Most of us hope to believe that secrets like this never happen. Most of us prefer to believe that nightmares never actually come true, that they can be tucked away in a corner of the old grey matter and forgotten about. Not me. I recall my nightmares with perfect clarity. Along with the silence, the frustration, and the battle scars left over from the process of “remembering.”

            Instead, I prefer to picture myself here in Maud’s place, with its tatty sofas and moth-eaten velvet curtains, its threadbare carpets and floor to ceiling shelves stacked with books. Nothing’s changed. It’s exactly the same. It’s my safe place, the place I still go to in my head. My best friend Sam calls it my ‘sanity box’.

Without Sam and Maud I might never have made it through, might never have made my bid for freedom. Their special people: hard to come by. And, though I think it best not to dwell on the past, I want to re-connect with the girl I once was and tell her story. By telling the truth I might finally be able to move on.

Sam and I still keep in touch regularly, and talk about ordinary, everyday things. As a rule we don’t chat about the past, but it’s never forgotten. It’s buried deep beneath grey layers of memory. Sometimes, it surfaces and we talk, and cry a little.

Now, as I look back, I know that my heart still beats bravely within the doors of Maud’s house and my head is kept firmly in check by the sanity of her philosophy. Sanity is needed when you have to fight for survival. I owe her an awful lot, that old lady.

I often think of Maud’s love and patient tutoring, telling myself that all came out well in the end. But the end seems far away sometimes. And the end can seem even more interminable when you’re a kid with absolutely no power. 

  I never had nightmares you see. Reality was ordeal enough. Worst of all was the fear. It seeped into everything, making life a blurry smudge.

One

She sinks into the dark, waiting.

The blackness envelops her huddled form.

It suffocates her.

She reaches from the bed, opens the window. Fresh air funnels in through the dense thickness like a stream of water washing over her, cleansing her; teasing her with a false sense of freedom.

            The house is silent, no creaks or groans or mutterings. It is unnaturally silent; it is holding its breath. Still she waits; pulling the bedclothes tight around her mouth, her eyes glinting in the shadows above, her mind trained on the bar of light at the bottom of the doorway. She focuses intently on its horizontal beam; a pale, impassive smile.

            A soft tread on the stairwell: then another and another.

            The sickly smell of alcohol.

She waits for the shadow to fall across the door. Her eyes dart from side to side, watching, watching; liquid screams of light in the dark.

            The shadow hovers, one way then the other, such indecision. Then the door handle begins to turn; she can see it moving not three feet away.

Silently she weeps, inching around to focus on the wallpaper, to count the pretty patterns there or perhaps pretend sleep.

Slipping into her mind she finds the beautiful pictures, the video that runs constantly in her head. Her father is pushing her on the old, green swing under the tree; the sycamore helicopters are spinning down, floating on the soft haze of a summer’s day. Her father is laughing, she screams for more, ‘higher, higher.’

Someone coughs.

It’s Matthew, her baby brother.

Her eyes flash open: one, two, three, four diamonds on the wall; five, six…

He coughs again, violently this time, over and over; he’s trying to save her. She can hear him getting out of bed. She twists back round to the door. The light is switched off, the shadow disappears.

Treading softly she finds her way back to the window; gulping in the cool, calming air. The tears come; her body heaving up and down with such thankful relief.  She stares out into the night, her mind twisting in the dark. The pale moon is low, flooded with a blood red hue.  

Two

I didn’t tell Sam at first. She was a sweet innocent lost in her own protected world. I couldn’t confide. I trusted no one. For a long time, I just wanted to shield her from the truth. Her life was so unblemished, so normal. Her naivety tasted like honey to me. I wanted to safeguard it for as long as I could. Why should she be swept into my world?

She was too wrapped up anyway, with the mysteries of our newly built upper school, potential boyfriends and various physical experiences. Even I had begun to carve out a life of my own; a daily paper round to earn my own money and a way of getting out of the house – luxury. It was one of my strategies. Back then, I thought I was growing up, finding my own way, coping. I’d barely begun. At least Sam was always there; always steadfast, always comforting: you never forget a friend like that.

The truth began to unfold, I suppose, one evening, a school night late in September 1980. Sam called round. She was wearing one of my old T-shirts. The one with the horse’s head on the front: fake hair on the mane. She’d constantly admired it and Sam loved animals more than people – which I could relate to – so I’d given it to her.

            He answered. Goggle eyes; sweat rings under his shirt. I watched through a hole in the net, biting my lip the whole time. Rolo jumped onto the windowsill, purring and meowing for fuss. Automatically I drew her near, held her close.

            ‘She can’t come out,’ he said, ‘chores to do.’ Arms crossed, he filled the doorway, clean shaven, Hitler moustache over thin lips. Ordinary.

            ‘Oh,’ she said, taken aback by his gruff manner, ‘she told me to call.’

            ‘Did she now? Come back tomorrow instead.’

            ‘But she said to come tonight?’

            ‘Well then, she was mistaken wasn’t she?’ His arrogant statement flustered her; she’d not had many dealings with my step-father; until now I’d always called round for her and kept him on the periphery of our friendship. I could see she was nervous. Poor Sam, she was right of course; I had asked her round – another strategy, “interruptions.” A well-timed knock at the door never hurt anybody. But I was using her, playing her like an old card trick. It felt bad.

            ‘Oh,’ she answered again, not knowing what to say. 

            ‘That’s a pretty top you’ve got on,’ he said, ‘looks familiar.’ He reached out to touch the mane. ‘Horses’ hair, isn’t it?’

            She took a step back, frowning, ‘It’s Becky’s,’ she said.

            ‘I know.’

I banged on the window above, unlatched its pane. Both heads swivelled up, mouths agape. ‘Meet me for school tomorrow,’ I yelled through the gap, ‘normal place.’ My voice sounded weak and thin in the evening air.

            ‘Okay,’ she shouted back, confused. I so desperately wanted to go down to her. I so desperately wanted to tell her everything. My hand left a greasy stain on the window: five long fingers, a primal handprint on a cell wall.

            ‘I’d get back to tidying my room if I were you Becca, or there’ll be trouble when your mother gets in,’ he shouted.

            ‘Yeah right,’ I said, pulling away from the glass; the net curtain smothered my head like a veil.

            ‘Tomorrow,’ Sam shouted, quick wave, in case I’m still watching, which I am.

            He nods at me then, drawing back inside. No one else is home. 

Three

She waits by the window waiting for him, knowing he will come. The door slides open.

 ‘That was a silly trick,’ he says, ‘don’t try that one again.’ She can still see Sam walking off down the street. Tears prickle behind her eyes. ‘She’s a nice young thing your friend,’ he says, ‘You should invite her round more often.’

            She flies round, ‘You just leave her alone!’ He yanks her head back by her long dark hair stares into her face. ‘Now Becca, be a good girl. You still have things to do remember.’ He lets go and she drops to the floor.  She has no choice.

            She follows him back out of the room drying her face with her sleeve. The tears stop. She moves out of her mind, and in a daze she traces his steps.