police were called.
June did not clap eyes on Johnny Fuller again from that day onwards. A year later she met Peter at a wedding and had not looked back since. He had loved her, supported her, and made her financially and emotionally secure. Which was why, whatever happened, she had to stick by him. He had rescued her from a living hell and she would always be indebted to him for that.
‘Are you all right, my darling?’
Peter wiped his muddy boots on the mat and sat down opposite his wife. Taking her hands in his, he spoke softly.
‘Everything will be okay, June, trust me. Debbie will come to her senses. But meanwhile we have to stick to our guns, be strong. What’s meant to be is meant to be, my love.’
June looked into his eyes. He was so sincere, so sure of himself. Squeezing his hands, she smiled. ‘I hope you’re right, Peter, I really do.’
Her husband kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘Believe me, darling, I’m always right.’
Billy carried Debbie’s case as they walked towards the tower block on the Gascoigne Estate. Gagging as she stepped into the lift, Debbie held her nose to block out the smell. She had been in the same lift plenty of times before, but the stench seemed far worse now that she was pregnant.
Billy lived thirteen floors up, which gave Debbie plenty of time to study her surroundings. They consisted of graffiti, spit, fag butts and stale urine. Noticing her expression, Billy smiled.
‘Aye, lassie, you’ll get used to the smell after a bit, you will.’
Debbie pretended to agree, but made a mental note to use the stairs whenever possible.
‘Now, make yourself at home, hen. I have to pop out for a wee bit, to pick some money up. I willnae be long.’
Debbie took a good long look at her new abode and felt increasingly depressed. ‘An absolute shit-hole’ was the best way to describe it. She’d been here before, lots of times, but always after a drink and of an evening. Her mum and Peter had never let her stay out all night, so she’d never had a chance to see the place in daylight. The flat itself was okay, quite big for a council place, it was just so bare and desperately in need of decorating and some furniture.
Debbie looked into the bedroom and found there was nowhere for her to put her clothes. The one small wardrobe was full of Billy’s stuff. As she sat down on the mattress on the bare floor, which served as the bed, Debbie started to sob. She would have to have a serious chat with Billy, she told herself. She wasn’t coming round here once a week now, bladdered like before. She was a pregnant woman and needed comfort, a proper home.
Billy arrived back two hours later. Listening to Debbie talking between her sobs, he hugged her tightly.
‘Shhh, now. Hey, come on, everything will be okay. I’ve got plenty of money. We’ll get some paint tomorrow, spruce the place up a bit. There’s a second-hand furniture place down the road – I’ll take you there and we’ll kit the place out. I didnae bother with all that shit before, living here on my own, but now you’re here it’s different. Now come on, stop crying, we’ll get it sorted, I promise.’
Billy woke up early the next morning. Debs had been tossing and turning all night, she’d kept him awake for bloody hours. He glanced at her, and was surprised to see that she was now fast asleep. He hoped he’d made the right decision, letting her move in with him. Her performance last night, with all the tears and shit, wasn’t his scene – dramatics had never been his game. He’d thought Debs was different, a laugh. He’d never seen her cry before, she’d always been so happy-go-lucky. He really hoped she wasn’t about to change. For some reason or other, he always attracted nutty women. The last three had been all right until he’d moved in with them. Within weeks they all seemed to turn psycho on him.
Sighing, Billy slung his arm round Debs. ‘Wakey, wakey.’
As he rubbed his erection against her leg, he willed her to respond. He was fucked if he was going to stand painting for hours, buy furniture he didn’t want, and get nothing in return.
Stirring, Debbie reciprocated his kisses. She’d been silly last night, all emotional. This was her new life now. She loved Billy and was determined to make it work.
Billy was as good as his word. He bought a couple of tins of paint and then took Debbie to a tut shop where she chose a sofa, coffee table, small wardrobe, lamp and a chest of drawers. She refused to sleep in a second-hand bed, which pissed him off as he had to fork out for a brand new one. She also demanded saucepans, utensils and a big shop at Tesco.
‘Fucking women,’ Billy muttered, as soon as she was out of earshot. Three hundred and sixty pounds today had bloody well cost him! He just hoped Debs was worth it because if she wasn’t she’d go the same way as all the others had.
Billy took a deep breath as he fought to keep his temper in check. In the past he
’d made the mistake of lashing out at women, but he was determined to put all that shit behind him now and make a fresh start.
He really loved Debbie, but prayed she didn’t push him too far. The others had all taken the piss out of him and he wasn’t the type of geezer to take shit off anyone, especially a woman. His mum was to blame for the way he was, he knew that. She had fucked him up. He had tried desperately to forget his damaged childhood, but sometimes when women pissed him off, it came back to him. As he terrorised them, all he could think of was his whore of a mother.
Billy put the last of the Tesco bags in the kitchen, then rummaged through them and opened a can of Strongbow. Greedily gulping the cider, he calmed himself down. This was a new start for him and he had to make it work. If he didn’t, his evil bitch of a mother would have won.
THREE
SIX MONTHS INTO Debbie’s pregnancy, the cracks in Billy’s resolve began to show. Spending most of her time in the flat alone, while Billy spent his in the pub, had become second nature to Debbie, so she was surprised when he insisted she attend a pal’s wedding reception, which was being held in a local pub.
‘Do I have to come, Bill? I can’t drink, and I feel so fat and frumpy.’
‘Aye, I want you to come. All my mates are taking their other halves, so I need you to be there for me.’
As she got ready that night, Debbie felt like shit. She’d made good friends with a couple of the neighbours, Sharon and Donna, and was usually quite happy to spend her time at home with them while Billy was out gallivanting. After powdering her face, she applied blue eye shadow, squeezed herself into the one black dress she possessed, and stood facing the cracked mirror which hung next to the wardrobe. The sight of her reflection didn’t do her mood any good. ‘Bleeding hell,’ she muttered. She’d overdone the bronzer and felt like an orange that had become too big for its skin. Studying herself, she picked holes in her appearance. Her shoulder-length brown hair looked thin and lifeless. Her nose was a bit too big for her face, and her teeth had always been crooked. When she’d been slim her features hadn’t bothered her so much, some people had even called her attractive, but now she was fat it was a different story. She felt unsightly.
‘You ready, babe?’ Billy stood at the bedroom door, looking smart in his light grey suit.
Plastering on a false smile, Debbie pecked him on the lips. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
To her dismay, both lifts in the block were out of action, and by the time she’d walked down the thirteen flights of stairs she felt absolutely knackered.
The party was awful. The pub was a shit-hole, everyone was slaughtered and the DJ was a blind man. She’d have tried to enjoy it if only she could have had a drink, but standing in the corner on her own all night, with only a glass of Coke for company, wasn’t much fun. Billy had introduced her to everyone earlier. He’d even stood with her for the first hour, but now he was drunk and up at the bar with the lads.
Debbie found herself studying him. He looked really smart tonight. Like her, he was no oil painting. Billy was skinny and pale, with light brown hair and sharp features. Attractive in his own way, though. She loved his Glaswegian accent, it made her laugh, and he was always cool and self-assured.
‘It’s Debbie, isn’t it? Debbie Dawson?’
Swinging around to see who was talking to her, Debbie vaguely recognised the short lad with blond cropped hair, but couldn’t think where from.
‘Darren,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Darren Jackson. I was in your class at junior school.’
Once the penny had dropped the evening flew by for Debbie and she spent the rest of the night with him, discussing their classmates, teachers and old friends.
Billy stood at the bar, seething. Talk about making him look a prick in front of all his mates! With his blood at boiling point, he could stand it no more. Slamming his pint down on the bar, he walked over to where his slut of a bird and the blond-haired dwarf were standing.
‘Whaddya think you’re doing, you fucking slag?’
Terribly embarrassed, Debbie tried to smooth over the situation. ‘Stop mucking about, Billy. This is Darren. He’s an old school friend of mine.’
‘I couldnae give a fuck who the cunt is, we’re going home!’ Billy grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the packed pub.
As they walked back to the flat, Debbie felt more and more uneasy. Billy looked furious and hadn’t said another word.
‘Tell me what’s the matter, Bill? Has someone upset you?’ she asked him. When he still said nothing, she carried on, ‘Surely you’re not annoyed because I was talking to that bloke. He’s only someone I went to school with.’
Squeezing her arm fiercely, Billy pushed her ahead of him. ‘Get home, you slag. I’ll deal with you indoors.’
The nearer they got to the flat, the more worried Debbie became. She’d never seen him like this before and his behaviour was intimidating. With the lifts still out of action, Billy shoved her towards the staircase.
‘Get up them stairs, bitch!’
Coming down thirteen flights of stairs while pregnant had been bad enough, but going up was even worse. Unable to keep up with his pace, Debbie sat down on the landing on the eighth floor, panting for breath.
‘Please, stop pushing me, Bill. I need a rest … I can’t breathe.’
Billy grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. ‘You do as I say, you fucking whore! Get up them stairs, now.’
The look on his face told Debbie she had best do as he said. Petrified, she tried desperately to calm him down. She was frightened to go inside the flat with him in this state.
‘Billy, tell me what I’ve done? Please don’t be like this. I love you … why are you doing this to me?’
Ignoring her plea, Billy dragged Debbie into the flat and pushed her down on to the sofa. He put on a Simple Minds LP and turned it up full blast. He knew Debs was friendly with the neighbours and didn’t want the nosy bastards knowing his business. Then he walked into the kitchen, took a can of cider out of the fridge and gulped it down. Taking a deep breath, he ran towards Debbie who had started to get to her feet and pushed her back on to the sofa, using his full body weight to trap her there.
‘You acted like a slag tonight … making me look a cunt! If you ever, ever do that again, believe me, I’ll fucking kill ya!’
Not knowing how to handle the situation, Debbie loudly protested her innocence. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Bill. Honestly, he was an old school friend who …’
She got no further. Billy stood up, lifted his right foot and kicked her with such force between the legs that it brought tears to her eyes.
‘Nooooo, Billy, stop it! Why are you being like this?’ she screamed.
Billy snarled at her, ‘I can do exactly what I want, Debs, and do you know why?’
Debbie shook her head.
‘Because that is mine,’ Billy said, pointing at her crotch. ‘That also is mine,’ he said as he gestured towards her oversized stomach. ‘And, believe it or not, girl, you are mine. If I was you, I’d get that into your thick skull and start behaving appropriately.’
Debbie was stunned as Billy left the flat. She’d done nothing to deserve this treatment, absolutely nothing.
Lifting herself gingerly off the sofa, she staggered over to the record player. ‘Alive and Kicking’ was playing. After what had just happened to her, it was the last bloody song she needed to hear. At a loss as to what to do next, she climbed into bed. She was too frightened to knock at her neighbours’. If Billy came home and she wasn’t there, it would make the whole situation ten times worse.
Pulling the old blue blanket over her head, Debbie started to cry. She was desperately worried about the safety of the child she was carrying, and now knew that her mother and Perfect Peter had been right all along. Who was Billy McDaid? Tonight had proved she didn’t know him at all. Devastated, she cried herself to sleep.
Billy was at his mate Andy’s flat on the second floor. He’d calmed down by now,
the cannabis and Strongbow had seen to that.
‘I’ve had it now, mate, I’m off to bed. You stay as long as you like, Bill,’ his friend told him.
As Andy left the room, Billy felt his anger return. It wasn’t Debbie who’d caused it this time, but memories of his childhood and the bastard cards he’d been dealt.
Billy McDaid was born in 1955, at home, in a slum in the back streets of Glasgow. Father unknown, Billy had spent his younger years watching a succession of uncles coming to and from the house. His mother barely spoke to him, and most of his time was spent with his brother Charlie, who was seven years older than himself.
Looking back, Billy must have been the only wean in Glasgow who actually looked forward to going to school. The teachers there were nice to him and showed him kindness, something he’d never known at home. When he was seven, his mum bought home a man called Uncle Colin. When he was nine, Uncle Colin came into his room one night, turned him on his front and shoved his penis up his arse.
‘This is our wee secret, Billy. One word to your mother and you’ll no’ see her or your brother again.’
The abuse carried on for years. Every time he was in the house alone with Uncle Colin, he was subjected to the man’s sexual depravity. By now his brother had left home and Billy hadn’t a soul in the world to talk to about his predicament.
At eleven years old, he could stand it no more. He told his teacher. Mrs McLintock informed the appropriate authorities, who then approached his mum. The social worker stood by and did nothing as his mother then beat him to a pulp.
‘You lying little bastard!’ she screamed accusingly.
A children’s home was the next stop for Billy. Hoping life would be better there, he behaved himself and tried his hardest. He needn’t have bothered. He ended up bullied and sexually abused there, too.
At sixteen he made contact with his brother Charlie and went to live with him. It was only then that he found out that Uncle Colin had subjected Charlie to the same abuse as himself.
Born Evil Page 2
