

### There's a Fine Line

Teresa Joyce

Copyright © 2017 Teresa Joyce

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Teresa Joyce is a pen name.

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

# Prologue

Where do I begin to write this? I guess I need to go back to 1994 and chronicle events as and when they occurred. At times I will also need to reference my childhood. Some relevant history surrounding that time is needed; the reason for this is that without the knowledge of past events it would be more difficult to understand the things that have occurred subsequent to that time. As we proceed through this book you will be able to see exactly why it is so relevant, and the conflict of interest I will find myself in, in adulthood. In truth, maybe I am now trying to heal myself through this process. But I am also hoping that anyone reading this book and can relate to it may take some strength from its content.

It was not until I sat down to write this that the memories I wish I could have left buried hit me full in the face. But you know nothing ever really stays that way; buried, that is. You want it to and you pray that it will, but it's always there. You try to understand it; you convince yourself it was your fault entirely; you look into the mirror and you hate yourself. I am remembering times and events that were so very difficult for me to live through, and to be honest, at times I didn't want to. Having just passed my fiftieth birthday, I now feel ready. Maybe I have now reached a point in my life when I feel a little stronger, so it's time to open Pandora's Box. What will I find there? I guess I am not going to know until I can no longer close the lid. How it will affect me? I haven't a clue, I just know it's something that I have to do; I need to find some kind of closure.

I feel it's only right that I refrain from the use of names while writing this book, or even exact months or years. They will only be given loosely, if at all. It will be enough to stick to the decades, these events spanned over. This is not because I feel the need to hide my identity in any shape or form, but there are still people living that I need to consider. For this same reason I will also not be disclosing my real name. If I were to do so I could be linked by association with others and in doing so it could cause untold pain. All of the facts that I am about to tell you were well documented by my own doctor at that time, along with the numerous people I have seen within the mental health care system over the years. There has been many, all hoping that they can help me put this to bed—lay it to rest, as it were. To this day that has not been possible for me; the truth is that I am still under that care umbrella, fighting to find some peace. So when will I be totally discharged? I am really unable to answer that question.

So what is my purpose or intention? It is to hopefully rid my head of the demons, which seem so reluctant to leave, and not to cause new ones in others. So I reiterate here once more; that is not my aim. It may be the case that if it is ever printed, someone will pick it up recognising themselves in it, but that will then be their own choice over how they receive it and deal with their own emotions. The point I am trying to make here is that recognition will not be forced upon them. How will this book turn out? I have no idea; I have never thought of myself as a budding author. It's not even something I have ever even considered as my chosen career. But this story needs to be told. It may never leave the hard drive of my computer, but if it does, then hopefully I can at least make it readable and find some escape for myself. This is a true story, but you will never know just how many times I have wished and prayed that it wasn't. They say that there is a book inside of everyone just waiting to be written, be it a fairy tale, fact, or fiction, so this is to be my offering and all based on fact. In some cultures they believe that you know if and when the devil crosses your path, and if this was not him it was a very close relative.

The first few chapters may read a little like a reference book, but they are an essential ingredient. They are the calm before the storm, where I am hoping to paint a picture for you. I have toyed with the idea of not doing so, but to my mind they are greatly needed. There is a difference between fact and fiction. While writing fiction, you can quite easily embellish the story. But non-fiction is all about the facts. We will quite quickly reach a point in this book where they cross over, and no embellishment is needed. There is a fine line between sanity and insanity.

# Chapter 1

1994 onwards

The phone rang and the person on the other end said "Hi, it's Dad". It was in fact my Stepfather, as my real father had been killed when I was only three. My Mum had remarried when I was not far off the age of seven. It always seemed to me that I and my Stepfather never really got along, during both my childhood and teenage years. He never really seemed to like me; I was always the one in trouble for one thing or another, unlike my siblings. I guess that was the main reason I left school at fifteen and went into the Royal Air Force, just two months before my sixteenth birthday.

The day I received his call, I was thirty five, out of the Royal Air Force and married with a child of my own, who was and still is, the love of my life. He said he needed to talk to me; something had come up in the office. At this point I need to tell you that my Stepfather had a small company, which had been growing fast over the last five years or so. My husband worked for him, as did other members of my close family. I also helped out with the running of the office whenever possible, because I was already working on a self-employed basis.

We arranged a time for me to call into the office and ended the conversation, as he seemed reluctant to discuss it over the telephone. The next morning I made my way there; the sun was out and it was a really lovely day. If I had any idea that going there that day would have started the catalogue of events I will relay to you, I would never have left my home. Making that journey was to be the biggest mistake of my life. My aim will be to try to let you see through my eyes the events that snowballed over a period of approximately ten years. So I guess in a way I am going to try and take you along for the ride, but one that I truly wish that I had never been on. It destroyed so many lives (did I say he never really liked me?); I was about to find out just how wrong I'd been (or was I?). Did he just really hate me that much? I will leave that for you to decide.

I arrived at the office around 10am that morning, and after grabbing a coffee, made my way up to my Stepfather's office on the next floor. He was sitting at his desk talking on the telephone, so I sat down to wait. After he had finished his conversation, I asked him why he wanted to talk. He told me that it was regarding the amount of work within the office. He also thought it would be much nicer to talk outside of the office as he needed a break.

Being in the office could lead to phone calls and interruptions. As I was not working that afternoon I agreed. After a short drive we found ourselves at the zoo. It was a nice day; it would make a change to relax, and to have a walk around. Why that had been our destination, I am not so sure.

After purchasing our tickets the conversation went as follows. He told me that the workload in the office had been just too much for the girls already working there; they were finding it hard to deal with it all properly. Invoices were not getting paid on time, and credit control was a shambles. The banks were also giving him a hard time. He explained that his own time was not being utilized correctly, because it was spent chasing the debt owed to the company. He needed to be out there looking for new work, which was dearly needed to get the company out of the hole it now found itself in.

As I touched on earlier, I was already working, and my time was already accounted for every day between the hours of 9.30am and 3pm. I was very busy teaching and earning a very good hourly rate. We talked more about the hours he wanted me to work, which would have been between the hours of 10am and 3pm. My main role, he specified, would be in credit control. I could not see that this would be possible. I explained this to him, stating the main reason for my concern; that there would be a major loss in my earnings if I were to accept his offer. He then told me that if I were to take up this role and come to work for him, he would match my loss in salary. At that time, I questioned this. The amount he was offering would be far more than most people would be paid for that type of office job. He went on to convince me that he needed a family member in there, someone that cared if the company survived or not. He reminded me that both my husband and other family members relied on their jobs with him, and emphasised how the loss of the company would affect both my Mum and the family's way of life.

Agreeing to take him up on his offer would be something I would live to regret, but I had no way of foreseeing the events that would follow. To this day I wish I had been in a collision with another car on my way home. If only I could have known, I would have gone back to the office, jumped in my car and driven as far and as fast as possible in the other direction. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and something I clearly was not blessed with at that time.

I started work in the office on the Monday of the following week, after having made the calls needed to arrange replacements for my current work. This was not too difficult as I was self employed and therefore needed to give no prior notice. I kept hold of the evening work along with the weekends, as they would not interfere with my day job. I liked the work and it kept me fit, I also had a lot of friends in and around the industry. I did not want to lose touch with that or them. So here I was, sitting at my desk about to start something new. I told myself that I would put everything I could into this role; it had to work, because the impact on my family would be dire if the company were to fold. I picked up the phone and made that first call, in an attempt to chase the monies owed that would hopefully stop that from happening.

Mid 1950s - Mid 1960s

At this point I would like to go back to my childhood, to a time when my mum met and married my dad. He was an Irish guy over here working on the roads; I don't know if you are aware of this, but the Irish it seemed, built most of the roads here in England at that time. He and his family had all moved over from Ireland, chasing the monies and the work. They had found themselves in Huddersfield in Yorkshire, but the work took him all over the country. Cornwall was one such place and where he was to meet my Mum. He was a charmer, full of fun, with the gift of the gab, and a lot of fun to be around. He could not read or write, though this was something that my mum was not aware of for many years. He would look at the paper with the pretence of reading it, clearly ashamed of the fact. If he were in a pub he would be singing and dancing on the tables, buying drinks for everyone. Everyone liked him; and my Mum fell in love hook line and sinker.

After dating for a few very short months he asked if she would marry him, and the rest, as they say, is history. My mum moved to Huddersfield with him when the work came to an end. This must have been a really big step for her; she was leaving behind her family, hoping to make one of her own. This was the way her fairy tale started, and my siblings and I are here as proof of that. The long hard luck story that came along after does not make for happy reading. The marriage was only good for a short period of time before it all started to go wrong. He was away all week working and it must have been hard for mum. She was in a new place and maybe feeling like a fish out of water. When arriving back on a Friday night, his first port of call would always be the pub, spending most of what he had earned. He would then make his way home steaming drunk, and if my mum even dared to ask for money for food he would see red. It would be a boot in her stomach or a punch to her head. She was losing weight rapidly. She made sure that any available food went to us kids, and she just went without. With no one to turn to, she was alone. How could she tell this to her family all that way down in Cornwall? And what if she did? They were in no position to help. No, she just had to get on with it alone; she had made her bed. She did find the courage to leave him at one point, only to be followed and dragged back, and told that if she were to ever do it again, he would take us children to Ireland, and we would be lost to her. That was quite simply something she could not and would not risk.

There is so much more to this story, and my aim is to try to make you fully understand the hardship that she endured as a young wife and mother. Could she ever find a way out of this living hell? Little did she know that the way out was not too far away.

I clearly remember that day a policeman knocked on our door. I was about three at the time; they had come to tell my Mum some bad news, or what they quite rightly thought was bad news. My dad had been killed outright in a road accident, so there she was alone, a widow with three small children. No help was to arrive from my late dad's family; in fact quite the opposite. They had never treated her well and I think that is an understatement. She must have been at her wit's end. When I was told the full story in adulthood and listened to her explain, I am in no doubt that every day must have been a nightmare, so full of pain and the unknown. What would the next day bring? She had left her family willingly, because she was so in love with this good looking Irish guy. What next for her? His death must have been a release in so many ways, but where would she go? What could she do? The only answer available to her was to return to her family in Cornwall, and get the help she needed to bring up her children.

So why am I telling you this? Going back so far into my mum's life and her first married years? Well, the best answer I can give to you is that as this story unfolds, it will all come to light. Needless to say, my mum had gone through some really bad times struggling on her own. There were days without food, no coal for the fire and holes in her shoes. This was oh so evident when pregnant, carrying me; she could still easily wear a pencil slim skirt while eight months pregnant. Nobody would or could have been able to tell that she was carrying a child, despite the fact that I was a month early. It was a boot thrown into her stomach without care by my drunken Father, which inevitably induced her pregnancy. Life for my mum at that point was not good, and the future must have looked very bleak indeed. She went about arranging the details of her plan to return home, she was going back to her family with us in tow. She was so very different, maybe even unrecognisable, from the young lady that had left there not so very long ago.

1994 onwards

The first few weeks in the office were so busy that I never really had time to think; I was working within the Credit Control among other things. My hard work was starting to pay off; I was making untold calls to all and every company concerned. It could be said that they were fed up with hearing my voice. I still had my evenings and weekend jobs, and with that and the running of my home time passed by very quickly. I started to feel settled there; the work was rewarding. I felt that I was getting somewhere. I was not only helping the company back on its feet, but I was also endeavouring to make sure members of my family, not least my husband, stayed in employment.

It was about this time that my Stepfather started asking me into his office to talk. We would go over all the debt that I was chasing, talk about the plans he had, and if they worked it would hopefully pull in far more work. But it was going to be a big job with everyone having to pull their weight and get stuck in. Pressure was being applied by the bank on a monthly basis, relating to the size of the overdraft, but what was the answer? The company needed to use the overdraft a lot at that point just to get by. Our talks together were becoming longer and longer; it was becoming so difficult just trying to fit in the work of credit control. But that was the reason I was there, right? I guess the only way I can explain is that for some reason known only to him, the need was no longer urgent.

I arrived for work one morning to be met by my Stepfather outside the office. He said he felt he needed to get away from the office for a while; he asked me if we could go for a drive and talk. There were things that he needed to talk through; issues that he did not want to discuss with just anyone, i.e. staff members. He told me that he was feeling the pressure and completely stressed out; that he had no one else around that he could trust with his problems; someone he felt he could unburden himself on, and he needed to do that, but to whom? He did not want the office staff knowing too much, especially with regards to the state of the company's finance. He said that he could not talk it through with my mum because he did not want to worry her; that I was strong and he felt that I was well able to cope with it and he needed someone. To be honest, at that time I was very good at dealing with the pressures of life (unlike the present) and he had come to the conclusion that I was his best option.

After we had driven around for a while, he announced we should take some downtime; after all we had earned it. He said that we may as well stop at a pub somewhere and get something to eat (it was lunch time by then and we were both a little hungry). We arrived at the nearest pub that was serving food, and headed for the nearest empty table. We were given the menus, we ordered drinks and the conversation continued. It was still broadly about the company. We were bouncing ideas off each other, and to be honest I felt just that little bit special. Here was someone I had gone through my whole childhood thinking never really liked me, but here he was asking for my opinion, and from the reactions I was receiving, I had some invaluable ideas, something worth saying. In reality, and looking back now, I'm not even sure that he was hearing me. The game had started and I was unknowingly just a pawn in the pursuit of what he wanted.

Mid 1950's - Mid 1960's

My Mum arrived in Cornwall not long after my Dad's funeral, which she had not been allowed to attend. The reason for this I touched on earlier, but I will add more here. My Dad's family had never really accepted my Mum. For one thing she was not Irish, and in my Grandmother's eyes, she had taken her son away from her; he should have married some nice Irish girl. In the fullness of time she was to stay ever-present between my parents, even after my Dad's death. This was something that she would not change; she was always going to be with him at all cost. This I was to witness many years later, while looking for answers and my lost family.

We moved in with my grandparents, all sharing one bedroom; unfortunately there was only a limited amount of empty space available to us. I loved my grandparents so it was nice to be there with them, and sharing a room all together was all just part of the fun. Their house backed on to a very large park area; it was great. All I had to do was climb over the back hedge, and from that time on I had the biggest back garden in the world. Right up until we were once again to leave Cornwall as a new family, I spent many hours playing in it, and I could not envisage then that things were to change.

My Mum had to find work as it was now down to her and her alone to keep us; she would need to purchase everything we needed, as well as put food on the table, and contribute to the increased cost of running my grandparents' home. The list must have seemed endless to her at that point, but my Mum was so very special. She loved her children and whatever it took, she was determined to provide; a new chapter was about to start in her life. The long working hours she would have to fit in around us, but no matter, we were all she cared about. She would have died for us, walked over hot coals just to keep us safe. You may ask yourself, well what about her? That was of no consequence and she had little self worth. There was the paper delivery round, starting at 5am every weekday morning, before returning home to get us ready for school. Once done, she traipsed off to a day job in the laundry, coming home after a day's work to cook for us and get us all ready for bed. Her day was still not finished, and, with my grandparents there to watch over us, once more she went off to work. Another four hours in the local fish and chip bar; was that her life now? A widow with three children working all the hours that God gave her. If only I could become even close to being anything like her in my own lifetime, but sadly I am not that special.

1994 Onwards

Things in the office were not improving; I was still chasing money from the larger companies that did not want to pay on time. They were just so difficult to pin down; so our own invoices were just not getting paid. The cash flow available at that time was not in good shape, but it seemed that my Stepfather wanted to stay away from the office more and more. It was now not just the odd long lunch break, but the whole morning or even the whole day. What was going on with him? If I think back to that time, I chastise myself; why did I not see it? Was I just stupid?

Around that time he was also dealing with the sale of his Mother's house, as she had gone into a nursing home due to ill health. One morning he came to me to ask for some help relating to his Mother's house sale. Many other things were already making a pull on my time, but I was helping. If I could do this, then the company would not go under; and my mum would be ok. She would never need to know the whole story and just how bad things were becoming. He reminded me on more occasions than I can count that she would not be able to cope. What was wrong with me? It was only my time he was asking for; Mum had always been there for me and it was now my turn to be there for her. But he wanted a lot more than my time; there I was again—stupid.

Mid 1950s - Mid 1960s

Things in Cornwall carried on the way they were for quite a while with us growing up and Mum working. Everything seemed to be just fine, but hey, I was a kid. I could and would not have understood that my mum must have been so lonely for male company. It was a real shock when mum sat us down saying that she had something to tell us. She had met someone, a sailor, while at the pictures with her cousin and he was coming to meet us, but why? But come he did, looking very smart in his naval uniform. I remember thinking just how smart he looked, but also being a little afraid of him without knowing why. Just how scared I was came to light when he swooped down and picked me up, putting me on his shoulders. Now this isn't something I tell everyone, but I opened my bladder, all the way down the back of that smart uniform. I still clearly remember doing so. Not that I was ever allowed to forget. Was it an omen? I would not have known at that time what that even meant.

It seemed like no time at all before Mum told us she was getting married, and that we were all moving to Bristol. Bristol, why? We lived here; my Grandmother and Granddad were here, my entire family, my friends, everything was here. But to Bristol we went after he had arranged to buy himself out of the Navy. Arriving at our now new step mum's home, with us all once again having to share one room, but this time there was an extra body. It had to be that way; until they found us a home of our own, which hopefully would not take too long. Mum was happy; this had to be a good thing. He was good looking as well as twelve years her junior. He went out to work and was providing for us, which meant she could stay at home. By this time I was thinking that maybe Bristol was a good thing; everyone was going to live happily ever after. Yes, Bristol was good; I would find new friends, I could treat this like a new adventure, everything was going to be fine.

My mum must have felt that all her dreams had come true at once; she was married once more to a younger, handsome man. He had no problem with the fact that he would also be taking on another man's three children. She would not have to struggle quite so much anymore; he was working seven days a week without complaint. We were getting by—although only just at that point; but things were set to change over the next decade. Life would go from survival, to comfortable, to well off. She had suffered for so many years, but it was now her turn for the good life, to do everything she had always wanted to do, but could never afford before.

For many years, this was the way it stayed. Holidays, new and bigger houses, new cars; she was able to go into all the shops that she had never before been able to. The charity shops were no longer an option as my Stepfather was always a good provider. He worked hard and reaped only the rewards that came from the effort and the long hours he put in. Of that I will say you could not fault him. By this time both my siblings and I were married and no longer living at home. My mum had her grandchildren that she loved, and they loved her. At that time she was living the dream life; it was a dream and she did not want to wake up. There is no doubt that life for her in the past, and before my dad was killed, was so full of hurt, pain and heartache. The truth is that at that time she never knew where the next mouthful was coming from, along with being used as a punch bag if she dared to ask him to part with some of his beer money to feed us; a cardinal sin?

On becoming an adult I was told many things about my childhood; things that were quite simply hard to believe or think about. The life she had with my real Father is something no woman should ever have to deal with. Although I totally believed them all, and maybe that was why as an adult I went all out to find my lost relatives. I needed answers and set the wheels in motion, in an effort to track them down. Surprisingly, it was a lot easier than I had thought, and I went by train to meet them alone. I met my granddad only two months before he died. My Grandmother of whom I had heard so much about (none of it had been pleasant), had passed away many years before. They put on a big party for me where I was to meet all of my lost uncles, aunties and cousins. I went to the church to visit my Dad's grave, sitting there talking to him for over an hour, while my uncle waited in the car. On arriving, I was to find something that I really had not been expecting. There, staring me in the face, and just above my Dad's name on the headstone, was my Grandmother's. They were both there resting together. It seemed she had her way in the end; she was back with her son. No one would or could ever come between them again.

I sometimes try to think back to that time and what I said to my dad that day, but I can't really remember that much. It was all so very emotional for me, but one thing does stick out in my mind because it was the reason I was there. I asked him why he had been so very cruel to my Mum; did we not matter to him? That's how it seemed all these years later. I also spent around two hours talking to my Grandfather; during that time he tried to tell me that my dad had not been all bad. He explained about a time in Ireland, when my dad had jumped into the sea during very bad weather to rescue a dog. He had in fact, risked his life for that dog that day. Were we not just as important to him? Was my mum not the one he should have put his life on the line for? I guess I will never know the answers to those questions because they died with him. I returned only once more to attend my granddad's funeral. To this day I know it was the right thing for me to do. But that was enough for me; I no longer felt the need to return there again. I had gone to try and fill the empty space that was my childhood; to meet my Father's side of the family, to fill in the blanks, searching for answers. But the answers were not to be found, and maybe I just needed to know that. My Mum and my siblings (although through my Mum) had expressed that I was wrong to go, but it felt right for me. In just a few short weeks after my return, my Mum came to me to ask her own questions. Maybe after all this time, she was still struggling to make sense of all that had happened back then. I know that after that conversation I was left with the feeling she had once loved my dad so very much. But sadly he had managed to turn that love into fear, and in the end hate. Those are strong words, but did someone not once say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin?

These things didn't matter anymore; my mum had found a new love; a good life with a good standard of living. All the hardship was now behind her, and as far as she could tell it always would be. She was a proud woman and there was nothing that she would not do for her family. To this day I love and miss her so very much; having her in my life is something I could never hope to replace. It has left a gigantic hole; a void which at times is unbearable.

Things in the office were going from bad to worse. The cash flow was difficult to deal with, and although we were getting some of our invoices paid, it was not enough. It was the biggest payments left outstanding that badly needed paying. My Stepfather started acting so bizarrely around this time; he would sit in his office for hours, just reading books about astrology and spiritualism. He started working out his birth chart and burning oils in his office. It seemed to be taking him over; spending most of his time in this pursuit, everything else was left for others to deal with. He had lost all interest in the business, having retreated somewhere else, into a world of his own, in which nothing or no one seemed to be able to penetrate. How was I to know that he was in fact fine tuning his game plan? He was in total control and focused on just one thing and one thing only. My life was about to take a turn on the road to hell.

On arriving for work the next day, he asked me to come in to his office and shut the door. He said he needed to tell me what he had been working on. A sure bet, a safe way to safeguard those he loved and those important to him. If the company were to fold, he went on to explain, it wouldn't matter. He was going to open another company, to offset any eventuality. This new company would quote for, and take over, some of the new work that was coming in. As time passed, it would hold most of the work in its own right and then if anything did happen it was up and running, well established. He also told me that because he was managing director of the present company, would mean that it was not possible for him to do the same with the new one. Someone else would have to take that role, but just as a figurehead with him behind the scenes pulling the strings. It was his intention to make my husband the managing director, along with me as company secretary. It all seemed to make sense, did it not? The worry that we had all been going through would ease a little—the pressure would be off. I was also fully aware that just because my mum did not know the whole story and the full extent of the trouble the company was in, she had to know something. She could not help but know that there were problems.

So the wheels were in motion, the company was registered and the adjacent property was rented everything was going well. My husband had to sign all the paperwork involved, including me as company secretary. He never even read what he was signing; I don't think he even understood what it was all about really. He was just told when and where to sign, but every decision made or taken was taken by my Stepfather alone. My involvement was to be far more; I had an understanding of the running of the office, and how that type of company worked. Looking back on it now I can truly say that this was very much in my Stepfather's mind. It meant that more and more of my time would have to be spent in his company and that suited him just fine.

Time seemed to pass very quickly around this time. I was working very long hours with both of my jobs, as well as attending meetings with regard to the new company. I had to be around him a lot, understandably at work, but when not there he still seemed to be everywhere. He was in the shops I went into, calling in to visit me only an hour after I had left the office, popping up in my other places of work, but I never really questioned this until it was too late. Why would I? Things like that happen to just about everyone all the time, right? You bump into your family and friends when least expected; I was about to find out it was just not that often. It was to form a pattern of behaviour that got increasingly difficult as the weeks passed. It would become a living nightmare, something that I had no control over; the road to hell.

It was about this time that my Stepfather asked me to call him by his Christian name. It was an odd thing to say and I asked him why. On replying, he said that he was not really my Dad and that now I was an adult it seemed a little silly. This shocked me a little and I responded to it by saying he was the only father I could ever really remember, and that I would like to continue to address him that way. What was the point after all these years in changing it? This was never to receive a response, and I could not read the look that he was throwing my way.

His interest in astrology and birthing charts seemed to escalate; he was no longer content to work only on his own chart, he wanted also to do mine. He asked me if he could do my son's too and that his wish was to do everyone's that were close to him. He started buying crystals, books and charms, and took to sitting reading most of the time. His interest in spiritual issues was growing at an alarming rate. The work he should be doing seemed to go by the by, and people in the office were starting to notice.

My Mum rang me one morning to ask if I had noticed he was acting a little odd. Was he like this in the office? What could I say? He was bringing home all sorts, and he seemed so distant from her; they never talked. I told her that it was just the pressure of work, and not to worry; that he was just the same as normal at work, and that everything was fine. But the words were only to stop her worrying, because by this time I didn't believe what I was saying and it was really starting to scare me.

# Chapter 2

I arrived at the office one morning as my Stepfather was on his way out to his car, telling me that he was on his way to his mother's house. There was a viewing arranged, and he requested me to meet him there in about an hour, claiming that there were things that needed moving around and he could not do it alone. I went into the office where I made a small number of phones calls, before leaving and making my way there.

On arriving at the address I could see that someone was upstairs. The front door was ajar so I just walked in while calling out hello. My Stepfather shouted back that he was upstairs and to come on up. When I reached the room he was in, I couldn't believe my eyes. There in the middle of the room was a picnic basket. Everything was spread out on a car blanket; there were all sorts of food items along with champagne. I asked what was going on, and he replied, with "lunch, what did I think it was?" At this point I didn't really know what to say to him. I told him that I had thought he needed my help with something. He now announced that he was about to tell me something that was to change my life forever, change my life beyond all recognition. I relay it here exactly as it was said to me at that time: "You must know that I am in love with you and that I have been for a very long time." I felt frozen to the spot; what did he say? I didn't understand this; he was my Dad! What in God's name did he mean?

It seemed like an hour had passed us by with me just standing there, but that of course was not the case. Was I hearing things? I replied that he was just confused, and that the pressures of work were getting to him; the problems within the business were just clouding his mind. But it was as though he was unable to hear me, and he asked me to sit down. "It has taken a lot of effort to do all this, so let's not waste it. Sit down and eat. You must be hungry" My mind was working over time; I could not make any sense of what was going on. I just needed to get out of there, but my feet didn't seem to be able to move. Just turn around and go it's alright to do so, just turn around and leave this madness behind; but I couldn't move.

The next day I was not even sure if I should go into the office; would yesterday be forgotten? I had hoped it would, and that it was just a moment of madness. I had to go there, I had no choice, there was just so much work waiting to be done. The drive that morning was one of the hardest things I think I have ever done. There were so many questions in my head; did my mum know about this? I had not spoken to her and if I did, what would I say? No, of course she didn't know what I was thinking.

I arrived at the office just before him and started work; I saw his car pull up and I was struggling with what I could say to him, hoping beyond hope that he would say nothing about it, that it would be forgotten, never to be spoken about again. On coming through the door he addressed everyone, saying good morning and continued up to his office. It was then that I realised I was holding my breath, but all was fine, he had spoken to everyone collectively. So maybe he also wanted to forget it had ever happened? I prayed that I was right, but in time I would find out that I was oh so wrong. My life was going to be turned inside out, upside down, crippled so much that I could not see or find a way out. And the one person that should have been there standing by me shoulder to shoulder, would prove to be less than useless.

A few days passed and nothing was said and I tried hard to forget all about it, but doing so was very difficult; I just felt so awkward around him. I was trying very hard not to be alone with him, while in the office I did not want to tempt fate. One afternoon on leaving the office around 3pm he phoned me asking if we could go for a drink. I was on my way to work; and I said that it was not possible, but something seemed to flip in his head. He started saying things like I was not there for him; that I did not care about the company. Why did I not know how he felt? I was just stunned at what was going on. I said that I did care, that I was trying to help, but the line went dead. This was to be the first of many calls which at its height could be as many as thirty to forty every day. I did not know what to do; should I change my number? There was little point, as he could easily get hold of it again; they needed it in the office. Should I turn my phone off? I still had my self-employed work; they had to be able to contact me at all times. Whatever I did I knew that I had to deal with this myself; I could not let my Mum know because it would kill her. I really thought I would be able to sort it out alone and that he was just unwell. I had such confidence on being able to do so, but I was in for a white knuckle ride which would leave me on the edge of a complete breakdown, ending up with me attempting to take my own life.

I had to take control there and then. I would go and have a drink with him if he needed to talk, and try to make him understand that things would be alright. To show him that this was all a big mistake and that his feelings were not returned in any way. That he was only grasping on to me because he needed to vent his frustration, I could explain all this to him. He would see that it was all so silly; that he didn't love me, and that I was just the crutch that he needed at that time; that I could see why he had to grasp on to someone; that maybe he was trying to shield my mum by not taking his problems to her, and above all else so was I. The meals during the week became more frequent and the talks on the telephone became so numerous, that I had to carry a spare battery. He was turning up at my other places of work, sometimes even joining in with the class. This was madness. What was I going to do? I started turning my mobile off, but I was missing work, and this only seemed to make things worse. He started to follow me. I would see his car behind me in my review mirror, so often that it could not be coincidental. He would be waiting outside my places of work, just sitting there in his car until I was finished. My phone would not stop ringing.

I was out one evening teaching, and upon leaving, I saw his car driving away. Why had he been there? I continued home, but it was not very long before once again he was in my rear view mirror. He came right up behind me, so close I thought he was going to hit me. I was so scared; what was he trying to do? I pulled over with him doing the same right behind me. Getting out of his car he walked around to my window verbally attacking me. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" What did he mean? He continued; "Don't think you can get away from me because you can't." I told him that this all had to stop, but it was pointless, it went right over his head. His response was that he loved me, and that I loved him, that I just needed to admit to that. God help me, this was madness. Why was he doing this? I tried to talk to him, setting out just how much he was going to hurt Mum. He answered by saying it would be me that was to hurt her because I was being so pigheaded. That it would be all my own doing because I was so hell-bent on denial that I was nothing more than a selfish bitch. I was quite frankly lost for words. Nothing I said was registering; I might as well have been talking in a different language. He then turned on his heels and just walked away.

This was to be the start of the craziness that became my life, and being unable to find my way out, I was to be emotionally blackmailed for some period of time to come. I had by then explained the situation to the one person I thought would help and I could trust; after all he was my husband. He would help me; I did not have to deal with this alone. But I was mistaken, as you will see while we continue down this road together. This time I feel like I am not alone, and it somewhat helps that you are here with me. Yes, you are only a passive bystander after the fact, reading only what I have written. But as I revisit this place that was to become my prison all those years ago, I can take some strength from that. Sadly the one thing I cannot change is the outcome, either then or now. The first is of course history, and the second I can only tell you how it was, however unpalatable.

The next day I went into the office; we needed to talk. I sat there with him and tried to make some sense of everything. It had to stop. He just smiled and said it couldn't and wouldn't. Where was he going with this? I wanted to scream. I told him he had to stop calling me, to stop following me, that it all had to stop. I was so angry. The business was in trouble and we all had to pull together, did we not? I tried to tell him that if it did not stop, I would have no other choice than to tell my mum. To that he played his trump card--was I prepared to break her heart? What was he saying? He continued on, saying that he was happy to elaborate. "I will tell her that we are having an affair and that we have been for quite a while." My head was spinning. I had to get out of there, and so I got up to leave, but as I reached the door he spoke again, knowing my weakness all too well. "You're the only one that can stop her being hurt; just think about that before you leave." "Spend time with me, and then she will never know." I was so knotted up in side. What sort of time? I wanted to shout at him, tell him he was nothing but a complete bastard, but the words would not come. I could not let him do this. My Mum's dream was fading. He was well aware it was just an empty threat from me and that I could never tell her.

There may be those among you reading this who feels that you would have had all the answers, and maybe you would. You're maybe even thinking to yourself that I should have just told her. You can't be blackmailed, and your mum would want to know. But would she? The man she loved and the good life she now had. Could I take her dream? Could I break her heart? No, not again. I ran out of the office and headed for my car. I didn't know where I was going and I didn't care. Why was this happening? How could I stop it? What I am now about to tell you is not easy for me and I am sure some people have a name for it, but I had to play along while trying to figure it all out somehow. God, I hated him, but he was holding all the cards, along with the key to my Mum's heart.

The next few weeks we went for lunch often and we talked on the phone, but I was still so very sure that one day he would wake up from all this; that he would see what he was doing. But that day never came. I had to do something, it was moving up a pace. I could feel its progression; I needed help with this and I made a decision—I would no longer request my husband for his help, I was going to demand it. To this day that conversation will always baffle me. Sitting there he seemed to be taking it all in, or so I thought. I also rightly thought that after I had finished he would take control, and give me the support I badly needed. When I was finished I waited for his reaction. It seemed at first that I would not receive one. Why was he not saying anything? But when it came it was like he had slapped me full in the face. "I am sure you can deal with it, can't you?" What was he talking about? What the hell did he think I had been doing? He seemed to think that it was just lunch, asking why I had a problem. As far as the telephone calls were concerned my Stepfather only needed to talk, so what was wrong with that? I could not believe what I was hearing. Maybe he was right, that things would be ok and it would all stop. After all, he could only push me so far. Was I overreacting? If it did get worse, then of course my husband would step in. He loved me and we had a child together. I just had to get things in perspective; my mind was doing overtime. I was in such turmoil inside. I was sure that by now the office staff must have been playing guessing games. His mobile phone bill went through our accounts system and it just got bigger and bigger. There were pages on pages and the list of itemised calls made very odd reading, because most of them were made to my mobile.

I was being followed constantly by my Stepfather—at work, at home, behind me in traffic. It was like some sort of curse; should I tell the Police? No I couldn't do that because of Mum.

I need to return here to that weekend I spent in Huddersfield, as I did not tell you everything. That journey was about me trying to find myself, to look for and maybe even to find some answers, if I was lucky. But for some inexplicable reason my Stepfather felt that he had to be involved. He had to be there trying to control even that, everything around me seemed tainted in some way. My Mum was aware that I was going and so consequently so was he, and armed with this knowledge he just followed. The first time I realised he was there it was too late. He called me on my mobile saying that he was in the area looking at work. We both knew that was not the case, so why the lies? He said the hotel he was staying in was really nice and asked if I fancied dinner? I really could not believe that he would go this far. He had driven miles, was he completely off his head? After I refused, he became very angry, saying that he had come all this way just to be told I wouldn't eat with him. I told him that he shouldn't have done so, and that I could not take much more of this situation. Once again the hotel bill went through the office accounts system, so everyone would be well aware of our close proximity. What were they thinking? They all knew that I was there that weekend, but nothing was ever said and no questions ever asked. I never did have that dinner with him, but not before a long heated argument. I had to agree to travel back with him the next day by car and not use the train. He had threatened to walk out onto the moor leaving me to explain it to my mum. What if he could not find his way back? It was winter and there was snow on the ground, along with a biting wind. In retrospect, I should have just let him—maybe more than that, I should have insisted.

It was around this time that he started buying me things; he also offered to pay for repairs to my home through the business. My husband could not see any reason to refuse. After all, he was family; he was just being kind. Why was I looking a gift horse in the mouth? But at what cost to me? I don't think it even crossed his mind.

I started turning my mobile off during the evenings, but that did not stop anything as he would just ring the house phone. If I picked it up I would say that I could not talk, and that if it concerned work we could talk tomorrow. These calls were not only made during the day, but also throughout the night. The phone was on my husband's side of the bed, so invariably it was him that picked up the phone. He would then just wake me; what the hell was wrong with him? It felt just like my husband was helping him! He couldn't, or, it seemed, wouldn't understand the problem.

I was in bed one night and unable to sleep. I just did not know how to stop things. I was between a rock and a hard place. My husband almost seemed to be sanctioning his behaviour. Yes, he worked for him, but there were other jobs, right? The way he acted when around him was just the same as always. Laughing and joking like the best of pals. Why? He had full knowledge of what was going on. To return to that night I was unable to sleep (one of many to come); it was pointless staying in bed tossing and turning. I thought I would get up, make a drink and try to read. I was making my way from the kitchen into the dining room, when I had an overwhelming feeling that someone was watching at me. God, I had to stop this. My imagination was in overdrive. Or was it? Just sit down, try to chill and read your book. It's all ok. It was not until I got up to take my cup to the kitchen that I saw something move. There was definitely someone there. I just knew it was him. What was he doing? It was 3am in the morning. I went to the window and pulled back the net curtains, and there he stood staring at me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I turned and ran upstairs to wake my husband. For God's sake, he was stalking me. I told him what was happening and that my Stepfather was in the garden. I needed a reaction or something; surely this time I would get the right one, he would have to now see that this was serious. Well I am here to tell you that I did get a reaction and it went something like this—"Can you turn that bloody light off? I have to be up for work at 5.30." I just sat there on the bed stunned and watched him snore himself back to sleep.

It was around this time that I collected my new car. I was really looking forward to it, as I had never had a brand new one before. I left work at around 3pm and went to collect it; the garage I had bought it from also did all the repairs to the fleet of company cars, as well as supplying new ones as and when needed. I knew the people there well, and after collecting it I went straight on to my other place of work. I would say I was there for about an hour, before finishing and getting ready to leave. As I walked towards my car I could not believe what I was seeing—my new car of two hours had been trashed, every panel on it had been keyed. I sat down and cried. Who would have done this? Why? It did not make any sense. Pulling myself together, I rang the garage to tell them what had happened; they were gutted for me. The only thing I could do was to book it in for a repair and ring my insurance company. The car went in the following week, and the garage said that they would deal with the insurance company directly. I was still very upset, but it had happened and there was nothing I could do about it. Later that day I received a call from the garage, advising me that I did not need to go through my insurance. But why was that? It seemed that my Stepfather had contacted them, telling them to put the cost of the repair through the company. This just did not compute; why would he do that? And then it hit me. It was like being hit by a steam train—it was him. Something just went in my head. What the hell did he think he was doing? I picked up the phone and rang him. It was like he was expecting my call, there was such a smug tone to his voice. "What's your problem? The cost of the repair is being met by the company." "Why did you do that? " I screamed at him. "Do what?" he said. I told him not to play games; that he had caused the damage to my car. He said nothing for a few seconds, and then he spoke. He enlightened me by saying that it was nothing, compared to what he could and would do. I asked him what he meant by that, and he proceeded to tell me in great detail. He would take anything and everything I held dear and break it; he would make damn sure I lost my family, my son, my husband, my work... everything. I did not have the answers, what could I say? I begged him not to do it; he would break my mum's heart and he would hurt so many other people. Could he not see that? But I was wasting my time; I sat there with the phone in my hand, trembling. So this was it, I had to make a choice—play ball or see everything I love fall apart around me.

# Chapter 3

I feel that this is a good place to start a new chapter, because a new chapter was about to begin in my life. It was not of my making (although some of you reading this may think differently). He was in control and I had to do what he said. Why? Above all I had to try and shelter my Mum and my Son. There were so many others that he could hurt through me, but would he? Should I talk to my husband again and ask for his advice? No, I had been there and done that, that avenue was blocked. I was alone with this and it would be some time before I found the courage to stop it. I am aware that this is the part of this book that I will be judged upon, but before you judge me please try to imagine what it would have been like. Walk a day in my shoes, and if you still feel the same, then please feel free to judge me. Could you have made the right choice? Did I? Was there one? But a choice, either the right one or wrong one, had to be made. I had to protect my mum; you may even feel here that I am only trying to cover my own arse, but if so then it was not only my own. There was my husband and his job, my son, my siblings and my extended family; maybe he was just having a breakdown. I could not jump the gun. If I told all to everyone I could never take it back. I had all sorts of thoughts running through my mind. Could I help him through it and out the other end? And if I could, well then everything would be ok; he would return to normal and my mum would never need to know. The one thing I was not banking on was that all this had been planned right down to the very last detail, with my Stepfather as always in full control. If you think about it, whatever choice I made it would not have been a good one for me. If I told my mum not only hers, but everyone's lives would be torn apart. If I didn't then it would only be I that I was hurting. Of course my mum would have been destroyed if she ever found out, but I was not going to let that happen. He had also promised me that it would not happen; he said he just needed me through this and that no one would get hurt. So I guess that was the day that I became no one. As I continue through this book there will be those of you reading that will hate me. Those of you that will think I am some sort of low life, and maybe I am. But I am also hoping that there are a few of you out there who may just understand. I really did not know just how far he would try to push the boundaries; just how much I would come to hate myself and want out of life.

The office and storage space he had rented next door was in full swing, and the stock was moved in from the existing premises. He had the office space newly decorated and it was looking good. A lot of the work coming in as planned was quoted for and undertaken by the newly formed company. He was involving me intently, and he told me that I would be working out of the new premises. He informed me which office would be mine, and consulted me at every turn. It seemed to me that everything was going in full swing with the new company, and that he had been better of late. Maybe he had thought things through and come to his senses? I was wrong. He was just waiting for the right time, the moment, or chance.

Arriving at the office one morning he asked me if I could go next door to the newly acquired premises. He wanted me to take a look at the finished decoration, and to seek my advice regarding the best position for the desks and filing cabinets. This seemed to me to be an honest, open request; after all, this was to be my new place of work. We had been there for about ten minutes discussing the options, when I suddenly became aware that something was amiss. Something just did not feel right, and I was feeling very uneasy, but why? I could not put my finger on it. Was it the way he was looking at me? He was making me feel so uncomfortable and I needed to leave. I said that I should return next door as I had a lot of work waiting there, but he was standing in the doorway smiling. I had to pass him in order to do so, but he would not move. What now? I waited, hoping that he would move, only to be told that he had not changed his mind and wouldn't, and that we were still going to be together. Please God, let this be over. I told him that he was wrong and that I did not feel the same way. Did he not get it? That was my mistake I guess, because he made a grab for me, pushing me up against the office wall. It really took me by surprise. What was happening? He was so strong and we were alone; no one was near enough to hear or help me and it all seemed to happen so fast. My heart was pumping nineteen to the dozen. What was he going to do? The panic continued to rise in me. I felt sick; this was unbearable. The entirety of the emotions I felt at that time is just so difficult to explain. It was like I was drowning, and they just kept coming, wave after wave of them. They were just so mixed up and I didn't know which box to put them in. I felt helpless, confusion, to name but two. I just had to get out of there. He was staring at me in puzzlement like he did not understand, or even compute the way I was acting. I must have looked like a scared rabbit caught in the headlights. He told me to stop the panic and that all he wanted was a kiss, and that nothing else was going to happen. I was still being held up against the wall and he was showed no sign of letting me go. I was trying desperately to release his grip on me but to no avail. Anything I did or said was pointless, because he sure as hell was not taking any notice. It was at that point I knew that I was totally helpless and he was in full control. It was like a punch to the stomach. Why had I put myself in this position? I was just not strong enough to fight him. Jesus, I had to do something, but what? I had this overwhelming desire to throw up. I needed to take control, try not to let him see just how scared and vulnerable I felt. Just talk to him; ask him where he thought all this would lead? The words were in my mouth, so why would they not come out? In truth I think I was afraid of the answer. If my fears were to be spoken out loud, he would then confirm what I was thinking. It would then be a reality and not this crazy mixed up fantasizing situation, I would be forced to stop deluding myself. There was something else bouncing around inside my head. I couldn't make sense of it, or understand where these thoughts were coming from. There seemed to be so much conflict in my head; it was like my mind was being torn in different directions. Did I have to do as he asked without question? But he was my Stepfather; what did that mean? I needed to understand, but everything was just so dim and clouded. I told myself to concentrate, to think, just think. "Why are you backing away? You I don't have to." What the hell did that mean? Where were these thoughts and voices coming from? I had to try and understand these conflicting emotions. Something in my head was telling me to leave it alone, that I really did not need or want to go there. I would find only pain and nothing more by opening that door. I had to desist in trying to prise it open. But where were the voices coming from? At that moment I had to put it down it was just too heavy. Needless to say he received that kiss he asked for, and I was left with no doubt in my mind that he always knew he would.

So how do you deal with the aftermath of all that? Why had I let him kiss me? "Do as you're told" those voices were still buzzing around in my head. What was going on with me? I was frantically searching my mind for answers. Each time I felt that I was getting near to understanding something would happen, it was like I was in full retreat, running, but from what? Something was stopping me from going any further the door was closing and I could not explain why. I spent a very sleepless night that night and there were far more to come. At this point I guess you could think that I deserved all those sleepiness nights and I can fully understand that, but at that time no one could have even come close to that judgement more than me, to express just how hateful a person I was. I had already been judge and jury to my own actions and I was guilty as charged. I had allowed this to happen, so how did I feel about myself? If I were to look for words to express that, then maybe they would be the following. A cheap trollop, weak beyond doubt, no longer in control of my actions, but being controlled. I was plunging deeper and deeper into a black hole and judging myself in such a degrading manner, that it would have been hard to exceed. I needed help, but there was none. Yes, I could go to my mum and tell her, but that was not an option. I just could not do that to her. There were my siblings, but they in turn would have taken it to her, so once again that was not an option. The person I had confided in—my husband—just seemed to be taking it all in his stride. Why? What's more, he really did not seem to care. He was my husband; the least he should have done was to punch him on the nose or gone to confront him, but it seemed that he did not feel the need to do so.

I returned home that evening deliberating my options, but as hard as I tried I did not know the answer. It was beginning to make me feel very unwell. I had a constant headache. My husband remarked that I was very quiet and I guess I was. I picked up the phone and made a call to my doctor's surgery. I could not tell her the real reason that I felt so depressed, why I was experiencing panic attacks one after the other, or why I was forever looking over my shoulder. How could I? If I did so then things may have been taken out of my control. That may seem like a strange choice of words to use at this point. Who was I kidding? I had none. I was floundering more with each day that went past; I couldn't let her think badly of him, but why? It made no sense. But I knew the question would be asked as to why I was feeling that way. I needed to think and quickly. For some inexplicable reason I was still trying to protect him. Was I really going mad? He had taken my mum away from the long hours and hard work she had endured. He made her happy and put food on the table, just how ungrateful was I, God, I was just so confused.

I got up the next morning and called the office to say I would be a little late as I had a doctor's appointment. There were the obvious questions, like "are you ok?" How could I answer that one? I badly needed sleep, but I could not close my mind off long enough to achieve that. On driving to the doctors I was well aware that I had to prepare an explanation, but I was still fighting with that one and the explanation I could give. I would have to use work and the long hours etc., anything but the truth. I left the surgery that day with a bag full of pills, and to this day I still cannot really remember what I told my doctor, but the pills would help and I would be able to get some sleep. Things would look so much better then; I would be rested and able to tackle the situation head-on. Sadly, what I was not aware of then was just how many times I would need to return there. There would be more and more pills until there were a cocktail of them. I felt like I was dying from the inside out.

I arrived at the office about an hour late. Everyone there just seemed to be getting on with their work. Why could they not see what was happening? It was just so clear to me; I couldn't understand why it wasn't to them. Maybe it was, but nobody seemed to want to get involved. He was in his office and the door was open as I passed by. He called out to me, asking me to come in and sit down. This was not a good choice for me; I needed to be so far away from him. He asked me why I had been to the doctors. I replied by saying that it was the stress he was putting me under, which must have been so clear to him. I told him that I had made a decision—I could not continue working there or with him anymore. I just couldn't continue with the torment that was going on in my head. Bang! He hit the roof and everyone that was in the office at that time couldn't have failed but to hear him. This attack went on and on, seemingly without end. He said that there was no way that I was quitting. How would he explain it to my Mum? I had to get the idea of quitting out of my head, and fast. The verbal attack continued for some time. If my mum was to find out, it could cause the marriage to split. He would leave; sell the company, putting all those I loved out of work. Did I want him to do that? I was only thinking about myself and that I was just like my real Father.

I was stunned by this. Was I? My Father had hit my mum throughout their marriage, he was always drunk, and he hurt all the people he said he loved. My Stepfather then told me that this was his game; I was just a pawn in it and for me to think I had any control over it was a joke. I felt just like a kid again, misbehaving, being told off and punished. Why could I never be the good one? I guess it was because I was just like my Father.

The abuse—for want of a better word—was over and I returned to my desk. The two girls working on the same floor as me looked at me as I passed them by, but said nothing. I sat down and just knew that I had lost this fight, and that I had never even been a contender. The next six months were, for me, to be a living nightmare; I was to hit rock bottom and to stay there. I was to be at his beck and call, as and when he felt like it, to be taken to the edge and to be made to want to jump. But if I were to fall, it would only be when he felt the need to push me. Who was I kidding? I could not even make that decision.

We would meet in the empty offices next door, which for some reason he had not yet finished installing. I often wondered why. All the paperwork had been done; it has been premises just standing empty. Had all this just been a rouse? Had he pulled me in? Cast the net? He had involved my husband so much more than originally talked about. He was now taking a wage from the new company as was I, under the heading of company secretary. Was this his way of finding somewhere to go and for us to be alone? God, it seemed so ridiculous to go to those extremes. There must have been somewhere else. Why had it evolved to this scale? The pieces were all starting to fit together; he needed to be able to hold me and my families' livelihoods in his hands. While we were next door, it seemed that everyone thought we were dealing with company business, nothing more. He always made a point of doing all the paperwork himself. How would anyone know any different? It was in his briefcase at all times, which he alone had access to. Once done, the paperwork would need to be filed, which entailed going next door, but I was never sent there alone. He would always lock the entry door from the inside, so no one could come in after us. He had it all worked out from beginning to end. I was still going out to lunch with him as and when he required my presence, but that was not so bad. What could he do to me in a crowded pub? This was a safe option for me. There were the odd times he would turn up at my home, but he was always on edge there. At least in those surroundings, I always felt I had some sort of comfort, however small. Maybe it was because it was my home, with the things around us to remind him that I had a family and a life. Maybe I am giving due here where it should not be given. The fact was that my son could come in at any time, or my husband could come home early from work, my mum might ring, which I knew would make him feel uncomfortable. He seemed to be on the edge there, flexing his muscles so to speak, just a gentle reminder to me, but never venturing further. He would make movements towards me, only to say he did not have time for coffee and leave. Was it a power trip? Did he need to make it clear that I was not safe even there? I was losing weight and popping pills as a pastime.

Every day as I travelled in to work, it was always with the thought that we would need to go next door. Paperwork was piling up and it needed filing. My heart would be going nineteen to the dozen. Without any stretch of imagination, this was his domain. I always knew as soon as I arrived at work each day when it was going to happen. It was just the way he looked at me. I can't explain it, I just knew. The time of the day would always differ, but the one thing I knew without doubt, was that I would be crossing the tarmac at some point. Sometimes he seemed to be playing cat and mouse; he would walk out of his office and lean over my shoulder, but for what? Was he checking my work? Then he would walk away, returning once more at his leisure. It was as though he had some perverse need to put me into panic mode. But I was only going to the premises next door, when and if he chose for us to do so. Deep in the back of my mind it had been decided; there was one place he would never take me. I would hold on to that thought no matter what. It would be, I guess, my only victory, but one that was to stay mine. That one he would never win, not ever. He would have to kill me before I had full sexual intercourse with him.

# Chapter 4

This chapter for me will be the hardest thing I ever hope to write. It has taken me days just to return to my computer to try to do so. I know I have to write this and in doing so, I will leave myself wide open. It will be like walking back into the lion's den. Neither is it trying to hide my shame, because even to this day I rightly blame myself. I expect anyone reading this would also take that line. I am not going to stretch this out more than I need to do so, but the facts have to be digested so you can formulate an image of the madness which was to ensue for yourself. Sitting here, I can feel the palms of my hands sweating; my heart seems to be beating just that little bit faster. How can I write this down? But I know I have to. There needs to be an end to this and I have to try to reach it, without destroying myself in the process.

I was under no illusions that that kiss would be the end of it. Of course it would not be, I was at least not that stupid, and I had given up trying to pretend it was not happening. What was the point? So the next time he told me that there was work waiting next door, I just got up and went. He had engineered everything so cleverly, and in some sick kind of way I admired his strategy. We went in and I proceeded up the stairs to the second floor. I could hear him below locking the door after us, and then I heard his footsteps on the uncarpeted stair way. The only way I was going to get through this was to try and take myself out of my body. To pretend I was somewhere else. This was not me, how could it be? There was this voice inside me; it was telling me that I could hide. What did that mean? He came through the door and crossed the room to where I was standing. Before I really had time to take a breath he was all over me, pushing me backwards. I tripped and fell into something. What was it? Then I remembered that was where the desk had been situated. He fell on top of me and started kissing me, pushing his tongue deep into my throat. I felt the need to be sick. It was making me gag. Within a split second or so, it seemed he had his hand up under my top, grabbing at my breast and ripping painfully at my bra—it was digging into me so painfully across my back. I told him that it was hurting me and he responded by saying take the fucking thing off then. I reached around to undo my bra from behind, but he seemed unable to wait and once again he was pulling at me. Grabbing both my bra and my top, he tossed them both across the room. He had now moved down to my tummy area, he was kissing me everywhere, biting at me. I could feel his hand on the button of my jeans; everything was going too fast, I had to slow it down.

If only I could convince him that it would be better to take our time, it would then give me breathing space. But even if successful what would that change? I had to try. I lifted his head up with my hands and asked him to take it slow; I told him that there was no rush, that we had all the time in the world. I asked him to kiss me; I had to make him think that it was all his idea to slow it down, convince him I was a willing participant, but that it would be nice to take our time. My mind was desperately screaming out for answers, for anything. I said the first thing that came into my mind. That we were at the start of a new relationship and the slower it progressed, the more worthwhile it would be. I just did not know how he was going to react, and it seemed a lifetime before he responded. He stood up and took a step back, telling me that I was a bitch, and that I had wanted this all the time. My head was in turmoil scrambling just to keep up, but if I were to pull this off I had to seem genuine. Ok, he was listening, now what? I told him that, of course I did, but it had to be done the right way. The right time and the right place would make it much more pleasurable for both of us. I had been trying to fight my emotions for a long time without any success. It was working. I could see that he was thinking about it, and prayed that I was right. He seemed to soften. I could see it in his face. Sitting back against the desk, he said that I should have told him. I had been wrong in not doing so. I was holding my breath, feeling completely dizzy as I answered that, yes, I had been wrong in not doing so. Crossing the room, he retrieved my clothes, and throwing them at me, told me to get dressed. Then he hit me with a bombshell as well as a slight snigger. He told me that we were not leaving just yet. I had worked him up so I had to deal with it. I stood there as he removed his belt from his jeans, pulling down both his jeans and underwear. I just looked at him standing there; I was starring at his penis, why was I? But I could not look away. He told me to come over to him that we were going nowhere fast, and not until I had dealt with him (i.e. Masturbation, but that was not exactly the word he had used). I crossed the room in a sort of daze, took him in my hand, and proceeded to do what he wanted. When it was over he pulled up his jeans, then kissing me on the cheek he left. I felt violated. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, but no amount of soap and water would ever make me feel clean again. Of that I was under no illusion.

I went back to the office, unable to shake the feeling that everyone in the room was up to speed. Were they looking at me? I thought I heard them whispering. I could not get the picture of what had just happened out of my mind; I couldn't concentrate on anything other than what had just occurred. I collected my belongings, made my excuses and left. It seemed like I have driven for hours. I had a class to teach later that day, but there was no way that was going to happen. I rang and told them that I was unwell, which was not too far from the truth. I drove home, picked up a bottle of brandy, and proceeded to try and drink my way through it. What was I going to do? This was madness; I was on the road to inevitable destruction. We had passed go in a game that I had never wanted any part in.

How could I turn back the clock? Rewind time? I couldn't. It would only be a matter of time until, once more, he would want to progress towards his ultimate goal. But that was only ever going to happen over my dead body. I wouldn't let it get that far. I would find the strength somehow.

I considered so many things, but nothing seemed to be the answer. It was a waiting game until he felt the need to move forward once more as I knew he would. It came much too quickly for me. Arriving for work one morning, once again I heard those words that I had come to dread: we were going next door. One thing I could never quite understand was that no one other than himself had keys to the offices. Why didn't anyone question this? If it seemed odd to me, why didn't it seem strange to others too? It was a place of work, after all. The keys to the yard where the equipment was stored were readily available, but not to the offices. Something was different. I was walking there as if it was a normal thing to do; no one was dragging me there. Theoretically, had I accepted it? Or did I feel I had no other choice? That fighting him was useless. The reason for this complacence seemed to escape me. Nothing seemed to compute any more. As we climbed the stairs I could feel myself starting to panic and a feeling of dread hung in the air. I was desperately trying to work out how I could contain it as before, and not to let things progress further. Was it going to be possible? When we entered the office he grabbed me by both arms, instructing me to take my jeans off. God, how could I do this? I said that we were still moving too fast, he replied that we weren't and to do as I was fucking told. I started to cry, tried to reason with him, to seek out his better nature or judgement, but to no avail.

This is so painful for me to write, but I have to do so in order to make it clear that I was not a willing participant, in any shape or form. I just felt I had to do everything that he was telling me, and that it was not for me to question. So what was I then if not willing? I still can't answer that one, I felt so lost and needy, and it was all in the mix along with the need to protect those I loved. He had told me that I wasn't doing anything wrong, but how so? I was questioning my sanity at that point and I still do to this very day. I was fumbling in the dark, carrying the weight on my shoulders alone. Please don't think here that I am excusing myself, trying to pass the buck, because that is something I will never do. I have lived with those demons ever since. After I was naked from the waist down he removed his own jeans. I could feel myself drifting off. It felt just like an out of body experience. It was not me who was standing there, it was someone else entirely. I went through the whole process in a removed state, only doing as I was instructed, nothing more and nothing less. By the end of our time there he had invaded my entire body. I was once more instructed in the art of masturbation, while he had my breast in his mouth, while also pushing his fingers deep up inside of me. How long were we there? I can't answer that, but no one at all seemed to miss us. The only thing I could hold on to was that intercourse had not taken place. He had touched me on every part of my body, but mercifully I had escaped that. Once again that day I took an oath that it would never happen. If I had to endure this until he came to his senses, then that's what I would have to do. But he would never put his penis inside of me no matter what. I would jump off the nearest bridge first. I prayed that someone eventually would see that all was not right, and that would bring it to an end. Not enough to feel the need to ask too many questions, just a passing odd remark that would hit home. Any more than that would run the risk of my mum being hurt, but it was such a fine line between the two, was it even achievable? I was walking a tightrope, struggling not to fall, and there was no sign of solid ground in sight.

For the next few months, this was how it went. We would go next door and engage in everything except for intercourse. I see no point to dwell on this longer than needed, it's enough to say that I was doing what I was told like a good girl, and he was doing as he pleased. Further mention of the sexual acts that passed between us are self explanatory, and to my mind not to be laboured on. We would still go for lunch, but nothing sexual took place on those occasions. He never tried to push me into intercourse; he always stopped short of that. Why? Maybe it was just one step too far even for him.

I was still under the doctor's wing at that time and not sleeping, I could no longer keep this secret to myself. I had to talk to someone about it fully, so I made another appointment with my doctor. I had made up my mind to tell her what was really happening in my life. I could not keep everything inside any longer, or I would go completely mad. I had booked a double appointment because I needed more than the allocated ten minutes, and I was aware that it would still not be long enough. But I could tell it in short hand; I did not what to pick the bones of it, or start pulling it all to pieces. If I could just say everything hurriedly, get it all out without too many questions, it would help. I didn't know what this would achieve. I just had to tell it to someone, just be able to say it out loud. I walked into her office and just started talking. It was like I could not stop. For months I had not been able to say anything, but right now it was like a dam bursting open. When I finally stopped to take a breath I felt lighter, like a great weight had been taken from me. I had been walking around, carrying this enormous weight alone, and someone else now knew everything. My doctor had been sitting there listening; I could tell by her face that she was finding this all very hard to believe. The odd thing was so was I, and I was doing the talking. Yes, the words had been spoken, but it still seemed so unreal. There was no quick fix, what did I think she could do? It was a case of her giving me more tablets, along with telling me I should go to the police. Asking if my husband knew about all this, and not understanding when I told her that he did but had done nothing. How could I expect her to understand? I had trouble understanding it myself, so she had no hope in hell. What did I do from here? Yes I had shared, but nothing had changed. My doctor could not understand why I would not take it to the police. How could I explain my reasons? The years of hurt my Mum had endured would mean nothing to her, it would just be a case of black and white, and who could blame her? Not me. So I took the pills and went back out there to resume my life, such as it was. As I was leaving a thought ran through my head that at least it's been documented, but what did that matter? I could never use it against him.

Time seemed to pass by unchanged for some months -time spent in and out of the unit next door and our lunching together, visiting my doctor with an update and collecting more pills. She continued along the line that I should contact the police, but it was not an option. I am sure she never really understood why and I could not explain. My talks with her somehow had me delving deeper into my memory and it was all just so odd. Something was there, but what? Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. That was not out of the question with the situation as it were. Something was there, but the voice was talking too quietly, whispering. "My little brown girl, pigtails," what the hell did it mean? Jesus, was I losing it completely?

One evening I had a call from my Mum, saying that she and my Stepfather were thinking of a holiday, renting a villa in the sun, explaining that the place they were looking at had loads of extra room. They had talked and had come up with an idea. We could all come along; we would only have to find our air fare costs and some spending money. She was really excited and I knew she needed a break, but two weeks around him constantly. What could I say? Over a period of the last four or five years, my Mum and I had taken to going away together for the weekend. She was not only my mum, but also my best friend, and as such I enjoyed holidaying with her. I felt utterly relaxed in her company until now, but with everything that was going on around me I felt that it was not even an option. My own feelings were so mixed up. Could I do this and still be able to shield her? There are no manuals on how to deal with these things; everyone seems to know the answer, but only after the fact. I hadn't the answers to anything. As my husband worked for my Stepfather taking a holiday at short notice would not be a problem. I stood there dumbfounded with the phone in my hand. What do I say? If I say no she will want to know why. I was well and truly on the spot. I said I would need to speak to my husband first and ask his opinion. She then enlightened me by saying that it was not a problem, as it had already been done. It did not take to many guesses as to who had spoken to my husband. That my husband had more than liked the idea; once again I was two steps behind him.

The next morning when I arrived at work I went straight to his office. He told me to shut the door and sit down. I asked him what he thought he was doing, arranging something like that. Could he not see that it was not the right thing to do? It would be like pushing everything in my mum's face. Ok she didn't know what was happening, but I did, and I really did not want to be put into that situation. As always it fell on deaf ears. Did I not want a holiday? Would I deprive both my husband and my son of one? True to form, once again behaving just like your Dad. I asked him how he thought this could work; there was also another member of my family going along with us. How could I relax? He must be out of his tiny mind. He then delivered his punch line—I would go, and that I had no choice. If I did not then he would tell my mum everything about our sordid affair. What was he saying, how could he do that? It was not even the truth. He had seemingly forgotten to include the blackmail. The pressure he was putting me under, the lies and the deceit, it was nothing remotely resembling an affair! Had I endured this entire fucked up situation with this to be the outcome? All I had done, in order to stop that from happening. He then reassured me, that nothing would happen because my mum would be present, so why was I so upset? Relax; take the holiday and just chill out. I don't think I have ever hated anyone so much as I did him at that precise moment; it was a game of strategy controlled and weighted all his way. It seemed I would have to go, that maybe it would be ok. It made sense, because as he said we would not be alone. Time spent away with him and my mum together might even turn out be a good thing. He would see just where his real feelings were and it would stop. We could just get on with our lives. He had promised after all and other people would be there, so what could he do? I was to learn on that so called holiday just how wrong I would turn out to be. His promise—he never even knew what the word meant, and I would never underestimate him again.

# Chapter 5

The holiday was a complete nightmare for me. Even staying out of his way seemed to be impossible. He made damn sure that he engineered it that way, as always true to form. From the moment we arrived at the villa I knew it had been a mistake; it was such a big place, so being caught alone was very easily done. From the start everything seemed to be going his way. Not long after we arrived, Mum was taken ill; it seemed the heat was really getting to her. She was not happy to venture out much during the day, choosing to stay within the villa. It had air conditioning and the whole place seemed to be made of marble, the result being that it was very cool inside. This, of course, he could not have arranged, but it had fallen quite nicely right into his lap. I felt like I was climbing a hill, and never able to reach the top—there was always just one too many pitfalls. Everything you needed was within the villa; there was a big pool and nice gardens. If you didn't want to leave the villa you wouldn't have had to do so.

The first day we arrived, we had to go out and buy some supplies; this was left for me to do as Mum was feeling unwell. We had not been there long and I was not very confident driving, because it was on the opposite side of the road. I asked my husband to drive me, but he replied that he was just going into the pool with our son. My Stepfather who had witnessed the conversation said for him not to worry, to go have fun and that he would drive me. I was so sure that it would be ok; he would not try anything here, would he? I was wrong. Never going straight to the shops, he instead drove us down a dead end beach track. I was to do once more as he instructed. The only saving grace is that it ended quite quickly. Maybe he thought he had to be more careful. He would have to explain the amount of time that we were gone, and it would not be so easy. We drove back to the villa after shopping in silence. I felt like jumping into that pool and drowning myself. Two weeks of this? I knew that there would be many other times that he would arrange for us to be alone of that I could bank on. Some of you may think that I was a fool to have believed him, and that I should never have gone on that holiday. To those of you who are thinking that way -you could never be so right.

Throughout that holiday, I had to endure a nightmare. He manipulated for us to be alone together so often I was amazed. There was one morning within the villa that he had grabbed hold of me, with the intention, it seemed, of kissing me. Family members were there, only yards away. It made no sense; it was just so stupid for him to do so. Pushing him away I turned to leave, it was then that I saw my mum standing in the doorway. I just froze. To this day I will never understand, because she just turned and walked away. Why? Did she have any idea? Could that be possible? We never spoke of it. Something else at that time seemed odd, like it was bubbling away under cover. The other member of the family, who had accompanied us, was acting very coldly towards me. I was sure they knew or suspected something was going on.

If it was becoming obvious to others, then why was I continuing to let this happen? What was the point? Misguided loyalty? Fear of what he could do? I had just spent nearly two weeks away trying to appear happy, but for what? It had to stop and it was going to. I had made up my mind I would tell him as soon as we arrived home. Ever present in my mind was that fear of the unknown; was I just about to start a war? I had to do this; I was going under and at breaking point. I could only hope that I would not take my mum under with me. There was just no other answer; if there was one then I had failed to find it.

The end of the holiday and the flight home could not come quickly enough for me. I needed to withdraw from everything and everyone; I needed to take stock of my life, and try to devise a plan as how where and when would be the best time to confront him. Arriving home would only be the start. I had to come up with something that would put an end to being controlled or used. I had already decided my future was no longer with my husband. Even the word 'husband' was wasted on him. I had spent the last few days there building up my reserve, with some difficulty, while still remaining in the company of others. It had been really difficult, nerve racking. I was living on the edge. If our time there had been any longer, I am sure I would not have been able to keep my cool.

At long last it was over. We were on the plane home and my nerves were just about shot. But even this was just a little crazy. We had to occupy different seats on the plane, as there were not enough allocated seats to put us all together. There were only two seats that were right next to each other, and they were occupied by me and my Stepfather. How did I mange to draw that straw? Why did my Mum not question this? God: he was good.

I had to find a time when I knew that he would be alone. Most days he stayed much later in the office than other members of staff, sometimes until 7pm at night. It would have to be then. I just had to be strong enough. There was no reverse gear, I had to do it. I pulled into the parking space just outside of the building and saw his car. He was there alone; everyone had left, there were no other vehicles. Pulling open the door, I started up the stairs. The pain in my chest was nearly unbearable. I could not breathe. I felt the need to just turn and run. I could not; I forced myself to climb the remainder of the stairs and walked into his office.

He was on the telephone and looked up as I entered. Making his excuses to the other person on the phone, he replaced the receiver and smiled at me. I had this weird feeling he thought I was there to visit him. He sure looked like he was pleased to see me. Why did that not surprise me? I took a deep breath and spoke. I told him it was over and there would be no more; that I would fight him and take back control of my life. I was no longer afraid of what would happen because I had no control over that. I had tried to spare others, but I couldn't do it anymore. If they found out, well then it had to be that way. If he was intent on breaking my Mum's heart, then he would have to live with it. But no matter what happened, he was never coming near me again. If that ultimately meant me losing everything, then I would survive—I would have to. If I couldn't then there was always a way out permanently.

I stood there awaiting his response. It felt like an eternity. His face seemed to contort he was mocking me, seemly thinking this was all so amusing. He stood up and walked around to my side of the desk. He stood there for a moment, staring at me; it was so unnerving, those dead eyes seemed to be reaching into my very soul. When he spoke, he told me that I was a joke, and he needed to put me straight on a few things. I replied that I was not interested, looking him square in the face, and trying desperately to hang on to my nerve. Holding that stares I reiterated it was all over—well and truly over. He moved a little closer and told me to think about that, and to take my time in doing so. I told him that nothing he could say or do would change it or my mind. I turned and walked out of the door heading towards the stairs. There was a rally of abusive things being shouted after me; so much venom and spitefulness. I could still hear him way down in the parking space, as I walked ever closer to my car with my ears still ringing, and the continued rally of threats following close behind me. He was going to ruin my life! Didn't he fucking get it? He already had; I could do no more other than to let his words bounce off me. I would lose everything—my Mum, my husband, and my son, along with many other family members. To be honest, some of the torrid things being thrown at me were hard to understand, but I understood their meaning. As I drove away, I was in no doubt that he would carry out every one. My mobile started ringing before I had driven two hundred yards, but there was no chance in hell I was going to answer it. There would be a price to pay. I had opened a can of worms, disobeyed him, but why was that so important? There was that niggle again, somewhere in the recess of my mind. Once again, I could get no closer to it. I was banking on him, seeing that he also had so much to lose. Nevertheless, I could not turn back now, no matter what happened, even if he dragged me down into hell with him.

I drove around for some time not knowing where to go and going nowhere. I was still trying desperately to delve deep inside myself, but nothing was any clearer; there were so many questions and I needed the answers. Why was I finding it impossible to bring these thoughts to the front of my mind? What would he do now, if anything? But that was a fairly stupid thing to say; he would do something, without doubt. Deep inside me everything was bubbling around; it was like a volcano about to erupt. I was trying to play out each and every scenario that could arise, how I would react and deal with it and keep myself centred throughout. But the madness that ensued was far more extreme than I could ever have imagined.

The next week or so passed by and everything seemed to be normal, reverting back to how it had been before this had all started. Could I let myself believe it was over? Had the fact that I had stood up to him quashed it all? Could I once again continue on with my life as normal? Normal is not the right word to use here really, because normal had been lost to me. I was still waiting for the axe to fall, praying that it wouldn't, but knowing that it still could. Each new chapter I start to write already has a beginning and an end; they are already formulated in my mind.

Because they already have a form, it allows me to deal with them one at a time. A little bit like taking a card from the pack, and replacing it before removing another. This may seem a little odd, and I don't know how it makes any difference to me. Even the way they are divided and the structure of each and every one has already been set. It's seems it's the only way I can deal with all this, writing each individual section before putting it down to be able to write another. All the above may sound like the Ramblings of a fool, but it works for me. In essence, what I am saying, is that holding all the cards at once is not an option for me, not if I still want to hold on to my sanity. But to be very honest, I am not so very sure that I have; each time I sit down to write I relive the whole episode within that chapter once more. The effect it has on me has differed but it is always there. I am not saying this should not happen; maybe it should so I never forget my part in it. I continue to live with that daily, beating myself up over and over again. My decisions and actions have changed my life so very much, as of course it has others. I also understand that you are held accountable for your actions. Choices had been made—but were they the right ones and for the right reasons? If I could turn back the clock, what other way could I have dealt with it? Every one of us has to face decisions each and every day and live with the consequences. Even if the pill is bitter sweet to swallow.

# Chapter 6

It started with a call from my Mum and she was more than a little distressed. My Stepfather had left the house early that day, returning only a few hours later. On his return she had watched him unloading his car. He had purchased a mountain of books—there were crystals, incense, along with a large crystal ball. He had then proceeded to set everything up in the spare room; the room was filled to the brim with all sorts of spiritual items. He had then told her without explanation he would be moving into that room, and out of the bedroom they shared. She was so upset; she could not understand why it was happening. What was going on? What had she done? She had tried to talk to him, but she could not break through. He was talking in riddles and metaphors. He had refused to give her any explanation, saying only that it was something he had to do. He had then closed the door not only to the room he now occupied, but access to him as a husband was also being denied.

What could I say to her? I was speechless. Why would he do that? I tried to deal with it the best way I could, but it did not even make a dent into making her feel any better. She then asked me to talk to him, saying that he would open up to me, and he had more or less told her that he had been confiding in me. I felt an overwhelming feeling of revulsion; she was crying, pleading with me to come up to the house. I can honestly say that at that precise time the answer I wanted to give was firmly no. This was something different; he was moving the goalposts once again, but I had to do or say something. I had to go and at least try. I was past hoping that anything could be done, but how could I refuse?

I drove there that day in a kind of daze. I was on autopilot. My mind was not on my driving and I nearly paid the price. How would I deal with this? Was he pushing it this far to make a point? Did he think, however perversely, that this would make me back down? Hurting the one person I had tried to protect? I parked the car and went up to the house; I could plainly see that my mum was not able to deal with this. He had just shut her out, but how could I explain? I asked her where he was and she directed me to the spare room, which he had effectively now moved into lock stock and barrel.

I knocked on the door but received no reply. I waited for a few minutes before just opening the door and walking in. He was sitting cross legged on the floor, with all manner of things strewn around him. He seemed to be chanting something, but it was not at a volume at which I could hear or understand. For all intents and purposes, I might as well have been invisible. I tried to speak to him but received no reply. He just sat there on the floor, eyes closed. I felt desperate for something to happen—anything. I had to help. Standing there waiting I felt useless as I realised that he was beyond help. Was this all just play acting? Could I believe what I was seeing? Clearly it was now a case of damage limitation. I could not tell my Mum and I could not go back. I just couldn't. I wouldn't. I would have to ride the waves, expect anything and deal with things as they arose. He had thrown the gauntlet down, and I had to choose to either pick it up or to leave it where it had fallen. He was either in full control or teetering on the edge of complete madness, but which was it? I did not have to long to wait to get a further insight into a very troubled mind.

I left the room and went to look for my Mum. She was sitting in the kitchen just staring into space. I had to help her, but I really didn't know how. Which would be harder for her—to think that he was having a breakdown or to be told the truth? I couldn't make that judgement call. I sat down next to her trying to form my words into sentences. It was just the pressure of work, it would all be ok. She should try not to worry; just ride out the storm and things would come good. The business would overcome its problems; she just had to believe, to trust. Hell, how could I even try to make her believe what I was saying? I couldn't even convince myself.

Not so long after I left the house, Mum rang. He was still locked away in his room, but she seemed to be a little better, thanking me for coming and doing what I could. I felt like a fraud. Driving home seemed like such a long journey. It was of course no different from the drive there. What I had witnessed was pretty scary. It was at about this time that I really began to hate all men with a passion. I could do without any of them; after all, was I not doing so already? It seemed to me at that time that all the pain, hurt and deceit involved a man somewhere along the line. Today I know that that is not the case—it's not the gender, it's the person. Throughout our lives, we all come into contact with people of both genders; we should judge them on who they are, how they treat others. It's clearly not what they look like either.

There are some very good-looking people out there who are very ugly on the inside. Take my Stepfather; he was good-looking: charming, and successful in the outside world. Everyone liked him, which included the people that worked for him, other family members, friends, and business associates, who were more than happy to do business with him. They could not see what was going on inside of that twisted mind, but why would they look? They had no need to. To the outside world he had it all. I myself have picked up the paper many times as I am sure you have, only to read articles relating to just that. Things like no one can believe this or that about this person. Neighbours making reference to what a nice guy or women they had seemed. Shock-horror, they just never thought it possible. Well, I can tell you right here and now that no one thought it possible of him. I was to be made so acutely aware of this at a future date. People would question my morals, believing all and anything he said. This was to include my close family as well as my extended one. Every time I reach a pinnacle in this story, it may seem like I am trying to exempt myself from any blame. What can I say to that? Was I blackmailed? Could I not have just gone smashing in, telling everyone and anyone who would listen? Tear my family apart because I would then be vindicated? You don't know just how many times I have asked myself the same questions. Truly, I am not looking to do that; I would not be so naive. However, my actions are to be interpreted.

The next morning I came down from the bedroom, only to find a large envelope sitting on the mat with my name on. I just knew it was from my Stepfather even before I opened it. I had been reading his writing for many years, there was no mistaking that it was from him. I opened it and started reading. There were at least ten A4 pages, so it would take me a while. As my eyes scanned down the first page I was so taken aback. Such pure hatred jumped out at me from the print that a chill went right down my spine. This was to be the first of many, but not all were about just how much he hated me. They would in fact alternate between pure hatred and words of never-ending love; these were to tell me that he could not live without me. I would never know what to expect until I opened them. I was either a slut, a whore, something only to be found on the bottom of your shoe, or else, I was everything he had ever wanted. How much he loved me, seemingly not able to find enough words to express how he felt. He promised me the world if I would just let him love me. To try and fill you in on the extremities that he penned would be an impossible task. There were just too many and I have difficulty in remembering clearly myself. You had to see it to believe it. It's enough to say that the main vein in both types were always extreme and sometimes completely off the wall. The same things were repeated over and over, as if he was struggling to find the words to put either point across. He hated me with a passion, but he loved me to distraction. Did he even know what he was saying? They say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and in this instance they could never have been more correct.

So what was I to do with these letters? Should I throw them in the bin? Contact the Police? Show my husband? I didn't feel it was prudent to throw them away, but how could I go to the police? They would want to do something, and rightly so. Here I was, looking once more towards the man I had loved to do something. I would wait for him to come home from work and show him. He could not help but see it had gone too far. He would do something now, wouldn't he? That evening started just like every other evening. We ate our meal and then went about the business of clearing away, I then settled my son for the night. It had to be now; I could not put it off any longer.

I collected them all up and curiously I felt just that little bit stronger. But how do you start a conversation like this? I just had to come out with it; the load I was carrying was too much. It seemed like an age had passed, just sitting there watching him read through them. But he was reading them and that was a good sign. He would now take up the mantle and deal with this situation head on, of that I was so sure. There was nothing showing in his face to enable me to read what he was thinking, not one expression could I take anything from. Collecting them all together he handed them back to me. I waited for a response, but nothing. "Well?" I asked. To which he replied "Well what?" This could not be happening. What did my Stepfather have to do before my so-called husband felt the need to have some input? Kill me? Rape me? Destroy everyone's lives? I could not cope with this anymore; I just could not understand any of it. I tried asking him for some advice, but as the words left my mouth, I could see they were falling on deaf ears. His only input was to say that maybe he was under pressure. He would soon back off when it got easier within the business. I was flabbergasted. Had I heard that correctly? It was to be the very last time I would ever go to him for help. I was truly alone. Was I surprised? Not now, not in the least. Any feelings I still felt for my husband at that point just disappeared and they were to be gone forever.

What I am now about to tell you I had no memory of up until this point. As you read it through, you will quite rightly question how and why not, but this was as much a surprise to me as anyone. I will try to explain, but you have to realise that at this point it was no more than a flash back. Dropping into my memory unannounced that day, and shocking me far more than you could comprehend. The last few weeks I had come to expect another letter dropping onto the doormat most days. It was no longer a surprise, but expected. If a day should pass without one it set me to wondering why not. Not really a normal, healthy thought, but just a knee-jerk reaction. I would find myself asking what else he was doing. How crazy was it to think that way? I expected either abuse or long love letters and when they did not arrive it worried me. Was it some sort of reverse psychology? How screwed up was I? Jesus, I could not even construct my own thoughts correctly.

I opened the letter and started to read until I was half way down the first page I was then stopped in my tracks. My little brown girl, it meant something, but what? I read it again, desperately trying to understand, to reach into the page and pick up the words and grasp their meaning. I felt so light headed. What was happening? From somewhere deep inside me, something was emerging very slowly. I felt the need to sit down, but I still did not understand why. My little brown girl, who was she? Did I know her? Suddenly I felt as if a mist was clearing, memories came pouring into my head. It was like the opening of the flood gates. I could not process any of it; they were not my thoughts and memories, how could they be? My mind continued rushing back further and further, retreating back far into my childhood. It was summer and I had on shorts and a short sleeved tee-shirt. It was really hot; it had been for days. My hair was in pigtails, I had been out running around in the sun, enjoying the school holidays. My Stepfather was calling to me, my little brown girl; you will always be my little brown girl. Why was I remembering this? All at once it hit me; I felt as if I had just walked out in front of a ten ton truck. Why was he touching me that way? I knew it was wrong, but he said it was ok so it must be. My head felt like it was about to explode. These were not my memories; I would not claim them and you can't make me. I ran to the bathroom. I badly needed to be sick. Who was doing this? Someone had planted these things in my head, but when? How? I had a good childhood, it was not me. These voices had to go away. I can't hear you because I won't listen. I was trying desperately to push back these alien memories; they had to go back to where they had come from. All the while I was searching for an explanation. Was it all the pills I had been taking? Yes, that must be it. I just wouldn't listen to the voices. But their chattering continued. Get out of my head! Sing. If you sing you can drown them out. Please stop this, it's not true. Why would you say a thing like that? But the realization had already hit me; it was like a black cloud descending over me and pulling me in the eye of the storm. Why did I not remember? Had I shut everything out, but why? Could it have been my only way of coping? That little girl, so trusting, how had she dealt with all of that? Was there more? Suddenly I wanted to know everything, but the door was closing.

The mind is a funny thing sometimes. Some find that after suffering trauma, it acts like the capping of a pressure valve, sealing in those things you can't deal with. Burying them deep inside of you until one day you gain access through a trigger point. How do I know this? It has been explained to me many times over the years, while receiving care within the mental health system. But at that point in time rational thought was out of the question. Sitting there on the bathroom floor realization had flattened me. I was his little brown girl and I was just oh so suddenly aware of what that meant.

Since that day I have often asked myself if I would have ever remembered at all without that trigger point. If nothing was happening to me as an adult to evoke these memories, would I have ever done so? Other times I question if it ever really happened at all. I have never really come to terms with those painful memories that attacked me that day. I am not going to labour on it now, but there have been dark days. I have talked to all the relevant people, but it seems that my mind is still very much in control. I had limited access only at that time, only just enough for me to remember. I did try to talk to my mum about this on one occasion only, and many years later. At that time it was dismissed without discussion and who could blame her.

She'd had her share of heartache in her lifetime. Maybe I should have never even brought it up. With all that said we will leave it there; I am still not ready to conquer that one it's still one too many a hill to climb. In time maybe I will be able to sit down and write about those times. To be able to pick it up and look at it, while at the same time being able to distance myself; fully remember the sordid facts surrounding me at that time, and healed enough to take that journey, but not now. I need to leave something in Pandora's Box because at this present time I can't quite lift the lid all the way up. For now it has to stay that way, I need to get to the top of this hill before I find the strength to continue my climb. On that day, although painful, I found an inner strength, my resolve became much stronger, enriched with the knowledge that had been forced upon me, but maybe that's the reason it had been. I had not only to save myself in adulthood, but I also had to try to bring some peace to the child within me. I had to pave the way towards healing the scars that were inflicted on that little brown girl so many years ago.

Although I am choosing not to incorporate that part of my life within this book, I could no longer shut it out. So what could I do with this heightened knowledge? Should I tell him I had remembered? Would that bring everything to a halt? I was sure that it would not. The reason I felt that way was unclear, I just knew that in some way he would use it against me. But I had to talk to someone about it and the obvious choice once again was my doctor. I made an appointment and steeling myself for what I had to disclose. I left my home for that appointment in a daze. My doctor tried so very hard to talk me into going to the authorities that day, advising me that he could still be charged, but it was enough for me that it had once more been documented. I had found somewhere I could share. As I am sure you are aware by now, I wouldn't and couldn't involve the police. This will be the last mention of those stolen years within this book, which seems an odd thing to say here. How could they have been stolen if I did not remember them? I don't have an answer which makes any sense even to me, it just felt that way. To this day I continue to attend counselling within the Mental Health Care system, and those lost years are something I rarely wish to talk about. As to why, maybe I don't really want to find out. Maybe I'm not meant to; if I did, could I cope with it? Who knows? Only time will tell.

I made my way to work the next morning, determined to tell him that he no longer had any control over me—and I meant it. It would be a bit like throwing a match into a tinder box, because he would not take kindly to my show of outer strength. I was hoping beyond hope that he would not see through me. Whatever road of destruction I was about to embark on I had to do this. My one fear being that my Mum would be devastated, if she were ever to hear the truth. My only hope was that when it came to the crunch he would not do that to her. If he thought I was serious he would see that he also had too much to lose. I had to prepare myself for anything and I would have to do this alone. I had to see it through to the end. Quite from where this newly acquired strength came from I am not at all sure, but it was to be the beacon I needed to follow without any diversion.

The only problem with this newly found inner me was that I would not go backwards; reverse gear was not an option. I was about to push the start button and I would play this thing out until the end. The succession of events that followed I could never have imagined in the realms of sanity. What was to come would truly surpass anything that had gone on before; everyone was going to pay a price. This was to also include those that did not deserve to pay. But even if I had known, would I have done it differently? To be honest I don't think I would or could have. I could take no more and remain on this side of life. Many times I thought it was the best answer; just remove myself from the equation and it would all go away. I was to go as far as trying to take my own life once and at that time I really meant it. The details are yet to come, but we will arrive there a little further on. But in the cold light of day I had my son and I had to fight on for him. My marriage was over, although at that time my husband was not in the loop, and would he have really cared if he were? Somehow I doubted it.

# Chapter 7

I had everything sorted in my mind as I drove to work. All that I needed to say was locked in place in chronological order. I did not want, nor could I afford, any sort of discussion with him. It had to be quick and clinical; maybe I could get him on the back foot. I needed to sound determined, and to stand my ground. I was feeling anything but determined, but any sign of weakness and it would all be over. I went straight up the stairs and into his office, closing the door behind me. He looked up and smiled at me, seemingly in a very good mood, a feeling I did not share, but his mood was to alter very shortly. Reserve was not an option, and it was my firm intention, he would be left with no doubt that I was in full control. I had come here with a purpose and I was not leaving until he understood. He sat there in his chair, looking at me standing in front of him, my mouth was opening and closing and I was being true to my convictions. I was saying all that needed to be said, but remember feeling like a mechanical windup toy. I had started with a show of strength, with my main spring fully wound. Unfortunately, as the time passed, I could feel it all leaving me. I was trying so hard to get it all out because he had to understand. There would be no compromising, but I was flagging. I could feel it happening and I was sure that he could also. I badly needed someone there; someone to help me in any shape or form. To wind me up again, to steady me if I were to fall, but there was no one (a feeling I had come to expect). I had reached the end; there was no more to say, and I turned and started to leave. Up until this point he had not spoken one word. As I reached the door, he started to laugh. What the hell was so funny? I turned and asked him just that question. He pushed his chair away from his desk, stretching out. It was his turn to talk. With a grin on his face, he said "just how many more times are you going to stand in front of me with all this crap? We have been here. "You think you can prattle on and I will oblige? Well, you are sadly mistaken." It was true, I had been there. Digging deep I had to carry it on until the end. I looked him square in the face, telling him that there would not be a next time. He needed to believe this time it was over. To do whatever the fuck he liked, but that it would change nothing. I left the office, closing the door behind me.

Throughout the next few weeks or so he seemed to be doing just as I asked. There were no lunches and I wasn't asked to go next door. The phone no longer rang continuously. Could I believe it? I kept waiting for the fallout and thinking that it may be just around the corner. If we spoke it was only regarding the business. Had my prayers been really answered this time? I almost had myself believing it, the sucker that I was.

Picking up the phone one morning I was greeted by my Mum, she was telling me that my Stepfather had requested her to go away for a while with him. She sounded so upbeat, sure that this meant everything was going to be all right with them now. They had booked a week away in a cottage. It had been a split second decision. Maybe that was what was needed for things to get better between them. This was great news, and they were leaving on the following Monday. She was really looking forward to it; things would look much better on their return. He would move back into the bedroom they used to share. I had already been thinking that I should stop working for him, but had been struggling to come up with a reason. My Mum would surely ask why. It would make no sense to her; I had to try to stick it out. This would be an opportune time to think it all through. I could go to work without the feeling I had to be forever looking over my shoulder. There would be distance between us. I could not have wished for anything better.

Monday came along and off they went for their break. It would be good for them to get away together on their own, to share time. It really could be just what was needed. I had to think positively. Everything would go back to normal, although I was no longer quite sure of what normal was. I had become an expert at the subnormal, and my views on life had changed forever. I was trying so very hard to push all my negative thoughts away and into the back of my mind, but it was truly not achievable. Maybe in time I would be able to do so. I was still popping pills, and to be honest, I was now also drinking far too heavily. It seemed like the only way that I could get through the day, but I had to take a hard look at myself. I was driving while under the influence of drink and teaching in that same state. It could not continue as it would or could only be a matter of time before I would be stopped. I needed my license to be able to work. My place of work changed many times during the working day, which meant I had to be mobile. I had to do something positive about this and I had a week to try without any pressure. I could only view that prospect as a good starting point. The next few days came and went and I had only taken a few drinks during that time. I was still taking my pills, but I had to tackle this one step at a time. I was realistic enough to know that I needed far longer than a week to even hope of dealing with what had gone on. It had to be small steps, just dipping my toe in the water. I could not expect too much of myself or I would feel like I had failed. I would tackle one thing at a time, but that was fine. No matter how long it took, I was going in the right direction. I would just focus on the goal ahead; to include positive thoughts while also reaching out for the finishing line. I could do this, I really could.

I was at home when I received the call. It was late one afternoon, and picking up the phone it was nice to hear my mum's voice, but straight away I could feel that something was not right. I started to ask her what it was like there. Were they having a good time? It was obvious that nothing was forthcoming. I can only explain what happened next, as if my world had stopped revolving. What did she say? No I must have heard it wrong. I asked her to repeat what she had said, and this time there was no mistake. My blood ran cold—this could not be happening. But it was. Her words were still ringing in my head, and I found myself having to concentrate just to stay focused. Everything was just so mixed up. I was trying to unscramble everything, rearrange my thoughts and digest her words. But no matter what or how hard I tried, there was nothing that I could do that would change their content. She had said it and I had heard it. Are you having an affair with your Stepfather? I just felt numb.

I didn't know what to say in return. Why in hells name would he do that? Had he really told her that? I did not understand. What did he stand to gain? I stood there phone in hand, I had been struck dumb. She spoke again, asking the same question, and her words were like hot needles going straight through me. I asked if he was there with her, to which she replied yes; that he was standing right next to her. My blood was boiling. I asked her to pass him the phone, which she did. I just had to vent my feelings, to tell him what a complete bastard he was. I asked him why he had done this; I was shaking from head to toe. My head was spinning, but not a word came back in reply. It was just left there hanging. It seemed like an age before anyone spoke once more, and it was not to be my Stepfather. I asked my mum to put him back on the phone. She replied that she couldn't; it seemed he had dropped the phone and headed for the men's room, leaving her to go it alone. He did not even have the courage to stand there with her. Her whole world was falling apart. She must have felt so alone, devastated. Standing there alone, heartbroken, and who could blame her? He was nothing more than an evil bastard and a coward to boot.

The conversation continued, but it was distant, as though I was talking to a stranger and not the person I loved more than my own life. I was to hear that day just how far he had gone, although I never really believed he would do it, when it came down to the crunch. I was gobsmacked, shell-shocked. Apparently he had told her everything. His everything I might add, his version of events, which was so very different from mine. He had to come clean apparently, because the reality of what we had done was breaking him up inside. That it had all been instigated by me, I had seduced him and the icing on the cake was that all of this information had to be prised out of him. He had been acting strange and she had known something was wrong, so she asked him. I did not stand a chance. Apparently he had taken a gun along with him, which in truth would have been so easy for him. (He was a member of a shooting club and he had several.) They were all held legally and locked away, everything fell into his hands. This particular one was a handgun. She explained how he had come to her, gun in hand and dropped to his knees crying. He then proceeded to tell her everything, his version of past events which were not remotely like my own.

Moving on to the next stage in this unbelievable farce was worthy of any adversary and must have been so clinically done. I could just see him there with that hangdog expression. He had at that point, through his tears, said that if she could not forgive him he was going to kill himself right there and then. He had begged her not to leave him. He could not go on without her, he loved her so much. His head had been turned and I was the devil incarnate caring for no one except myself. He of course had known this all along. I was just like my dad. Those words were oh so familiar, and it would not be the last time I heard them. This whole conversation had taken place on a public telephone, in the middle of a motorway service station. Why you may ask? Well, precisely this. The cottage he had booked had no telephone land line, and he could not receive a signal on his mobile. He told her he had chosen this particular cottage for that very reason. You see, if she were to say she was leaving him, he would then shoot himself. She had no way of contacting anyone for help, she couldn't even drive. I could picture her standing there alone; I tried to talk to her, saying that she had only been told one side of the story. But it seemed I had been hung, drawn and quartered without my own explanation.

They had left the cottage and were on their way home because we all needed to talk. Something had to be sorted out. Sorted out! How in God's name could that happen? I waited for their arrival, with every minute seeming like hours. As God is my witness if he had been standing in front of me he would not have had to do a thing; I would have taken that gun from him and killed him myself without turning a hair or taking a second breath.

The doorbell rang a few hours later; it could have only been them. I walked towards the door, getting ever closer to it. I could feel my heart beating like a drum; I could feel a panic attack getting ever closer. The door was open and my mum was standing there in front of me. I only had to take one look at her face to see the pain, hurt and desperation in her eyes. She looked glazed and empty, but there was no mistaking the emotion that was emanating from her eyes. So where do you start to talk about this sort a thing? I hadn't a clue. Was I supposed to offer them coffee? I looked then towards my Stepfather, but it seemed apparent that he could look everywhere except at me.

I had never felt so much hatred towards another human being as I did at that moment. We were now sitting in my lounge, but nothing was being said! Who should speak first? Did it even matter? We were just sitting there in the quiet, but the noise was deafening. It was my mum that would be the first to speak, and the words seem practiced almost. They were delivered so coolly and collectedly. She said that all we had to do was to put it behind us; that no harm had been done. This could be worked out. We all got along, didn't we? Maybe if we looked around, we could find somewhere big enough for us all to live together? What! Was I living in a parallel universe? I could clearly see she was waiting for my reaction, but I couldn't think of a single thing to say. Harm had been done, you just can't sweep it under the carpet, and I needed to summon a response.

This was crazy; did she not want to hear my side of things? Were there no questions she needed to put to me? It was clear that she did not. I turned my attention to my Stepfather and asked him directly what he had told her. He had so much to say in normal circumstances, but not here and now. As I looked at him it was like a veil was being slowly lifted from in front of my eyes. He looked like a sad old has-been and someone to be pitied. It was clear that he was also in need of medical help. I could no longer deal with the situation at hand. I could not see where any of this was going. Nothing was being resolved; it all just seemed so pointless. My Mum's response will haunt me till the day I die. It seemed that I was the one putting up obstacles and not wanting to try. Did I want to break up the family? Maybe it was true and that I was indeed my Father's daughter. I could no longer sit there acting like abuse was a natural thing, blackmail was fine, and that no one had been hurt. I could just not understand how any of this could be buried, forgotten or dismissed. How could my mum? I needed space, time to reflect, but was it really possible? Could we devise a situation that could work? I wanted to be alone. I had to ask them to leave, I needing to stop this farcical situation. Did mum even know what she was saying? It had to be the shock or the fear of losing everything. Whatever it was in that short period of time, I had lost something that I was never to fully regain that day—my Mum's unconditional love. Something so precious, I would never be able to replace. But this was an unthinkable situation, no matter how long or hard I tried, I just couldn't do as I was asked—not ever.

After they had left, my head was buzzing. I was replaying everything over and over again in my head. What now? Nothing had been decided, apart from the fact I could never do what had been suggested. It was time to collect my son from school and I had to seem normal, because the last thing I wanted was for all of this to affect him. Sadly, years later he would be made aware of most, but shielded from some, because knowing fully would serve no purpose, only inflict pain.

Most mornings I made a call to my Mum just to see how she was, but on awakening that next morning, I didn't know what to do. My husband had no idea about the day before, but there was no reason to think it would change anything if he had. I saw no point at all in telling him; and I see no reason to even mention him further here in this book, unless it's unavoidable. He had made his choice and in the same vein so had I, that choice was not to stay with him. But to give you just a little more insight into his abundant love for me, this I feel is worth a mention. Only a few days later my Mum called me on the telephone; she was crying, clearly very upset. She said that my husband had called in for a visit while he and my son were out. That he had been pulled aside by my Stepfather, only to be told that he and I were having an affair. It had been against all my mum's wishes, and it had instigated a huge argument between her and my Stepfather. She had wanted it kept quiet and kept between the three of us, and he had just blown it out of the water. You may be now wondering about my husband's response so was I but it was absolutely nothing. No shouting. Not a single punch in the nose. Did he defend me? Get up and leave? Not a chance in hell! It had absolutely no impact at all. It seemed he was quite happy just to sit on the fence, so that's where we will leave him. He was quite comfortable there at the time, and in truth he doesn't deserve a further mention.

I continued to call my Mum each morning, but I was struggling to make any conversation. It stayed like that for a few days and then there was a change. She began ringing me more than a few times a day, but always wanting the same conversation. She wanted me to tell her where, when, how often? She asked me to explain, give her all the details of what had gone on between me and my Stepfather sexually. It was something I was reluctant to do. Why did she want to know that? It would do nothing and only cause her more pain. But this was something I had to do repeatedly, until I was no longer able to do so. I could not keep repeating it, the same things over and over. It was taking over my mind. She told me that he had told her that we never had full intercourse, and I agreed, because that was the truth. Oddly with regard to this he felt the need to tell the truth, but what were his reasons? Had he explained why? It seemed that we were back in fantasy land once more, and that it had never taken place because I did not want to get pregnant. There was not one ounce of truth in that statement. It had been the one thing that I had kept control of, and it was to be the only battle I would ever win. I could not understand her reasoning. Why did she want to hear this? It must have been tearing her up inside, every intimate detail repeated over and over. I could no longer do this, it was not healthy, it was sick and beyond comprehension. It had to stop, and I will never ever understand the next part of the conversation. She said she needed to keep asking me, that it helped somehow. I explained that it was destructive and that no wounds could ever heal this way. It felt to me like she was punishing herself, causing untold emotional pain, as if she needed to cleanse herself. We had reached an impasse. She needed to keep asking, but I could no longer keep answering. There was a long silence before we both replaced our respective receivers. We had reached an understanding that any forthcoming conversation, could not be around that issue or we just could not talk. In reality it was an agreement on my part only, because the calls kept coming. I had only one option left open to me—I asked her not to call me again until these questions could stop. It broke my heart to do it, but it needed to be done, for her sake as well as mine. It was to be me that picked up the phone and rang her after only a few short weeks. I missed her far too much to continue without contact. I was well aware that this meant the return of the questions, that they would continue, but I could see no way of avoiding them unless I continued with the no contact. I would have to let it run its course whilst hoping she would come to her own decision and be able to put it down.

Crazy, dark and scary are some of the words that jump out at me while trying to explain this continued madness. It was to continue, and to expand to another level. Everything that I had ever put my faith in was to be challenged. Questions were to be asked by many, but where were the answers? People that had no part in this whatsoever were to be pulled in and involved. Things were going to reach new heights, becoming extremely volatile, before moving on ultimately into the realms of danger. I had to withstand the phone calls, the questions, over and over until I became dizzy. But something strange was happening with me. It seemed that the more I was made to do so the less it all seemed real; like it wasn't me and I was in the throes of writing a novel, fictitious but not my life. I had retreated back so far to be able to cope; I had lost the entire concept of what was happening around me. I had distanced myself; even convinced myself nothing was real. I was just another actor playing my part; I had learned to step outside of myself; I was a bystander. This was to be a place I returned to often, even while writing this book so many years later, but it was a state of mind that I could not sustain. I was about to be dragged out forcibly, kicking and screaming, as my world continued to fall apart around me.

We had reached a stalemate. It seemed that everyone was taking their own counsel; no one really knowing what to do next. The calls kept coming from both my mum and my Stepfather, and this was to form a pattern for many months to come. My view on life had altered so very much. I had no way of knowing what was around the next corner, but this also was about to change my life. It was to be a complete change of direction; I was about to walk down a path which would feel so alien to me. Life has a way of throwing you a curve ball. Had I not had my share of them? It seemed not. I was about to enter into a relationship that was to change my world forever, one that I had never envisaged myself as being in. One more ball had been thrown into the air, but they were becoming too much, and I was having real problems juggling them. Unknowingly, I was about to put someone else in real danger, but this would not be of my direct doing. And it was sure as hell not intentional. But I should have known that my Stepfather would not take it lying down.

# Chapter 8

Heterosexual relationships—boy meets girl, they fall in love and that's the way of it. A husband, kids, maybe a dog thrown in and a home filled with love. This was the normal run on things, so the turn I was about to make was a big one, shaking everything down from the rafters. I am not sure at this point if I should elaborate, or even reiterate to you my opinion of men at that time, but it is an understatement to say it was far from a good one. I am hoping at this stage that it takes little or no lengthy explanation. The devastation being created all around me was being driven either directly or indirectly by a man. So was I looking for a new relationship? Nothing could be further from the truth. At that time I was happy just to steer clear; guys were well and truly off the menu. But nevertheless a relationship was about to emerge that was not even on my radar, and I did not even see it coming, because it came at me from such a different angle. Would I know how to deal with it? Oddly enough, it just felt natural. But I am going too far ahead here; we need to back track just a little. I had become very friendly with someone I had met through my work. She was good company, she made me laugh, even at myself, and she was larger than life. We took to going out for a drink, usually when I had finished for the day and about to head home.

But home seemed so very unappealing. What was there for me? My son would be asleep by that time and it also no longer felt like my home. Somewhere along the line it became just a house. I was taking on all and any extra work offered, and spending longer and longer out of the house. Of course this meant that I saw less and less of my son, which is something I will always regret, but what would be worse for him? Not being around in the evenings so much, or the endless arguments? It was too close a call to make. It is something I have tried to put right and make up for ever since, but I will always feel that I failed him. I still live with that guilt; countless doctors have told me that I shouldn't, but to no avail. I will carry those feelings with me always.

To continue, I was spending more and more time in this lady's company. She was good for me and I always felt stronger with her around, I missed her when she was not around. We started to meet away from my place of work, talking often on the telephone. While out one evening I felt that something was wrong, she seemed distant, unusually quiet for her, and she was drinking just that little bit more. I asked her several times if she was ok. Would she like to talk? Could I help? I told her I wanted to be there for her as she was there for me, if I could just get her to tell me what was wrong. I would reassure her and help in any way possible; I thought that maybe there were some problems at home.

I would never have guessed in a million years what I was about to be told. It was completely off the wall. Taking my hand in hers, she said that she wanted me to be with her always. I said I would be, that we were good friends and I didn't want that to change. What did she mean? Suddenly the penny dropped. Had I been acting that thick? To say it shocked me is an understatement. It truthfully rocked me to my very core. She was in love with me. She had been for some time, and when I was not around the world seemed a sadder place. She wanted us to be together in a relationship, as partners. She was a married woman; how could she feel this way? I needed desperately to understand, to know how to deal with this, but the longer I sat there looking at her across the table, I knew without question that she was talking for both of us. Had I fallen in love with her? That word love, did I even honestly know what it meant anymore? I was aware that I had feelings for her; ones which I thought were long dead. Was this to be my life now? How could we be together? Both of us had only ever been in a heterosexual relationship. Should I just walk away? Was my life not already in a complete mess? It had already been turned upside down and inside out; how do you go about these things? There would be so many questions, but did it matter? I should have just stood up and said I'm sorry, that this could or would never happen, that it was not what I wanted, but I couldn't. We would just have to find those answers together. This was to be the pinnacle point that was to change my life forever; to alter everything. It was the start of an onset of utterly insane events, which would no longer be aimed in my direction only. The snowball was still rolling, gathering momentum as it did so. It was growing all the time, snatching out and pulling in anyone or anything that stood in its way. With one objective—to win in any way possible, to cause pain, hurt and destruction to all that dared to stand in front of it.

Those were the first tentative steps into a relationship that by definition would alter my life without doubt. How were we to tell our respective families? My husband was no longer included in my thought process. But there were others who I needed to tell—my Son, my Mum and my Siblings. I was all too aware that after I did so it would be only a matter of hours, before my Stepfather would know. But I could not think about that at that moment, or my family's reaction. It just seemed unimportant. There was only one person with whom I needed to sit down and talk—my Son. But how do you explain what I needed to say? He was a teenager now and as such prone to outbursts and mood swings, but then he was no different from others his age. Would he understand? Christ, I was having trouble understanding myself, but it had to come from me.

I would have to deal with his reaction at the time; I would take everything and anything he would throw at me, it was to be expected. I would have to soak it all up in the vain hope that I would not lose him. I tried hard to compose myself, but the panic was eating me up. There was a hot knot in my stomach; it felt just as if I was being scorched from the inside out. I rehearsed everything over and over again, but I could not find the words that when strung together made any sense. Do I say "Hi, good day at school? Oh, and by the way, Mum and Dad are splitting up, but the big one is that mum is going to become a lesbian." It may sound as if I am being flippant here, but I can assure you I am not and neither was I at the time. I just had to lay it out there; follow it as if written in script. It was purely the only way I could cope. There I go again, only thinking of myself.

Sometimes while embroiled in a situation you can't see the wood for the trees and this was just how I felt.

How could I rehearse this? After all, it was not your everyday occurrence. I felt sick, willing myself to pick up the phone, to just call her and tell her it's over before it started. The conversation with my son wouldn't need to happen. But every time I picked up the receiver, I could not make my fingers comply and dial the number.

I spent the next few hours in a lengthy conversation with my son. It was not remotely like I had expected; in fact, he seemed to understand. He told me he could see and had done so for a long time that I was not happy. Maybe that was my mistake; thinking he couldn't see everything that was going on around him. I suppose if I did not recognise it, then I didn't have to deal with it. Had I been that selfish, only thinking of myself? Had everything in this complete total nightmare stopped me from thinking at all? Had my own survival become that blinkered? I truly hoped that it was not the case. I was so extremely proud of him that day. Things were wrong and he could see that, and the relationship I had formed never even fazed him. I guess he had grown up in a different world, a different era which accepted this type of relationship far more readily. I did not have to justify it and no explanation was needed. It seemed he did not want to ask me any questions, and in truth, I thank God he didn't because I was not sure I would have known how to reply.

That day will always be painful for me. I felt like some kind of freak. This was just not me, was it? It seemed the answer to that was yes. The repeat of this situation was going on just five minutes up the road. She had arrived home intent on telling her husband and her family. The only saving grace was that there were no children involved on her side, so she would at least be spared that trauma.

So what else did I tell my son that day? Did I open my mouth and blurt it all out? Rip his world wide open; and obliterate it right there in front of him? Explain to him that the person he called granddad, was intent on trying to do just that? Not only were his parents breaking up, but he could also be facing the breakdown of the whole family unit. Just how could I tell him all this? How could I tell him about this relentless pursuit that I was facing, seemingly without care or concern for anyone? How could I tell him about the heartache, the devastation, and the crippling pain that his Nanny was faced with? Where do you find the words for all that? Although it was very painful, those that did know were already still trying to deal with it. There was no need to do that to him or anyone else at this point in time. Little did I know then that before it was over there would not be one person left sitting in the dark. But he was never ever going to hear those words from me; I had little control over anything else. I can only be forever grateful that, to my knowledge, he never knew the full extent, although to date it has never been fully discussed with him.

I was about to embark on a very different life. In any other situation my Mum would have always been my first port of call, but how could I go to her, ask her advice, expect her to be there for me? There was no one else that I trusted more with my life. How do you start to explain? How do you ask for help from someone dealing with her own torment, her own mixed emotions? Could she deal with this new revelation on top of everything else? I would just have to deal with this situation on my own, but it felt like my only course of action. I needed her, but whether I had any right to do so is still an unanswered question. You may have your own set of views and I think you're probably right.

I was about to be reminded just what a fantastic Mum I had, although not for one moment had I ever forgotten. She was my rock; the person that picked me up, put a plaster on my knee, and rocked me to sleep. I needed her direction and her advice, to help guide me down the path on which I was about to embark. That day is one I will never forget for so many reasons, but one is firmly in the front of my mind. I could feel a calmness radiating from her; she had abruptly stopped talking about her own problems. She was just my mum and I could feel her love emanating down the phone; it had such a relaxing affect on me, I felt so safe there wrapped in her arms. Could this be right, and she was still there for me? She was telling me that she would help me in any way she could. That she would fight my corner, do whatever I needed.

When God took a hand in the creation that was my Mum, he must surely have broken the mould. Whenever I think of her now I am always humbled and made so aware of my own shortcomings. There was one thing she said to me that day which will forever puzzle me. She told me not to fight it, and that she had always known that I had those tendencies, but how? I didn't even know myself. That I had fallen in love with the person and that was ok as long as I loved them. The gender didn't matter; I was just to follow my heart. We spoke briefly about my utter lack of faith in all men and she said ditto. Why in God's name would I want to be in a relationship with another guy? Maybe a same sex relationship was the answer. But it was to be a fool's dream, because people are people no matter what sex they are. You see it all boils down to what's inside someone and who they are, and in time I would come to understand that. I would also see quite clearly what she said to me that day; I could never hope to be that wise. She was so selfless that day; her own thoughts, her own problems, they must have been tearing her apart, but she was my mum and in her eyes that came first and foremost. I would like to put the cat among the pigeons here, by saying that I truly believe that everyone has the potential to be bisexual; whether they act on it or not is a completely different matter. This is my own opinion.

Everything was now out there; all had been exposed, and both sides of our families knew exactly where we were at. We were taking our first tentative steps and yes, there were difficulties, but we loved each other, or so I thought. I think it was easier for me in a way because my life was already in tatters. I thought that what had come previously could never be outweighed by anything to come. The aftermath could never be as bad, but as in many things there is an exception to the rule. My Stepfather now knew and was about to embark on a witch hunt, that would surpass any of his previous behaviour. Her family did not understand, and her husband thought she had gone mad. Maybe we both had. We just had to shore each other up, keep going forward; we could be strong together. But being there for each other was ultimately never going to be enough; that exception to the rule would make damn sure it wasn't.

At first it was just a case of him turning up at my other places of work, arriving before me and not leaving until I did so. He would just stand around, waiting and watching. Next in his arsenal were the looks he would throw at her, menacing and unnerving. He took to standing in her way and you could clearly see the pure hatred in his eyes. There was no mistaking the message he was trying to put across, you would have had to be blind. He would follow us to my car, taking position right in front of it, seemingly willing me to drive over him, but this was just the start. I knew that I should tell her more (she knew some but not all); I should have filled her in completely about the situation, because she had only been told the bare minimum. But my mum had begged me not to tell anyone the whole story; I had to respect her wishes and her privacy, but it was worrying me her not knowing; was she safe? What would he do? Just how unhinged was he?

I was still being followed. It felt like he was always there, twenty-four hours of the day. When, in God's name, was he putting in any work at the office? The situation at work was now getting dire. I knew she was safe during the day as she was not at home and in full time employment. Did I just say safe? We were playing way out of our league. I received a call from her one morning, only to be told that he had been to her workplace. She had been sitting at her desk working, when one of the senior management came to seek her out and tagging along with him was my Stepfather. It had thrown her completely. Why was he there? To show her he could get to her and that nowhere was safe? He clearly knew that to turn up at her work place would make her feel vulnerable. He was intruding on her personal space. Throughout his time there, not once did he lose eye contact with her. She was introduced, but that was clearly not needed. Then came the explanation for his being there and it was laughable. He was looking to invest; to go outside of the field of his current business. That he was being shown around with this in mind. They were struggling at that time and badly needed new investors to stay afloat. But how did he know this? I should not have been surprised; he seemed to know everything; he was a highly intelligent man and a member of Mensa. We would never be able to outwit him. He then left the way he came, shaking her hand as he did so. Never for one moment, would you have thought that had he known her. He was just too good at the game.

The whole deal of buying into a new business was no more than a farce; there was no money available to do so. I worked within the credit control and I had complete knowledge of the company's finances—I knew that we were in trouble. There was no cash flow available and the bank was less than happy. At that point in time the future looked pretty bleak indeed. This was not at all surprising, as my Stepfather was acting like he had lost complete interest. I was still there every day making calls and chasing money, being given promises of payment only for it not to arrive.

Not long after I had received her call, I was to receive another. I had been expecting it and I knew that it would be soon. My Stepfather needed me to be aware of his actions, to fully remind me he would not take this lying down period. I questioned him angrily about his behaviour; I told him he could just not do things like that and that she could lose her job. His angered response was to inform me that it was only the tip of the iceberg, and that he knew everything about her. Her rise up through the company and the way she had got there, which if truthful was not conventional. That she was nothing but a cheap tart, someone that always got what she wanted by stepping on other people without care. Did he not know just how familiar that sounded? He needed to take a long look in the mirror. This was obviously meant to make a difference to me, but even if true it was in the past. I also knew that she was strong and it was a mistake going to her office; it had only served to make her more determined. When I look back, was it just a war of wills? She never liked being told what to do and neither did he. The problem I was faced with was making her fully understand. She really didn't know what he was capable of. She was no match for him, but no matter what I said she just swiped him off like an irritant.

She started coming to work with me far more often, expecting him to be there. She was not disappointed. It was like a game of cat and mouse, or the clash of the Titans. She made a show of rebellion, clearly reminding him by her actions that it was her that I was with. He, on the other hand, came across as being in control and in no particular hurry. He was just enjoying the game and was amused by her behaviour. I could see that he was just biding his time. There was a tension building up in him, but she was unable to see it. It was like waiting for a volcano to erupt or asking to be pulled into the eye of a storm. The more she goaded him, the more he smiled sweetly, but his reaction would arrive without a doubt—it was only a matter of time. When it did not only would it put her life in real danger, but the net would be spread a whole lot wider. The safety of her family would become paramount, because he played for keeps. Sadly, unbeknownst to her it had always been a one horse race, and no one else seemed to realise just how dangerous he had become. Even the law was of no concern to him. We were in a place where reality became entwined with make-believe, and in time questions would be asked with regard to the facts and their authenticity. Things were about to become so very close to the edge, that it would be teetering on insanity. On so many occasions I questioned my own sanity. I was just holding on by my fingertips. A crazy place, where madness reigned supreme and reality went begging.

# Chapter 9

The fat lady had well and truly sung with regards to my marriage. We were living separate lives and sleeping in separate rooms. It was like we had hit a stalemate, with neither one of us doing anything to alter things. In my own case I was unable to take on anything more at that time, as regards to my husband I had given up caring. We were living in a state of limbo, each knowing it was over and that we were only there for our son. Things with my mum had improved; we could talk without mention of my Stepfather, which was a big step. Somehow she had just accepted it and I was not going to question that. She would talk about him as if he were just someone she knew, and not her husband, it was very disconcerting. He was now almost constantly in the spare room and they had rarely spoke. His passion was now well and truly into everything spiritual, more and more books found their way home daily.

It was around about this time that he informed my Mum that he was going away for the weekend. He had booked into a health spa, and during his time there he was to receive quite a few treatments. He had started wearing his hair longer at the back, tied in a pony tail. No more were the suits, trousers, and shirts worn to work. He was dressed in a completely different way. By this time in the proceedings he was hardly there anyway, disappearing sometimes for weeks. He would ring the office every day and talk to the contracts manager, choosing to deal with everything over the telephone. I was still getting his calls, but at least while at the office I could relax. He would at times ask to talk to me when he rang, but most of the time it was only regarding work.

The weekend soon arrived for his time at the health spa. My mum still had little contact with him now; he spent every evening in his room. She could hear him chanting and could smell the oils that he was constantly burning. Any conversation they now had was cloaked in mystery; to be honest; she did not understand most of it. I will explain a little here. He talked about the spirit life, star signs and how everyone returns to the Earth plane after death. Explaining further that there was no such thing as death, we were all reborn. This return would not be pushed upon us; that we all had a choice to return or not to do so. If we chose to return, it would be in order to learn the lessons in our new life, of which we had failed to learn in our past. Each and every one of us that chose that option, i.e. to return, would then move on to a higher spiritual level. This of course would only happen if our goal had been achieved and our lessons learnt. The aim was to reach a level ten in spirit. We would by then have gone through many lifetimes; no longer needing to return. His reasoning for this as he saw it was that we had now become a higher being, with no need of a bodily form.

All the above may or may not be true, it's not for me to say or even judge. I only say this; that coming from him it seemed the ramblings of a mad man. He was so far removed from the person he had once been. Previously it had always been a matter of white was white and black was black.

To my Mum this must have been so alien, complete and utter rubbish. What was happening to the man she loved? It seemed to her that he had completely lost his mind. Up until that point her frame of mind, although distressed, was still in the realms of reality. But things were changing; it was like she had her foot on a landslide, and each time I talked to her the further she had slipped. More and more she seemed to feel that his behaviour was not quite so alarming. How could I watch this? I tried so hard to tell her that he was sick, and that she should consult the doctor. Sadly, this never happened. But the most distressing thing of all was that she now also seemed to be finding reasons for his actions, however bizarre or off the wall they were.

I was at home alone. My son was up in bed when the phone rang. It was about 11.30pm in the evening, and I really didn't expect a call that late. But I should have known: my Stepfather never worried about time. He sounded totally out of it, rambling on and on about the spirit world, telling me that I had to trust my destiny, to let go and embrace it. That I could not ignore the path I was born to follow. A shiver ran down the length of my back. What was he talking about? He then instructed me to go and sit in the corner, saying that he would then come to me. He would take my hand and we would walk it together. He sounded completely crazy, like he was high on something. I was thrown; I had not expected any contact this weekend, as I was aware he was at the spa. I had hoped that his time there would have been taken up with treatments. I was just about to hang up the phone when he spoke again. He kept repeating the same thing over and over—I had to sit in the corner. What corner? Why? I asked him what the fuck he was talking about. What he then said to me made my blood run cold. It felt like someone had just walked over my grave. He said that I had to stop fighting, I was here to learn my next lesson, and we could go away and travel this path together. My son would soon come to call him dad; he would accept him in time. We had been together in so many other lifetimes that we were destined to return; to be together. Continuing on he explained that after his time here and now, he would no longer need to return. He had reached a level ten in spirit, but that I would have to continue my journey alone; I still had work to do here. Regrettably, I had only reached a level eight; but I did not need to worry, because he would be my spirit guide here on Earth, until I could join him in the light. Why was I still holding the phone? I did not have to hear any of this crap, but somehow I couldn't put it down. What the hell was he talking about? I felt mesmerised in some kind of trance. I had to find my voice and tell him it would never ever happen. This constant hounding would do nothing to change my mind. I eventually found the words, and I delivered them with as much forcefulness as I could muster, telling him to leave me the fuck alone. I slammed down the phone with his parting words still echoing in my ears. I would be sorry. I could not go against karma. I would be made to embrace my destiny.

I went through the rest of the weekend in a dream state, just waiting for the hammer to fall. He was coming after me for sure, but would he go after my lover? In a relatively short period of time she had become so important to me. I could not let him hurt her. Would he? He had said repeatedly that if he could not have me then no one would. I had to try and figure out his next move, but I never saw it coming. Once again it was to alter my life for the next six years, and it was not set to change until I had lost all interest in it doing so. Arriving at that point it time I felt that anything else that could happen would no longer matter. But I was wrong. This time it was to be so painful life seemed utterly pointless. But we still have a few years yet to fill here.

On Monday morning I found him there waiting for me at the office. What now? What possible angle could he strike from this time? He stood up and walked towards me and in a voice that was hardly audible, he told me that everyone now knew. I did not grasp what he was trying to tell me. Everyone who? What did they know? He seemed to be taking great pleasure in the fact that I had no idea what he meant. He was happy to let me stand there completely in the dark; he was in no hurry whatsoever to tell me. He offered me a coffee and said that we should chat. I had no interest whatsoever in doing so and I told him just that. This seemed to light a fuse and enrage him. He told me that I thought I was above him and I clearly was not. I said that was fine and that if he had something to say then just do so. I would not take part in his mind games. He had more or less single-handedly destroyed my relationship with the one person above all that mattered—my Mum.

Why did I underestimate him only to be left with egg on my face? Was I that foolhardy? He seemed to be getting bored with the situation; I was not playing the game, which was upsetting him. I said that whatever he was talking about, to just get on and say it, that whatever it was I didn't care. I did not have to ask him twice. He had spent the night driving up and down the country. He had visited every important person to me in my whole family network. He had spoken to my siblings, my aunties and uncles. Everyone was to know, if not directly, then by word of mouth. But what had he told them? Why did I even need to ask the question? He said that he had told them the truth—that we were having an affair. I couldn't speak. How could he do this? How could my mum cope with the backlash and the shame she would feel? Her brothers and sisters would be sure to ring her. More than that, it was not even a true picture; it was built on lies and deceit. Did he not care about the pain he was causing? How could he put mum through even more? I had to do something, but it was all a blank. I couldn't put into words the rage I was feeling. I had tapped into a raw emotion that I was having trouble controlling. I wanted to kill him so much that I could taste it; I wanted to reach out and tear out his black heart. I was boiling up into such a rage that I had to get out, leave that place and keep going. If I had stayed I would not have been able to control my actions.

I sat in the car for an age. Did Mum know what he had done? If she did she must having been devastated. I needed to know, but it would take more courage than I had at that time. There was nowhere to run. I had to face up to it. I would ring everyone and tell them the truth. I had to be heard. They couldn't condemn me without question, could they? My phone was ringing, but I really didn't want to talk to anyone. I picked it up it was my mum. As soon as she spoke I had no need to ask the question—the bastard. She sounded so broken I could feel her pain in every word she spoke. How could I take that pain away? If it were possible I would have done so at whatever cost to me. So many lives had been affected, and I felt as though anything that I could do now was never going to be enough.

Later that day, I tried to talk to my sister, but it seemed she had nothing to say to me as she hung up the phone. I had the same response from my brother. What was the point of making more calls? Even the condemned man had been allowed to put his case in the name of justice. It was clear that the fundamental right given to him would not be extended to me. It had been a closed case and I had to resign myself to the fact that I had indeed lost everything. To destroy me had been his aim and he had not missed. He had spelt it out to me more than once in great detail, and he had kept that promise. I was not to have contact with my family for many years; all at once I was someone that did not exist. The only point of contact still left open to me was my mum, because not for one moment had she turned her back on me, or even looked like doing so.

Everything that had gone before was about to be put in the shade, exploding into a more frenzied attack. Things would happen that no sane man would contemplate doing; things that, when looking back, I still find it difficult to comprehend. I need to say here that he had a very well connected group of people around him; he was also a member of the Masons. The following year he was set to become the grand master. I really don't have much of an idea of what goes on in these lodges first hand, I only knew that it would prove to be very helpful to him in the near future. Do I have any proof of that? No, not at all, it was just a gut feeling deep inside of me and unexplainable. It was such a powerful feeling that it was too difficult to ignore. Would he ever pay the price? How could he be allowed to tear so many lives to shreds; to cause havoc, pain and suffering, in any way he felt the need to do so? It is sometimes said that it's not what you know it's who you know and in this instance, I feel that it was proven to be right.

During the next few weeks, he seemed to be everywhere. Not only was he following me, but he was also now following my new partner home from work. She would come out in the mornings, only to find him sitting there in his car. No conversation ever materialised, and I am quite sure none was needed. He would ring to tell me where she was, what she was doing, and how easy it would be to hurt her. This, of course, he told me was in my hands. Did I want him to hurt her? And if I did not change my mind very soon, then he would do so, and I would only have myself to blame. I felt so helpless, really not knowing what to do. I stressed to her the need to be careful, and tried to explain that there was nothing that he would not do. But it seemed she was not at all worried. "Let him follow me" she said. "He does not scare me at all."I could do nothing but pray that at some point she would recognise the real danger. We had arrived at my workplace one Sunday morning, only to find his car sitting in the car park. I had to work that day; there would be no one there available to cover for me, but she didn't have to stay. I asked her to take the car, leave and come back later to pick me up. I explained that he was already inside and as yet he would not have seen us. I might as well have been talking to a brick wall because she would not give way. She reiterated that he could not control her life. Let him do his worst. But she had no idea just what that meant.

We walked into the building together, more or less bumping into him. We waited for him to move, because access to my place of work was down that corridor, but he just stood there blocking our way. Suddenly, without warning, she just pushed past him without any regard whatsoever and I followed. The next hour was unbearable. I could see him throughout, and they were now exchanging glances. They seemed to be goading, daring each other—once more the clash of the Titans! This was not good. The time to leave had arrived and he was still there. As we came level with him she stopped, and with such strong conviction she told him that if he thought all of his crap was bothering her he was mistaken, to just fuck off out of our lives. There was no response. He just stared at her before turning to me and saying it's on your head. With that he turned on his heels and left. We got into the car and I drove her home, arguing most of the way there. Why the hell would she not hear me? He was not a sane man, for God's sake. We arrived back at her home and as she got out of the car, things between us felt more than frosty. I had only driven a very short way when my mobile rang.

My Stepfather was at the office. It was Sunday, so he would be alone. He told me to get down there, and that I had better do as he said. He would not be responsible for his actions if I did not arrive. I was just so angry. He was now causing problems within my now new relationship, achieving just what he had set out to do. I turned the car around and drove to the office, totally ignoring the speed limit. With each passing mile my blood was boiling. I had never been that angry. How dare he do this; what gave him that right? I went up the stairs two at a time crashing into his office, but I stopped dead right there on the spot. He was sitting at his desk and he was holding a gun. I could see that it was not the hand gun that he had used to threaten his life while away with my mum. I guess it could have been a shotgun, but I am no expert. It was the same size and shape. What the hell did it matter anyway? It was pointed directly at me.

Had he totally lost it? Was he going to kill me? Pure panic ran through me. We were alone; I had been so stupid to have gone there. I asked him if this was where it ends, but he would not reply. I was really scared; my life seemed to flash before me, and then suddenly all the fear seemed to leave. It was like I cared for nothing. I started screaming at him, telling him to pull the fucking trigger, to get it over with. I could not live like this anymore. From where my courage came from I will never know. I stated pushing over all the filing cabinets, smashing everything I could lay my hands on. Kicking at the chairs, I went through his office in some kind of frenzy, screaming obscenities and daring him, daring him to shoot. I remember saying that if I were so much like my Dad, well then he would be doing the world a favour. I asked him what he was waiting for. Did he not have the balls? Should I do it for him? When it was over I was spent and nothing seemed to matter anymore. I could not have cared less if I lived or died. He on the other hand had not moved an inch, and the gun was still pointing my way. I stood there waiting. What else was there left? I felt crushed and disillusioned, thinking it would be better this way. There had been nothing but silence from him until now then he spoke. He said that he was not going to kill me. That would be too easy. Did he think this was fucking easy for me? But that he may just kill himself while leaving me to explain? That I could tell my mum I was there and did nothing to stop it? No, I wouldn't let him fucking do this. Why was he so hell bent on causing her such suffering? He had hit a week spot and he knew it. I cared nothing for myself any more, but I did for others. He explained that if the only way he could gain control, to win, was by walking through that door he had no problem opening it. How do you tell someone that the person they loved so deeply is dead? That you were there but failed to stop it? It would be the end for her also. Would he do it? I had no way of knowing, but I couldn't take that chance, could I? I didn't know where or who to turn to. I could not go back into anything sexual with him; the thought made my skin crawl. Nothing would ever make me do that again. The one thing I was sure of beyond doubt was that he loved himself more than anybody. I had to take the chance. I moved towards the door. I had to keep going no matter what he said. Every step I took I was waiting for the bang, but nothing. I had reached the top of the stairs and still nothing. Whatever happened I could not turn back now. I forced myself to keep walking forward. Could I live with it if he did it? I had reached my car and it was still eerily quiet. It seemed that I had been right; self preservation had been paramount, as with all bullies. This would not be the end by any means. On that I would have bet my life, and I had almost just done so. I drove away deflated. All the fight had been knocked out of me, but I would have to rally again once more very soon. I was set to continue down this road; dragged along on this perverse journey, as it seemed to me by the devil himself.

The next few days, he stayed away from the office. Business just carried on as usual, seemingly getting no closer to resolving our problems. I was just so very glad of the break from his constant pestering. I had never until that day reacted so emotionally. Had that worked? He must now know that he was fighting a losing battle, that the prize he was seeking would never be his. In the back of my mind I could not stop thinking that I was deluding myself and that it wasn't over. Had he just taken a step back to recoup? In time I was sure to find out.

The new love in my life was going from strength to strength. Could I see happiness just around the corner? Happiness, now there's a word to describe what we all strive for. At one point I thought I had it; the real deal; everyone's dream; my home, Husband, my Son. But it seemed that I had taken a blind corner.

It was usual for my then partner while I was teaching in the evenings to join me, coming straight from work, and this evening was no different. Driving home afterwards would then of course mean that we were in separate vehicles. We had only driven a short distance when she pulled over and stopped. I pulled in behind her and went to see what was wrong. The back box on her exhaust had broken and she had been dragging it behind her. We were really not at all far from her home, so I suggested that we tie it up and continue. I followed the rest of the way home just to make sure she arrived ok, I then made my own way home. We were still living with our ex-partners, but everyone knew the score and that it was only a matter of time. There was just so much to sort out and it would take a lot of planning.

I was at home the next morning, feeling a little better. I had begun to relax a little, trying to achieve some positive thoughts when my mobile rang. I picked it up and the voice on the other end of the phone was unmistakable. He asked me if I was at home. I replied saying that it was none of his damn business. This seemed to really get to him; he told me that what he was about to do would make it his business. I replied that this was getting boring. What now? He then said that if I was sitting comfortably, he would explain. "Guess where I am," he said. I replied that I couldn't care less, in answering he said I would, and why? He was sitting right outside of the slag's house. Continuing, he told me that he had followed her to the garage where her exhaust had been replaced. He was now waiting for her to come out of the house once more, and then he was going to shoot her. I had to think quickly; I knew he was there, as he was aware of the exhaust problem and it had only happened the night before. I replied that he was bluffing, that he had told me not so very long ago that he was going to shoot himself, and here he was alive and kicking. But something was different in his voice. It had an edge that had not been there before. I started to think that maybe I should take this a little more seriously. An ultimatum was then given to me. He told me I had ten minutes to get there or he would kill her. I looked at the clock, picked up my keys, and ran for my life—or rather, for hers—towards the car.

The traffic was a nightmare. All the lights seemed to be on red, and everyone seemed to be driving at twenty miles an hour. I screeched around the corner and into the cul-de-sac. His car was sitting just across the road from her home. I crossed the road, nearly running into a vehicle coming the other way. I flung open the driver's door, and there, sitting on his lap, was the gun. I reached in and tried to grab hold of it, but he was too quick for me, grasping my arm in a vice-like hold while pushing me away. I was at my wit's end. I reached for my mobile, intent on calling the police, but even before I had dialled the number, he spoke. Looking up, my eyes met his as we both held that stare. I was looking into an empty soul; everything about him looked blank. Was there even anything left behind those eyes anymore? Then in a flat monotone voice he said: "they will never get here in time to stop me."

My reaction at that point was to try and warn her, but if I did, I knew all too well that she would call the police. I am not saying that she shouldn't given this crazy fucked up situation, but how would I explain it to Mum? He would be arrested for sure and he was in possession of a gun. I was being torn apart inside. How could I make that call? It was a decision I should never have been made to make; a scenario which in my wildest dreams, I could never have constructed. I had to get him out of there before she left her home. Looking into those eyes, I had not one shred of doubt that he would carry out what he had threatened. I walked around to the passenger door, opened it, and got in. He was still staring out of the driver's window as if I was still standing there. I had to get his attention. I touched him on his arm, but nothing it seemed was registering. I then grabbed his face and turning it towards me, it suddenly seemed as though he was back with me smiling. He said "hi" as if I had only just arrived. "It was nice of you to come," he said. "I have missed you." I managed to get him to leave with me that day, with him all the time acting as if nothing had ever happened, but I knew that the outcome could have gone so very badly wrong.

Something had to be done, but I was at odds over what to do. I was racking my brain. Everything seemed so surreal. Not one train of thought going through my mind would be the answer. I never told her about that day and what had happened outside her home, or just how close she had come to losing her life. You may think to yourself that surely he would not have pulled the trigger. Believe me when I say that at that precise moment in time, looking into those dead eyes, I was a believer. They were wild and seemed to hold the look of a predator. There was a raw animal instinct emanating from them. He would refrain from nothing to achieve his aim. Everyone was dispensable. He was prepared to lose his business along with his marriage. If I had conformed and been happy to do his bidding, he would have walked away, taking me with him. How do you fight against something like that? Go into battle without caring for the outcome? To be so totally and utterly consumed by just one thought in a world you have invented for yourself, where everything else falls by the wayside and actual facts matter not one iota. To be prepared to pay whatever it costs to chase the unattainable, rearranging everyone else's dream into a nightmare; all of this seemed so easy for him, but why? Just when did he turn into this complete monster? I shudder to think, but on reflection maybe he always had been. I had seen a glimpse of this as a child. I use the word 'glimpse' because I still don't remember everything. I could not have known the depth of depravity and complete unobstructed insanity, he would delve into, when finally allowing the monster within to completely take over.

# Chapter 10

The continued harassment from my Stepfather was really pulling me down. It was ever present it seemed, intermingling with each and every part of my life and days. I was continually tired, unable to sleep, and on the edge of giving up on life. He was now requesting that my mum ring me constantly, to ask if I was all right. Did he not feel that he had hurt her enough? Why he was rubbing her nose in it? He would tell her all manner of things, things that he said came to him in a dream—I was in hospital, in danger, or self harming. I could not understand why she was responding to his requests? I am only guessing here, but maybe by doing so, she still felt part of his life. I was myself acutely aware that it would only take one more push to send me over the top. I did not have to wait long before that push arrived; it was to completely shatter me once more.

The only thing that had me hanging on in there was my relationship, but it was slipping out of my hands. I received a call one morning for her to tell me that it was over. She could not deal with the fact that her Father was having such a hard time dealing with it all. She was breaking his heart; he had no understanding of a same sex relationship. That day I was to have my heart broken in an attempt to heal his, but it seemed that she had made her choice, and that there was to be no dissuading her. I replaced the receiver. What else was there to say? I sat on the floor, assessing my life. I no longer had one. Getting up, I went to the kitchen drawer, took out a box of pills and grabbed a bottle of cider. Sitting back down on the floor I tried to take everything in. Everything was a blur, nothing was real anymore. I swallowed one pill at a time in a trance-like fashion with the aid of the cider.

The phone rang and it made me jump. I was starting to feel a little woozy, but I had to get to the phone because it could be her ringing me back; telling me that it had all been a mistake. Rising from the floor a little unsteadily, I picked up the receiver hoping, beyond hope, that it would be her. But the voice on the other end of the phone was my Mum. She was crying and so distressed, asking me what I had done to myself. What did she mean? Through her sobs she told me that my Stepfather had a vision. A dream telling him that I was going to die. He was inconsolable. How the hell do you try to understand all this? How could he have known? Maybe he didn't and it had been a coincidence. By this time I had taken nearly all of the pills, and all but finished the cider. I did not want this conversation; I just wanted to be left alone, was that too much to ask? It seems so because as my mum and I were talking, my Stepfather had picked up his car keys and left the house. There was an ear shattering scream going on inside my head; why could they not leave me alone? I was so dizzy, but I had to get out of there. He was the very last person I wanted to see. Snatching up my car keys I made my way to my car, not sure that I could even drive, but what did that matter? It would only mean that the end would be quicker and that prospect seemed to please me.

What I am about to explain to you, I can never hope to understand. It seemed that she did ring my home shortly after I had left the house, for the very reason stated above- i.e. she had made a mistake ending our relationship. She had then tried ringing my mobile, but I had turned it off, and this had worried her. Where was I? I had always been contactable, so what had happened? Just at that point her phone rang, and she had picked it up thinking that it could be me, but she was wrong. After my Stepfather had told her who was calling, he had then mounted a verbal attack against her. If anything had happened to me, he would spend the rest of his life with one ambition—he would bury her, of that she should make no mistake. From quite where he had got hold of her number, we were never to know, but he was on his way to her home. Not five minutes had passed by, when looking out of the window, she saw him approaching. He was coming down the path. Should she answer? He had been quite aggressive on the phone, but in true form she was not going to be intimidated. With as much bravado as she could muster, she answered the door. She was herself by then becoming extremely concerned. Had I done something? She needed to be with me, and if I had harmed myself she would not forgive herself ever, it would be all her fault. So an unlikely truce was made that day, concerned only with finding me before it was too late. They left her home together, but where were they going? In their separate vehicles they set out to find me. She was told to follow him, and whatever guided him that day God only knows, but he was driving in the right direction and towards me.

I had been driving for about twenty minutes when I felt the urge to be sick. I pulled over and parked the car, finding myself in the country. The journey there was vague; I had just pointed my car in that direction. Sitting there it felt so peaceful. I couldn't remember a time when I had felt that way, when my life wasn't a mess. This would be the best thing for everyone; with me out of the equation people would be able to restore their lives. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, even if I would not be around to see it. I had been sitting there about thirty minutes when I saw a vehicle coming up behind me. It took a few moments for me to recognise it as my Stepfather's car, but when I did I couldn't believe my own eyes. Was there nowhere I could find any peace? He pulled up behind me and got out of the car. As he did so another vehicle came into view, pulling in behind him, it was my now as I rightly thought ex-partner. What was she doing here? And why in God's name were they together? He tried to open the driver's door, but I had locked all the doors from the inside. I had no intention of opening them now.

They were discussing something, but with my windows closed I had no idea what. I was also too far out of it to even remotely care. The next thing I remember was her tapping on the window. She was asking me to open the door, saying that we needed to talk; that it could not end this way. I think that was the precise moment she realised that I had taken something; the cider bottle was sitting there on the passenger's seat empty. I tried to explain to her that I had to do this; too many people were getting hurt. She replied that she couldn't let this happen. I could not do that to her. She had changed her mind not a half hour later; why had I not given her time to think things through? Did everyone think I was made of steel? That my emotions somehow were different from their own? Just how much did they think I could take and still survive? She was now pleading with me to unlock the door, and getting more distressed as the minutes ticked by. Throughout this entire time, my Stepfather had not moved. He had stepped back, allowing her to deal with the situation. It took her some time, but eventually I unlocked the door. In seconds she had removed my keys from the ignition. She was making damn sure that I could not attempt to leave. I got out of the car and walked away from them both, climbing over a fence and into a field, but she was right behind me. Sitting there in that field I never wanted to leave. I was just so dizzy and the nausea was getting worse. She was trying hard to convince me to go to hospital, but I could see no point. I could no longer endure all this; if not now there would be another day.

We were on our way to the hospital, after some discussion as to which vehicle I should travel in. There were no raised voices as I would have expected. My Stepfather had agreed I should travel with her, which again seemed strange. Even though I was not at my best I listened in puzzlement; he seemed happy to let her continue. This was just not like him. Why was he acting so complacent? He had taken two steps back, maybe more, but why? Not that I had a problem with that, but there had to be a reason, an agenda, there always was. I arrived at the hospital and was taken straight into casualty. I was then told to drink a foul tasting mixture, which made me violently sick almost immediately. I couldn't stop purging, even when there was nothing left in my stomach. Not long after, my mum arrived and was shown to the cubicle I was occupying. This was mad, the four of us sitting there all together; myself, my mum, my Stepfather, and my lover/partner. It was bound to happen at some time and I was just amazed that they were not biting chunks out of each other. An hour or so later we were told that I was to be moved to a ward. They were keeping me in overnight, and I was to see a psychiatrist in the morning. My partner had been sitting next to me holding my hand, telling me that she loved me; that I should never have done this; that I should have waited; we would have worked it out in time. Turning her attention to my mum and Stepfather, she asked to have ten minutes alone with me. I half expected an outburst when those words were spoken, but once again nothing! We said our goodbyes, and after kissing me she then left. We would see each other tomorrow.

When I was settled on the ward my Mum also left, taking my Stepfather with her. I was tired and needed to sleep, so after using the bathroom I climbed into bed. I was just dozing off when I realised that I should turn off my mobile. Opening my bag with the intention of doing so, I was shocked to see that it was missing. It had been in my bag whilst in Casualty; I clearly remembered seeing it, and my bag had not left the cubicle. I pressed the button in order to speak to a nurse. Maybe they had it? When she arrived she could tell me nothing about my mobile, but that my clothes had been brought up to the ward by a porter. She then asked me out of interest, if I was aware that my Stepfather had been asking for my clothes? When asked to give his reasons for this, he said that he did not want me leaving the hospital. Well, there he was again once more, that person I had come to recognise, and he was back on form. The lull had not lasted long at all. Refusing to give them to him, she then told him that I was there only as long as I wanted to stay; I could leave at any point. I had not been sectioned and I was there of my own free will. Was there nothing he would not try? Even here he was still trying to ride roughshod over my life. It was clear to me right there and then that he had taken my mobile. It did of course turn up the next day with apologies; he had taken it by mistake thinking that it was his. If he thought for one minute I believed that crap he was sadly mistaken.

The next morning I spent an hour with the psychiatrist, going through some of the things affecting me at that time. She wanted a reason for my actions of the previous day; little did she know they were too many. I would not have had the time to explain, and even if I had there were some things that would never be spoken out loud. A follow up appointment was made for me to attend five days later, although I saw little point at that time. Seemingly it was the wheels of progress. I arrived at the hospital about ten minutes early, so I took a seat in the waiting room and flicked through a magazine. I had been there all of two minutes when the door opened and in walked my Stepfather. Jesus, how the hell had he known I was here? I had not even told my mum for fear she would innocently say something. He seemed to know everything. Who was telling him? He could not have continued to appear so convenient and so often without prior information. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me in such a way, that you would have thought that I had been expecting him. There were other people in the waiting room so I had to keep my voice down, but there was no mistaking the venom in my words. Why the fuck was he here? He just smiled at me and delivered this explanation. "Sorry that I have arrived late, I hoped to catch you in the car park, but I am here now" I was beginning to believe in the Land of Oz, the yellow brick road, the whole deal. Fairies and pixies at the bottom of the garden, and let's add in a unicorn for good measure. I truly didn't understand anything anymore. Clearly I was completely and utterly crazy, unreservedly off my tiny head.

The door opened and my name was called, but as I got up to go in, he also made to move. Where did he think he was going? He must have seen the puzzlement on my face, so he enlightened me by saying that he was coming in with me. I was gobsmacked. He was an utter crackpot, somehow deluded into thinking that I wanted him there. Did he have no understanding that he was the problem? That this whole messed up situation was of his doing? If he had not constructed that snowball at the start, it would not have continued rolling. I used to have a life, but what I was left with now was a far cry from that. I moved away from him, walking towards the door, and on entering, slammed it behind me as hard as I possibly could, leaving him firmly behind it, and hopefully in no doubt that he was the last person I ever wanted near me. The cherry on the cake that day was the psychiatrist asking me why I had brought him along. Was he not ultimately the main cause I was there? I told her that I hadn't, and that he had arrived there under his own steam. She questioned this, asking me how he could possibly know the day and time? How could I answer that one? What could I tell her? I just didn't know and I don't think she believed me for one moment.

I left the hospital and I immediately rang my mum, hoping she could shed some light on all this. Where was he getting his information? It was not possible to be so well informed without outside help. Showing concern she asked why I hadn't told her I was going, but I was not sure I was equipped with the right tools to answer her question. How could I explain my distress; tell her that I trusted no one; had it not penetrated deep enough previously for her to understand? I felt hounded, hunted, forever trying to outwit the hunter. I explained that if I had, she might have let it slip even if unintentionally, which sadly seemed to hurt her, but that was not my intention. Remarkably, she still seemed to be making excuses to counterbalance her husband's unbalanced behaviour. She continued on to say that my Stepfather was just looking out for me, making sure I was alright that's what family did wasn't it? I simply could not seem to find the right words to stress the deranged pattern of his actions or reactions. I had by that time steeled myself to the fact that she would defend him to the death. There was no light to be shed during that call, or indeed right up to present day. I only know that he was not alone in this, he couldn't have been, it was an impossibility.

Driving home, I was deep in thought. My mind seemed so full, bursting at the seams, but one major thing was firmly at the forefront. Something was different within my new relationship. I could not place it, but it was there all the same. Why was I questioning myself? Was a same sex relationship something I had ever envisaged? I was so sure of my love for her, but there were also so many stumbling blocks. She was having a hard time with her Father; he still couldn't understand her wanting a relationship with another woman. It was taking its toll, which was clear because they had always been so close. Over the past weeks her moods had been extremely changeable, seemingly at times looking for confrontation. Would she be able to see this through? She would arrange to meet me then cancel, only to arrive at my door an hour or so later. My emotions were ragged. I had to try and second guess her all the time.

The one thing I could never give her was children, and it was something she had always wanted. Would that be the stumbling block that meant I lost her completely? There were so many factors. Would it be the disapproval from her Father? Maybe it would be the nail driven deeply into the coffin by my Stepfather? I understood her longing for a child, because I had my son. Was it really something she could forego? Could I even ask her to? She had a choice; life with me, or life with her husband and the children she craved. To tell the truth, I think her Father's approval was more important even than having children. In retrospect, maybe this was something we should have discussed, long before things had gone so very far down the line. Whatever was going on with her I was yet to find out? I could do nothing but play it out, in the vain hope that things would work themselves out. On the flip side of the coin she still dismissed any threat from my Stepfather; he was only an itch that needed scratching at times. I couldn't tell her anymore and safeguard my mum. Maybe I should have told her, but I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Trying to dig myself out of a hole and making no headway. But the focus at that time was firmly on me, and for some inexplicable reason, he had put her on the back burner.

My partner's Father at that time had a shop dealing in antiques, and one morning a customer arrived. Someone who he rightly thought was interested in purchasing some items. A conversation was struck up and apart from them the place was empty. While engaged in that conversation, it transpired that they grew up in the same part of town. It was not very long before they were taking a trip down memory lane—it was nice to talk about past events. They could not quite place each other, but they seemed to know many of the same people. They continued the conversation until they were more or less up to the present day. It now turned to families. Did they each have children? How many and how old? What were they doing, etc.? Unbeknown to her Father, they had reached a point that this mystery customer had been striving for. This was all the invite my Stepfather needed to come into his own.

Everything else had just been foreplay, the big build up and oh-so-cleverly-planned out. Introducing himself as if the penny had only just dropped, he went on to tell her Father that he knew one of his daughters, the younger one. How uncanny! Asked how he did so, he explained that she was a friend of his stepdaughter. That he had met her several times through me. She seemed like a really nice girl, and that he should be proud of her. The world was such a small place, wasn't it? Then, wishing him well and shaking his hand, he left, without purchasing anything. But not before giving over his full name, and saying that he hoped to pop in again soon. Would I never learn? Did I say she was on the back burner? There was no such thing. He was always there, behind the scenes, just chipping away until his next move. He was a master in the game of life, in his element in this type of situation, and until now, he had not found one worthy opponent. Of course the conversation was relayed to his daughter—my partner later that day. Her Father said what a nice guy he had seemed to be. Had she known him long? He had been very pleasant and seemed quite successful; it had been nice talking to this really friendly chap.

As soon as she heard his name, she knew who it was immediately, but why in Hell's name had he gone there? It didn't make any sense. They were not friends; in fact, he had been far more than hostile towards her. He was no great fan of hers by any stretch of the imagination—quite the opposite. She then went about the task of filling her Father in, without telling him too much to cause him worry. Once armed with that information, they were both having real trouble trying to figuring it out. They were totally baffled. But you see that was his plan; to do the unexpected, something you could not piece together -where parts of the jigsaw were always missing.

He had done all he needed to do by causing confusion and uneasiness, putting them firmly on the back foot. Planting the seed; by doing so he had made them well aware of just how easy it would be to get into their lives. There was no safe haven, and if they thought there was they were mistaken. By being ever so nice he had also shown that, if pushed, he could also be quite the opposite, the devil en carnet. This whole stretched out role play was as much for my benefit as it was theirs, make no mistake. It was set to make a big impact on our future together; it was now not only my partner in his firing line. He had found her weakness, her Achilles heel. He had played a blinder this time, because she would protect her Father no matter what the personal cost. I had no right to think she should do anything other than that, because I had done no less for my Mum. The nail in the coffin I talked about earlier was well and truly hammered home; from that point on I was fighting a losing battle.

Things were going from bad to worse. Days went by when I would not see her, or even talk on the phone. Then I would receive a telephone call begging me to meet her. My emotions were all over the place; it was really affecting my work and it could not continue. This tiptoeing between me and her husband was not something I could deal with well. She was as changeable as the wind, but what could I do? There was no way I could force her hand. I also knew that it was so important to her that her Father gave her his blessing. His personal safety was also paramount, but maybe there was something we could do about that. We at least had to explore the options. Rightly or wrongly, that day I made a decision; I was going to talk to her Father. With this thought firmly in my mind, I jumped in the car, and headed for his business premises, in the vain hope I could make him understand. I had to try. While driving there, I was racking my brains, how could I get my Stepfather to back off. But I was looking into an empty well and dying of thirst.

As I approached the door, my heart was in my mouth. I really felt that I needed to do this, but there was also much apprehension. What do you say to a guy that clearly loves his daughter, and feels she is making a huge mistake? I could only tell him the truth—that I loved his daughter, and would do all I could to make her happy. Understandably, I would be fighting an uphill battle, but I took a deep breath and rang the bell. It was her Mother that answered the door, and I could see by her face, she knew exactly who was standing in front of her. I asked if it would be possible to talk to her husband, and she showed me into their living room. It felt like an age before the door opened, and by the look on her Father's face, he was clearly not amused by my presence. There were the inevitable questions, like "What the hell are you doing in my daughter's life?" moving swiftly on to "I think you should leave now, don't you?" But I was going nowhere until I said what I had come to say. I went to great lengths to try and explain; telling him it had not been something either of us had been looking for. You can't ask love why, can you? It seemed that he could and had.

Showing me the door, he remarked that if I were to be his daughter's choice then he would accept it. He would never understand, but he loved her and trusted her judgement. So much so that ultimately it would be her that made that lifelong decision. In all honesty, I could see just where he was coming from; it must have been a complete shock to both him and his family. I was half way down the steps when I came to an abrupt stop. All the hairs came up on the back of my neck. What did he say? I turned and asked him to repeat it, and he was more than happy to do so. If I were to ever so much as to hurt a hair on his daughter head, I would know the real meaning of pain. Why did he have to say that? I had no intention of hurting her, why did he feel he could threaten me? Returning to the top of the steps I looked him straight in the eye. I then told him never to threaten me again. This was complete madness. Why had he not just let me leave? I could not back down now or show any weakness. He said that we now had an understanding, and I in turn agreed that we had. Had this meeting gone well? I was not sure how to interpret it. Maybe he needed to see if I was really serious about my feelings. I can only add that when I left he knew that it was not a game to me and I wanted her in my life. We had never even got close to discussing my Stepfather, or any threat that he felt towards himself and his family. I had been dismissed far too quickly.

Once more sitting in my car, there was to be a call that I had to make. I had to tell her first; it had to come from me and not from her Father. She was upset and angry, asking me why I had gone there. Did I upset her Father? Explaining my reasons was easy for me. I felt that it was the right thing to do, but would she agree? If we were ever going to be together, it had to happen. She seemed to relax a little. Maybe she could see my point. I explained the conversation, but omitted telling her about the threat I had received. There was little point; we had sorted it out, hadn't we? There were too many threats being bandied around already. I didn't what to stir things up between them; those were not my motives for going there to see him. I was hoping to find acceptance, not cause a family grievance or hurt anyone. The call ended just a little too abruptly for my liking, and I was left really unsure of where I now stood with her.

It was the beginning of the end, and it saddened me greatly to see her slipping through my fingers. I was at a loss as to what I could do to stop it. We were only ever to talk once more after that phone conversation, and it would only be to tell me that it was over. She had failed to protect her family, and furthermore, she clearly thought I had some hand in it. I could do nothing to convince her otherwise; there was little point in pursuing it any further. It hurt like hell, but strangely now felt expected. Why? Was I now in a place where the pain was an integral part of my life? Did I now feel incomplete without it?

Once again, it seemed my Stepfather had won the day, and this time from afar which was no great surprise. I hated that man with every fibre in my body, the one person I could truly say and mean I wished dead. In the next chapter it will all become clear, but I was never to see her again. The snowball was rolling once more, smashing into all and sundry, wrecking more lives, as I will endeavour to relay to you. My Stepfather now truly believed that nothing and no one could stop him. He had that devil-may-care attitude and the cap fitted nicely; in fact it was made for him—cold, calculated actions that would even put him in the firing line. But for me the most heart wrenching part of it was that my Mum just let it all wash over her. Still standing there with him, shoulder to shoulder; how do you love that deeply? Maybe that was not it and he had somehow brainwashed her. Had she convinced herself that his behaviour was normal, it ripped my heart to shreds just having to watch it.

# Chapter 11

I had been in bed for the last twenty-four hours; I had some kind of tummy bug and I was feeling dreadful. For me to stay in bed tells you a lot, because it's something I rarely do. To be fair my husband was just a little considerate, supplying me with drinks, but nothing more, which was fine with me. Midway through the morning I heard the doorbell go. I wondered who it could be as I was not expecting anyone, but I felt too ill to investigate. I heard my husband go to the door and after he had opened it I froze. That voice was well and truly embedded in my mind. It was a voice I had come to hate. I was not up to this today, whatever it was I was not interested-period. They were having a discussion of sorts, but all I could hear from the bedroom were mumbled voices, although it was enough to be able to recognise him, and all I needed. They talked for a short while and then I heard the door close. My husband was now coming up the stairs and whatever he and my Stepfather had been discussing had only been white noise to me. I was not getting into it with him in any shape or form. As far as I was concerned, they could both drop dead.

Entering the bedroom, he said that he had something for me, explaining to me that my Stepfather had called. I said that I was not deaf and also not interested in anything he had to say. He then explained that he had been asked to pass something on to me. That it was in some shape or form an apology. I looked across at him. Clutched in his hand was a white hankie. It was wrapped around something, but what? Did he know what it was? His reply was that he hadn't looked! Was he some sort of puppet dancing to any tune being played? My Stepfather seemed to be able to play him, in any which way he wanted. Did I even want to look myself? It would just be another one of his games. I found it unnerving that my husband (using the term loosely) hadn't even looked before bringing it to me—so much for my knight in shining armour. He passed the hankie to me and I opened it slowly, not knowing what to expect, and yet also expecting anything.

What I am about to tell you should help clear out any doubting Thomas's out there, and to expose just how mentally ill this man really was. Sitting there right in the middle of the hankie was a finger. Dropping it, I ran to the bathroom, only just making it there in time before throwing up. Sitting there on the toilet floor you could have told me anything, and I would have believed you. This was far beyond the realms of sanity; this was the stuff of horror movies, where at times you had to peep through your fingers. Returning to the bedroom it was still lying there, just where it had fallen. My husband was still there, leaning against the doorway. He had cut his finger off? What sort of sick fucker would do something like that? I was just so angry; attacking my husband verbally, I asked him how he could bring something like that to me? My Stepfather's hand must have been bandaged, had nothing felt wrong to him about all this? I am sure it wasn't the first thing to pop into his head; nevertheless he had brought it to me regardless.

It must have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong, but maybe that's just me. He had never even asked him what was wrong with his hand. By that time I was almost hysterical, screaming at him to remove it and to do so now. Bending down, he picked up both the finger along with the hankie, saying that he would put it in the garage for safe keeping. What!?! Safekeeping, was he completely mental; as crazy as the complete fucking nutter who had cut it off? He was acting like this sort of thing happened every day, as if all this was completely normal. An apology; how could he explain all this away? He couldn't put it down to having a bad day; it was gone forever, taking refuge in my garage for safe keeping! According to my husband, he had not been drinking; he had appeared quite normal while at the door. But the word normal and my Stepfather could never be used in the same sentence. I was trying desperately to take it all in without one ounce of success; it was just so fucking serious. I was trying to visualise the whole proceedings. How could anyone do that to themselves? Stand there calmly and just cut their finger off? The pain would have been immense; no one of sound mind would have ever been able to do so. No pain control or anything else, just him alone and the implement he had used to do it with. Then get into his car like nothing was amiss and drive to the hospital.

I was to learn at a later date that he had apparently told the hospital he had caught it in the fan belt of his car. That itself would have been impossible as the belt had a cover over it and he never lifted the bonnet, ever. I am quite sure that he had not been believed, but what could they do? He had then left the hospital to drive to my home to make his macabre delivery. Had he done it at home? Had my Mum seen him do it? I had to ring her to ask if she was alright. If she had known, then why had she not called to tell me so? To give me some warning that he was on his way with this gruesome gift?

I picked up the phone and dialled her number. She answered after only a few short rings as if she was expecting my call. Suddenly the question didn't need answering—she knew. She asked if my Stepfather had been to see me. I of course answered yes. She replied by saying, did I now see just how sorry he was for everything? I was speechless. What was she saying? Surely by now she had to see that he was a danger to himself and others. Once again, I was wrong, and this would be a recurring factor right up until the end. She explained that he took so much pride in his hands since he had stopped manual work; they were no longer oily and split with the cold. That he had disfigured himself in such a manner that it was the ultimate apology. What else could he do to prove how sorry he was? He had indeed told her what he was going to do and she understood his reasoning. She had watched him walk calmly down to the garage from the kitchen window, doing nothing to try and stop him. By this time I was crying silent tears; they were running down my face in a torrent. She continued to defend him, going out on a limb and taking one more step on that slippery slope. What could I say if anything? It would only be words and hadn't the situation gone far beyond any words spoken? I climbed back into my bed and pulled the covers over my head, wishing that I could stay there indefinitely; secretly hoping I would never wake up again. Something had to give, and more and more, it was looking like that something would be me.

You can't hurt someone that would go to such extremes; he had no fear of the consequences, because in his mind he was unstoppable. Those dead eyes that I talked about previously were just that. If he had a soul at all then it was promised to the dark arts. Furthermore he judged all his actions as sane and he hadn't finished just yet. I am not sure how much more I can say, to enable me to push the message home further, as to just how sick this man really was. From here on in I am quite sure you are capable of making that judgement call for yourself.

A few days later I received a call from my Mum. She said that she felt I needed to take a break; go away somewhere hot and relax. The money was not a problem as my Stepfather was going to pay; he felt I needed to be out of my situation to be able to think more clearly. Asking her what he had meant by my situation, it was of no surprise when she told me he was referring to my lesbian relationship.

My situation—is that how they looked at it? I had thought my Mum understood, and maybe she had at one point. I refused anything that he had to offer, stating I had no intention of going anywhere. My situation was my own business, and he needed to butt out. Would he go to any lengths to get me away from her? He was now throwing money at it. The joke I guess was that he didn't have to do anything; she was making that decision for him. Nevertheless, I told my mum that I would not give her up that easily and that I loved her.

Talking to her that day, I felt the need to bring her up to speed, and also get her opinion on my recent visit to my partner's Father. She seemed interested as I relayed all that had been said between us. I explained to her that her Father had not been too happy to see me, but that by the end of the visit we had arrived at a Mexican standoff. We were reaching the part of my conversation with him where he was showing me the door. That's just where I should have left it, but stupidly and regrettably I told my mum of his half-hearted threat. It was not taken seriously by me at the time and it had been sorted; I thought my Mum had seen it that way also, because it was not elaborated on. Why in God's name did I tell her? I should have known better. I was just not thinking. She could only have had time to replace the receiver, before making a call to my Stepfather. The mad dog was once again about to be unleashed, and I will never understand why my mum made that call. I can only hope and believe that she couldn't see how it would all pan out, or that it had been done out of concern for my safety.

My Stepfather had received that call while returning home from a shooting party, which I had a hard time understanding with his hand that way. The fact that he was returning from a shoot meant he already had more than one gun in his car. His destination had now been altered, and because of that call, he was no longer going straight home; he was on his way to revisit my partner's Father. Every time I think about this, I am acutely aware that it could have been so very much worse. Her Father would be lucky and hold on to his life that day, thankfully, and whatever had intervened had been in the lap of the Gods. Also taking into consideration his impairment, he would not have been at his best or strongest. In a screwed up sick way, cutting his finger off only days before may have played an important part. Who knows? Four hours later, I was to receive the goodbye call, the one that I mentioned at the end of my last chapter. She had failed to protect her Father; it was over and there was no going back. She blamed herself along with me, because she had underestimated him greatly.

Pulling up outside her Father's shop, he had jumped out of his car, baseball bat in hand. In retrospect, I thank God it was not one of the guns that he had with him. Going through the door, he started smashing everything around him; wide sweeping movements, obliterating everything he could reach. There were a few customers in the shop at that time, but needless to say they left in one hell of a hurry. He must have looked and seemed like a complete madman. Her Father was behind the counter at that time, and was quite rightly asking him what the hell was going on. Ignoring him, my Stepfather was still making his way around the shop. One of the customers who had left the premises in such a hurry was now on the phone to the police. When nothing much else was left standing or in one piece he moved his attention to her Father, jumping the counter and grabbing him by the throat. Throwing him onto the floor, he then proceeded to beat him with the bat. He was screaming at him, saying that if he ever threatened me again, he was a dead man.

His wife had now arrived from the house situated above the shop, as she had heard all the commotion below. Walking into that mayhem, she must have thought that she was seeing things. Strangely enough, when all this was relayed to me later that day, it was said that she had done nothing to stop it, nor did she phone the police herself. When the police arrived there was not a lot left to salvage within the shop, and her Father had been badly beaten. My Stepfather was arrested, and on inspection of his car they of course came across the guns that he had with him that day. They were registered to him and completely legal when used in pursuit of his sport. So the fact he had been shooting earlier that day helped. He had a legitimate reason for them to be in the car. He could have so easily picked up either one of them and not the bat. Why he hadn't I am not completely sure. Maybe it would have been his next step if the police had not arrived. He had been caught red handed at the scene with witnesses to all that had happened. Why had it not bothered him at the time? He must have seen them. Maybe he didn't and a red mist had just descended upon him. Could it be that he just didn't care and that he had been consumed by all that raging emotion? Rational thoughts are a waste of time because he wasn't rational, and you could never predict because he was so unpredictable. Any of the above and more is possible; you could never get inside his head, and let's face it who would want to?

Her Father's arm had been broken in two places, while trying to fend off the blows to his head; he was also covered in cuts and bruises, and more than a little distressed. His livelihood was in pieces, strewn all around him, and for what? Was it because I opened my big mouth and told my mum? If so it had not been intentional, it had just been a conversation. I hadn't asked for help and at no point did I say that I was in fear of her Father, or what he could do. Should my mum have even made that call? I myself would never have done so, and I have trouble trying to justify it. I would have realised the reaction it would cause in him, but she still didn't seem to get it; she was seemingly blinkered. I know it would never have been something she would have done maliciously; she would never do that to anyone.

My Stepfather was charged with grievous bodily harm with intent, and told that he could be facing up to a ten year prison sentence. My Mum was to regret that she ever made that call that day in more ways than one. It was not in her nature to condone that sort of behaviour. There would be the inevitable weeks of worry right up until the court case, but she needn't have worried at all. He wasn't bothered, and it seemed with good cause. Is it who you know in this life or what you know? I would be really hard-pressed to make a judgement call on that one. Does money make a difference? Can you buy your way out of a one way street? Never having that sort of money available I can't answer from experience, but for those that have, it must be a very important weapon in your arsenal. All of this is of course, speculation I admit. In this instance the money made all the difference over the coming months. Again, speculation, but you will never convince me otherwise.

I was at home and oblivious to all that was happening only a few miles away from me. I had no idea that my mum had even spoken to my Stepfather regarding our conversation. The first call to arrive was to be from my now once more ex-lover. Did I know that my Stepfather was going there? What had I said to him? I must have said something; he had been screaming over and over that her Father had threatened me. Replying, I said that I did not even know what she was talking about. Why would I do such a thing? She knew me better. Continuing the interrogation, she said that her Father's shop had been destroyed. It was his fucking livelihood; did I know the amount of damage my Stepfather had caused? Her Father was now at the hospital and it was all down to me. What could I say? I had spoken to my mum, so I guess indirectly it was true and the fault was firmly at my feet. As I said earlier, she took some of the blame for her misplaced judgment, but that was all. The phone went dead without even a goodbye.

The next call would be from my mum, crying down the telephone as she told me what had happened. She was unaware that I already had all of the information. She started by relaying what had happened, and although I knew I let her continue. The details were a lot different from what I had been told and lead to believe, but then this was my Stepfather's version I was hearing. What else did I expect? He had told my mum that he had only gone to talk to her Father; that it had been her Father who had attacked him first; he had only been defending himself. What else could he do? How he ever explained, taking the bat into the shop with him God only knows, but mum had accepted it anyway. There were other people there, for heaven's sake. Witness statements would have been taken; those people had no axe to grind with my Stepfather. Why was she doing this, for fuck's sake? What would it take before she took off the blinkers? This was serious; did he actually need to kill someone? Finished with his explanation of what had happened, she moved on to the consequences of his actions. She asked if I would give a statement to the police, stating that I had asked him to go there; that I had been in fear for my life because of the threats I had received.

None of this was true and I asked her how she thought I could do that. She said that I just had to, and that the police had no way of knowing it was untrue. He could not go to prison. If that happened, he would lose the business, maybe even their home. I felt myself being pulled in all directions. How could she ask this of me? I also felt strongly that he should pay for what he had done. Why in Hell's name should I help him? He had single-handedly destroyed my life, all but the decisions that I had made. I could not have cared less if they locked him up and threw away the key, but how would mum cope if that were to happen? If she lost everything how could I live with myself? I was just so damn fed up of being put in this type of situation, knowing the right thing to do but being unable to do it. This was just one step too far; I couldn't and wouldn't lie to the police. The only option left open to me was not to talk to them at all, to either confirm or deny the allegation. Telling my mum that this was the only way I could help did not go down too well; she said that it would not help in the least and that I wanted him to go to prison. She asked me to think about it and not to decide too hastily, but there was no way I was going to change my mind, not this time. Not too much later the phone rang once more. I had been waiting for this call and I knew it would be the police. The person on the other end of the phone introduced himself, also explaining the reason for his call. He asked if he could take some details over the phone, and that they would then call around later that day to take a statement. I responded by saying that I had nothing to tell them, so there would be little point in doing so. That I wanted no involvement in this in any shape or form. I am not sure how this may have sounded to him, but I had no intention of explaining myself. All I wanted to do now was to terminate the conversation. There were some remarks made about withholding evidence, and that I could be called as a witness willingly or not. Having no more to say on the subject I replaced the receiver. I could do no more and if they were to follow that line there was nothing I could do about it, whilst praying that they wouldn't.

# Chapter 12

If I can now take you back to my eleventh year, I was in junior school and it was to be the place that I met my lifelong friend. We were always together, it seemed, I even went on holiday with her and her family. I was always to be found at her home as a child and as the years passed we kept in touch. There was always such a close bond between us; we were true friends always looking out for each other. The only time we were not in close contact was the years that I was away from home while in the Royal Air Force.

I guess we also lost some contact during the first few years of my married life. She was never far from my thoughts and held a place in my heart; I could talk to her tell her anything, and likewise she felt the same way about me. Sitting here writing this at the present time she is no longer a part of my life, and I grieve for what we lost every single day. You see she became a major part of my life, I would even say the sweetest. I was to love her like no other; we had shared so much, we knew each other, we were best friends, but once again I am running on too far here. That part of the story has yet to be told. I need only to write enough here for you to relate to her at this point. It may also give you some insight to how much she meant to me; she was always around during my formative years. As a child, you see things differently; your best friend it seems can do no wrong, you stand together through everything. I often yearn for those lost years, because they may bring her back to me, but in reality I know it's just a pipe dream. Even so, she is an integral part to this story, just as she was integral to my life. That could never change, and although I no longer hold her in my arms, she still firmly holds the key to my heart. It seems to me that happy endings are just stories that have not finished yet.

I need to return now to where we left off at the end of chapter eleven, back to the point when our relationship was still only as good friends.

My conversation with the Police had shaken me up somewhat; I didn't know which way to turn when the answer just came to me; my lifelong friend. Her image was suddenly right there in front of me. I needed her. With everything going on in my life, it seemed an age since I had last seen her. I had this deep longing inside of me just to see her face. I had to go to her to tell her everything that was going on. I knew that I could share it with her in complete trust; she would make me feel that little bit stronger. I just knew that she would keep it to herself, of that I had no doubt. I would have willingly had bet my life on that. I felt disloyal to my mum for thinking of doing so, but I had to share this with someone who knew me inside out. Up until that point she knew nothing, but the need in me was just too strong to ignore. I would just open up and tell her everything; she would not judge me, of that I was also sure. The only questionable part of this crazy situation was that I was not sure how she would feel about my lesbian relationship.

As children, it would not have been something we would have talked about. Nevertheless, it still had to be included in the story to enable her to see the full picture; I had made up my mind I was going to see her there and then. Her home was a safe place to go and I had felt so unsafe for so very long. I was to realise that day that she had very deep feelings for me; feelings she had been suppressing for many years. Was this to be a recurring factor, it my life? Had I been walking around with blinkers on, and only seeing what was right in front of me? What sort of message was I sending out for this to keep recurring? God only knows, because I didn't.

As I left for her home, I had no idea if she would even be there, but something told me that she would be. She always had been. This time would be no different, which I know is a crazy thing to say, but I wasn't wrong. When she opened the door it felt like a great weight had been taken from me. I just looked at her. It was the face of my childhood. We had cried together all those years ago over some boy or other, taking it in turns it seemed and thinking that we would never recover. She had helped me recover, then; I just knew that with her help I could also recover from this. We sat and talked for hours. I told her everything, and she didn't judge me, not in the slightest. Even my lesbian affair didn't seem to rattle her, but at that time I had no idea why. Things once again were changing; my life was set to alter once more, to complicate things further, and leave me with my jaw dropping open. The cosmos, I felt, must have had a hand in all this, because whatever it was it was bigger than me. Just how many twists and turns did I have to make? There always seemed to be another hill to climb, but maybe this time she would help me climb it. It was from that point forward that we became much more than just friends; we became lovers and it felt like I was coming home.

Things with my Stepfather were running along as per normal. He was hardly in the office at all, which helped me so very much. I was still receiving his disturbing telephone calls and I could see no end to it. He was still waiting to hear of his trial date, and that wait was about to come to an end. The police never pursued their line of questioning with me, for which I was very grateful. The date for the trail had now been set; my mum was in such a fragile mental state over all this, I was glad that it was not too far away. The day of the trial arrived and he had to be in court for the full day. There was no way of telling just how long, the others cases in front would run for. If you can indulge me here, I would like to ask you to relate back to a question I raised previously. That question being—is it what you know or who you know? I can't answer for you, and I of course have my own views, but I know exactly which side of the fence I am sitting on. My Stepfather received a phone call just before he had to leave for court; this call was made to inform him that the case had been dropped. I will never understand that decision, the whys, wherefores, or explanations. Once again, the snake had managed to slither and slide away. The case must have been foolproof, but then who am I to judge? The only good thing to come out of this farce, was some release of my Mum's worry, but no less and no more. Shortly after that time my Stepfather moved out of the home he shared with my mum, lock stock and barrel. My Mum could still see no wrong in him and missed him like crazy. She could never understand why he went and I could not find the words to comfort her.

By that time I was in a full-blown relationship with my childhood friend—the day I went to visit her seemed to leave its mark on both of us. She told me that she loved me and that she had always been sexually attracted to me. The first time we made love there was so much emotion; she took me to a place I had never thought existed. I knew instantly that I had also been suppressing my feelings for her, so had my mum been right? Could she really have seen this in me? I can almost hear you asking how I could have fallen in love again so quickly, but was I really in love at all? Maybe it had just been my hatred of all things male and my distrust of them. Was it just my first tentative steps into the unknown, my baptism by fire? Was the previous relationship just a stepping stone to the situation I now found myself in? I could even say that it had to happen that way, to enable me to deal with the feelings surrounding me and a same sex relationship. The God's honest truth is that I really don't know. I was so screwed up at that time, everything and anything was possible.

However, we arrived at that point, I was not about to retreat. We were in each other's company almost all of the time, whenever work and our private lives allowed us to do so. During that time things seemed to move so quickly, and the feelings between us were growing at an alarming rate. She explained to me that she had known from a child that she was bisexual; she even explored this other side of herself with a one night stand. She had enjoyed the sexual contact with the other woman, although clearly she had been the wrong one. There were no emotions involved, but she had no doubt that I would be the right person. She had loved me even as a child. Those feeling had never left her; she truly thought that we were meant to be, without question. We were soul mates and so many years had passed between us, had we just been marking time up until this point.

We set about telling all concerned. There was obviously a feeling of having been here before, which of course did not go missing with me. But I was never so sure about anything in my life; I wanted to be with her whatever the cost. It would be difficult and there would be tears. People would get hurt and I was unhappy about that. How would my Stepfather react? At that very point I couldn't have cared less, it would change nothing. I had been able to contain the situation I was in with regards to my new love life. Thankfully only a few people knew and he was not one of them. Of course in the end he would undoubtedly find out, but I could do nothing but wait until he showed his hand. The fact that he was now living in London and conducting his business over the phone was such a relief. My mum was happy for me and told me once again to follow my heart; she had obviously also known this lady for many years. I felt I had nothing to explain to my husband and I didn't do so, only telling him that I would be leaving and soon. As for the rest of my family there was nothing to say; they had already disowned me.

For her it would be more difficult. She was living with a guy and had been for the last eighteen years. Her mum and family could not take it all in at first, once again a repeat scenario for me. They had never even had inkling to the fact that she harbouring those types of feelings; they tried to talk her out of it many times, but to be fair her Mum took less convincing. Her sister, however did all she could to stop us from happening; she tried so hard to convince her she was wrong. With this and the other mounting pressure surrounding us she all but succeeded. During a heated telephone conversation she had called it off, saying she couldn't cope. This for me was turning out to be Groundhog Day. She had never been too good with pressure. I had to be strong for her. We were apart for one painful week, but the feelings we shared were just too strong for it not to last. I had by this time given up any idea of ever being happy; I had come to expect the worst to happen. I even felt it was deserved and well it may have been. We eventually just had to be together; the bonds were just too tight to break, but not without a degree of drama, and complete and utter madness on my part.

At the beginning of that week, I am ashamed to say that I all but lost it completely. I had convinced her to go for a drive with me; we could think things through. Just ten minutes of her time, was that too much to ask? I thought not. But unbeknownst to her I had been drinking. In the aftermath of that call I had received from her, I had opened a large bottle of brandy. How did she think she could just tell me something like this over the phone? Did I mean so little? Was it not something she should tell me in person? I could not change her mind, or so I thought because she had told me so.

No sooner had she got in and closed the car door, than I drove off, locking the doors from the inside. It would have only have been a matter of her opening it from the inside herself, but I am not sure she was aware of that. I was driving like an idiot and heading out into the country, and whilst doing so I continued drinking. The bottle was sitting between my legs and half empty. I felt so drunk I could not see anything clearly. What's the fucking point of living anyway? She was so scared, but I just kept on driving, and dangerously so. She was asking me to stop, but it was like I couldn't hear her. Then her mobile rang, which seemed to jump start my awareness. It was her Mum asking if she was alright; I had collected her from there and she had said she wouldn't be long; she was worried and rightly so. It made no difference to me if she took the call or not, as neither of us would be going home. Talking to her Mum, she explained what was happening, she was scared and that she could not talk me around. She thought that I would kill us both. I was unaware that she was no longer talking on the phone. I am not sure where my head was at that time; I only realised that she had hung up when her mobile rang once more. I could tell by the way she was talking that it was not her Mum. She was relaying landmarks as if trying to give directions. What was she playing at? I asked her who she was fucking talking to and she replied the police. They wanted to talk to me. Could I not just pull over and talk to them? Her Mum had contacted them, and in her shoes I would not have done differently. There was no way on Earth I was going to talk to anybody; the talking was over. I told her to put the phone down and do it now, or the last thing we would both see would be the back of the lorry in front of us.

I was now driving down a long country lane. It was dark and there was nothing around us but fields. Pulling onto the grass verge I turned the engine off. I had all but finished the bottle of brandy and felt extremely drunk. Opening the window I tossed it into the nearest field. We had been sitting there in silence, when I saw the headlights of a car approaching us from behind. Pulling in behind us I could now see that it was a police car. How the hell they had found us I will never know. An officer got out of the car and started walking towards us, but it still did not seem to bother me. All at once she got out of the car and started walking towards him, meeting him half way. She was talking to him and I could see him nodding his head, at which point she turned away from him and walked back in my direction, getting back into the car with me but saying nothing.

They left and we just sat there with our own thoughts, before I started the engine and took her home. Pulling into a parking space she got out of the car and walked away, without even a backward glance and I didn't deserve one. I will never understand how in the hell I didn't lose my license that day, or why they never even spoke to me. What had she said? If it had happened, it would have been the end of my employment at the very least. I could have killed us both that day and the thought still terrifies me. I had no right at all to play God with someone else's life. But everyone reaches a breaking point and that was mine. I had quite simply lost it big time, for which I am not too proud. As I have already stated it was not to be the end of our relationship, but it was to be a week filled with regret on my part, along with the knowledge of what could so easily have happened. She eventually contacted me at the back end of that week; we were both to blame, or that's how she saw it. She had realised that she had pushed me too far and that she had been weak, when she should have been standing by my side. We just needed to move forward together, to set out our lives and our future without outside interference. There was never going to be any argument from me, because quite simply she was my life. All we needed was each other; all we had to do was set the wheels in motion towards that aim.

My Stepfather had been in London for some weeks now and was hardly ever in the office. Most days he would ring, but it was always totally work related. I had stopped receiving calls from him on my mobile, which, if I am honest was rather unnerving. It had been a totally blank cut off point, and after all those months of harassment, it was like losing a limb. Normal no longer felt normal to me; it felt like I was holding up a blank page with nothing to fill it in with. He was now aware of my new relationship because my mum had informed him, which to be honest I wish she hadn't. The morning she told me it had really freaked me out; I spent the whole day looking over my shoulder, but nothing! My new partner would not be a stranger to him, for the reasons I have given previously. In fact, when we were children, he had always liked her. Did that make the difference? I couldn't see how or why, but there was a reason hiding somewhere for his non confrontational behaviour. Was my head was so mixed up that I was looking for trouble, even when there was none? Could I really let my guard down? Maybe that was it, and he was waiting for me to do so. Well, I was going to stay one step ahead of him this time; my guard was well and truly in place.

Everything was now in motion and the wheels were turning remarkably quickly. There would be a point of separation for both households. Hopefully it would not be too far into the future. We had already started looking for our own home and our new life together. Someone is always hurt during times like this; it's just the natural fallout. Things would become very bitter. What I didn't know at that time was that my husband wanted full custody of our son. He had told me point blank that he would fight for him, even if it meant taking me to court to do so. He was firing things at me like, how did I think a judge would feel taking a young boy into that type of relationship? It sure as hell was not natural. He would ask my son to choose between us if that's what it took. Jesus, he was only fourteen, how could he ask that of him? He could not make a measured judgement and should not be made to do so. Sadly and eventually some months later I left my marital home, but I had to do so without my son. I could not put him through that, ask him to stand up in court and choose between his parents—there was no way I could let that happen. I was under no illusions that he wouldn't take it that far; he could and sure as hell would. It was to mean that for the first six months of my leaving I only saw my son twice a week, which broke my heart. This situation however was very short lived, because as time passed, his dad was there for him less and less. He had a new lady in his life along with her three children.

Picking up the phone one morning, I was to hear my son on the other end. He was crying, telling me that he could no longer stay there, and that he wanted out. He felt so pushed out there that he might just as well be invisible. He was always at the bottom of the pile. What came next I was not expecting in the least—through his tears he asked if he could come to live with me, and I did not need asking twice. I had missed him so very much, and his room had always been there ready for him. I answered yes without question; he was to stay with me from that day on, until moving out some years later into his own home. Should I have left him? Was it not my place to be there to stay where he needed me? The truth was at that time he was living in a war zone.

There are so many arguments surrounding this issue and I don't profess to know the answers. Clearly, when someone else came into his dad's life, he was no longer worth fighting for. So was my ex-husband just trying to score points? Had the threats only been to keep my son there with him, so that he was not left alone? Well, that was now no longer the case. Either way, thirty minutes later, my husband dropped my son—along with his clothes—outside my home. Everything he owned was in black bags scattered around, and as soon as he had dropped the last bag on the pavement he left. In a way this saddens me as my son has never spoken to his Father again, not even when I had prompted him to do so. In the same vein as his Father has never tried to contact him, right up to the present day. He has a grandchild that he has never seen; he has never looked into that baby's eyes and felt his heart melt. For me when I see that baby smiling up at me it's priceless, I need nothing more in this lifetime. The joy of holding him seconds after his birth is something I can't find the words to express, because it's simply indescribable. I thank God daily that I still have the opportunity to be involved in his life, along with my son it could have all turned out so differently.

For now we need to return to events before all this actually happened, with me still living in the marital home. I beat myself up endlessly, when I remember the tears in my son's eyes the day I did leave. It's an image I will never forget, even though he spent the last thirteen years telling me to do so.

# Chapter 13

It was the weekend, and as per normal I called my Mum to ask her how she was. I knew that she was feeling really down at the apparent loss of my Stepfather. He was still in his London flat and showed no desire to return. She was forever hoping that he would just walk back into their home; all would be forgotten and life would resume normal service. Could she still not see that there wasn't anything normal around him? There wouldn't be until the end of time. What she was about to tell me only confirmed that, but regrettably, we were not singing from the same hymn sheet.

There had been a conversation between them the previous evening on the telephone, in which my Stepfather had told her he was to fly out to America. An Indian chief had come to him in a dream the previous night, and during that dream he had been asked to come to his aid. I am talking here about a Native American, who had apparently been a high ranking chief. I am sure I do not need to explain to you the story of the Native Americans; they were made to leave their land and their hunting grounds behind them. Far more heart-wrenching; they also had to leave behind their sacred burial grounds. It was said that as a consequence of not being buried on these grounds, their souls would wander and never reach the happy hunting grounds. I don't have much of an opinion about that, but it's what they believe. Dying on a reservation for them must have been the worst thing imaginable; to them their souls would just drift and never ever be able any find peace.

To return to my Stepfather's dream, I will try to explain further, although I don't really understand it myself. In this dream he had been told that he had a destiny. That it had to be fulfilled because it was the reason he had returned. The said chief was his spirit guide and had been waiting for him to become enlightened. That destiny, according to this chief, was to return him to the sacred burial grounds; his soul had been wandering aimlessly waiting for him. He was to do all that was asked of him in that so-called dream without question, taking the money from the company -which was about to go under—without care. Shortly after he flew out to America and went about the process of having the body exhumed, spending thousands of pounds in doing so. He then dutifully returned the body to where he had been instructed to do so in his dream. How he even knew where to go to find this chief is still beyond me, but he had a name and knew just where to go.

Had it just been something he had been reading up on? Had he just convinced himself that the dream occurred, and then set out looking for a name? He came across a lot of red tape whilst in pursuit of this dream, but not once did he lose sight of his goal until the job was done. It was to be the beginning of the end for the company; much needed funds were used in this pursuit. I am not even sure if it was in his field of vision anymore; to him he had far more important things to which he could put his energy to use. Why should he try and shore the company up? The reasons he gave me while leaning on me so hard, well they no longer mattered. The blackmail and the constant threats, telling me that everyone would lose it all mattered not now. More than that, it was no longer on the horizon, (or not on his anyway). I still can't help being dragged back to the fact that my Mum went along with all this; she was his constant rock. It seems her love knew no bounds; she would have walked on hot coals for those she loved. Sitting here I feel so very humble in her presence, sadly even if her presence today only amounts to words being typed on to a piece of paper.

The bank had now reached the point of no return. They were no longer happy to continually increase the overdraft; it had been steadily and alarmingly growing over some months. Everyone in the office knew that the time had come for it all to come crashing down, and they were at a loss as to how to stop it happening. There was a strange atmosphere in the office during that time. It's hard to pin down, but everyone seemed to retreat into their own little world; going through the motions with everyone attending to everything that needed doing, but they were clearly only half-hearted Gestures.

Arriving for work one morning, everyone was called into the office manager's office; clearly there was a problem. I was not going to be disappointed or overly shocked if I'm honest; my Stepfather was selling the company. It was received without too many questions being asked. We had all been waiting for the axe to fall, it was just when. It was to be sold to another company within the same field. Maybe it could secure our jobs. But there were no promises made because none could be given; this was now just self—preservation, as the rats began thinking and rightly so of leaving the sinking ship.

Eventually the company was indeed sold, and as promised, it was to someone within the same field of work, but it was not without the disposal of people that had working there for years. The new company had their own office employees which came with them. Thankfully the manual workers held on to their jobs. I myself was now actively looking for other employment, and it could be argued that I should have done so way before the axe fell. My Mum was fully up to speed and she had been told by my Stepfather that she would be well looked after. Funny, but even after all these years, he could not see that all she wanted was him. If he were to come back to her she would have lived on a shoestring. Yes, she had become used to the fact that there was no longer this constant scrabble for money; she had been given a taste of the good life. Of course she did not want to see that disappear, who would? But I know deep down in my heart that if given a choice, it would have been him without a shadow of a doubt. The date for the takeover had not yet been confirmed. It was a case of just sitting there and waiting for the end to show itself. The newly formed company that had been set up to counteract any problems was to be in the bag also, and would be going down with the sinking ship. Scarcely any work had been obtained or undertaken under its own name anyway, and there had been a large chunk of money thrown at it over the past months. This was to include the unit rent along with the business rates, and the cost of the overhaul of the offices. This ultimately had eaten into any money readily available within the failing company. In truth, it brought the end a whole lot sooner than it would have been. Had this huge undertaking been only to avail him of a love nest? Somewhere he had felt safe for us to be? Jesus, I prayed it hadn't, but I could not shake that thought from my mind.

At this very difficult time for all concerned, you would think that my Stepfather would have put in an appearance. But on the contrary, he was about to take off again. This time it was to be an attempt to find the Holy Grail or something quite like it. He was going to Tibet on a trekking holiday. 'Holiday' may not be the correct wording here, because it would mean sleeping rough and hours of walking up into the mountains. He was to join a group who were all there for the same thing. They were from all walks of life and came from all over Europe. The common aim was to reach the top and find the priest living within; they believed with a passion that this was a trip they all had to make. He had been a recluse for many years, and their belief was that he held the key to so many unanswered questions. He had been living in solitude for many years, choosing that way of life. Did it not ever cross their minds that he wanted it to stay that way? It was seen as a quest with tour guides among the party, so I am guessing it would have been a route taken by others in the past. But why would someone have chosen that way of life and then entertain others? So was it just the chosen few that were able to interrupt his solitude? As this group walked towards the summit, did they believe that to be so? And who am I to judge anyway? That may well have been the order of it.

So who were these people pushed together in one common belief? I am sure they would have varied greatly; nevertheless there was one person among them, who truly believed that he was chosen beyond all doubt. In fact he probably thought he had offerings of his own to give to this holy man. On returning from this pilgrimage he was to enlighten everyone, although I myself was to hear it second hand and through my mum. The story was to go like this, and I hope you have a better understanding of this than I did at the time of telling. Explaining his quest, he set out to enlighten those around him, relaying those hours he spent within that cave on a one to one.

He said that he had been the only one within the group to have had this honour. During this time it was explained to him and confirmed, that he had reached a spiritual level here on the Earth, in which he could travel no further. In the fullness of time and at the end of this lifetime, there would be no reason for his return. The bodily vessels that had carried his soul throughout his journey would no longer be required. He would now stay within the spirit world, with all and every lesson learnt (this fact of course he had already imparted to me many months previously). The purpose of our reincarnation as he saw it was just that; At the risk of me repeating myself here, this is how it went. We had to learn the lessons fully that we had failed to do so in previous lives, with the aim being to rise up to a higher level spiritually, as each and every one was learnt. This process would continue until the person reached the magic number of ten (once again old news). How much of this makes any sense to you I have no way of knowing; this of course is down to your own personal beliefs. But he would have had you believing that he was sitting on the right hand of God. Just to enlighten you a little further, he had now told my Mum that I had not yet reached that level; (again old news, but her first time of hearing) I was living my life as a level eight spirit, so it seemed I had a ways to go (I of course had already been imparted with that knowledge directly from himself). Dissecting that just a little more and if it's to be believed, maybe the past months had been my lessons unlearnt? Maybe my whole life had been one big lesson?

It was on this trip that my Stepfather would meet the woman he would eventually be with; she was German and also travelling alone. They shared a common belief and were on the trip for the same reasons, a kindred soul so to speak. In time my Stepfather was to move out to Germany to be with her, leaving the devastation he had caused behind him. There was to be a child, which was something he and my Mum could never have. They had tried in the early years, but it never came to fruition and after two miscarriages, my Mum was advised that she should be sterilized.

This was so difficult for my Mum to live with for many years; she had dearly wanted his child. So how do I know anything about his new life after his leaving? Quite simply the news came from my mum. He had written to her telling her of his new love and the life they shared, and on the birth of his son he sent her pictures. He would have had full knowledge, of just what this information would do to her; just how sick was this guy? I am unable to find the words to express this; she would never have needed to know. Those letters were to be the first of many, and in time she would also receive letters from his now new partner. They would continue to arrive year after year, and every once in a while a new picture of his son was enclosed. She was watching him grow up from afar, the child they could never have; just how spiteful and sick was all that? I can't even put into words what that must have done to her. She kept them all, every letter and every picture; they must have felt like hot knives being pushed home up to the hilt. It was to give her no release ever, until she could no longer feel the pain.

At this present time, I have no knowledge of his life or who he is with, if anyone, but I often spare a thought for that child and wonder how he has turned out. With all my knowledge into this sick, perverse individual, I find myself feeling very sorry for him. My Stepfather could or would never change until the day he dies, and I find myself wishing for that also. There would be no tears shed by me, only a sense that this world would be better off without him. If you looked closely it would be of no surprise to see three six's decorating his neck, so maybe he did sell his soul to the devil.

It was over, the company had gone, and people were scattered to the wind. The house that my Mum had shared with my Stepfather was up for sale. My Mum had started looking for a new home, and seemed to have somewhat accepted that it was all gone. This seemed on the surface to include my Stepfather to most others concerned, but I knew better. Wherever he was, her heart was there with him. At this point in time no one knew where he was. It would stay that way until he was ready to be found. I had found other employment and I was trying to move on with my life, if you could call how I felt as moving on, because part of me would always be in the past. I had moved out of my marital home as I stated, and into a loving relationship. My husband had set the wheels in motion for a divorce which was more than fine with me. My siblings and extended family were still treating me like I had the plague, to which I could see no end, but I could do nothing to change that; only time would be able to do so, if ever.

It was a time of great difficulty for everyone, but there was no turning back, nothing or anyone would ever be the same. Too much water had gone under the bridge, taking with it anyone or anything standing around the edge. Feelings were running high and emotions were pouring in from all sides. There was just so much hate, remorse, and disbelief over what had transpired, and common sense had flown out of the window. There was blame bartered about, but to what aim? It couldn't change anything, only fuel the fire, which for my Mum's sake was something I did not want to see. She needed support and some manner of calm around her, not to be torn and pulled in every direction possible. I was an outcast and she was asked to choose, from the very people that should have been trying to shield her. I could do nothing but watch from the sidelines, knowing full well she loved me and would never cast me out, no matter how much pressure was applied. It seemed to me that she should take this stand, disown me. Did I deserve any less? She had to bend with the wind of the storm blowing over her, never failing to return to an upright position. My Mum was an oak well rooted over many years; she would stand strong because she would not accept the alternative.

Many months later she was to receive a letter from my Stepfather; within this letter he was trying so very hard to be remorseful. The letter also contained a very different story of events. This revised edition explained that it had never been my fault; he was now taking full responsibility. He wrote about the blackmail, along with the phone calls, the manipulation, the lies, and his complete obsession with me. He acknowledged that he never once left a door open for me to escape through, not even an inch. So was I vindicated? I was to read this letter along with my then partner and my friend from childhood. Even the words that were jumping at me from off the pages were enough to make my heart beat a little faster. We were sitting all together in my Mum's lounge, as she was now in her new home. Things were settling for her and she didn't need any of this. So what to do with this letter? Should I hold it up and read it aloud to all concerned? Try to clear my name while pulling her down once more? That was never going to be my intention because you see I still blamed myself, and whatever he could write would never remove that feeling. It was done, the people had chosen their sides, and had judged the situation as they saw it. I saw no reason to try to change their minds; it just didn't matter that much to me anymore.

My Mum offered to speak to everyone; she would talk to my siblings and everyone else he had duped. I could see no point whatsoever in doing so. I had not been able or allowed to voice my side of the story not once. Too much damage had been done for it to be repaired; the letter would stay just where it was. All these years later, I know that my mum did talk to my siblings about the letter without my knowledge, but as they saw it he was just trying to save my ass! Some things are buried too deep into the consciousness for it ever to be altered. I loved her for trying, but also wished she hadn't. It was pointless and only served to continue her pain. It was better just leaving them and it alone, them hating me and me hating myself for different reasons. I could deal with their hatred of me, because it was not so very different from my own. Far more compelling and dangerous was the hate I felt for my Stepfather. It was all-consuming and seemed to leak out from every pore in my body. All those months of deception, the cruel way he had treated my Mum, and her inevitable humiliation. Touching everyone within her close family unit before leaking out painfully, this including even distant relatives. They knew everything; which of course was his original idea he had done his job well. The lady was not for turning. Then to have written to her telling her that it never really happened that way! I'm not even sure that hate is a strong enough word for what I felt for him. In amongst that there was revulsion, contempt and loathing. I still feel that those words don't even come close to expressing my emotions.

I was only ever to see him once more while attending his Mother's funeral many years later. My Mum had asked me to take her there to pay her last respects. He looked like a different man; his hair was so much longer and still tied back in a ponytail, his dress sense had altered beyond recognition. He was wearing a long buckskin coat that went all the way to the floor; and there were beads and charms hanging from around his neck. Gone were the suits and the neatly groomed look that had always been there. Bangles of all colours were displayed on both his wrists. To anyone who saw him at that funeral, he must have looked like a stranger. Bizarrely, he seemed not to notice anyone while lost in his own little world. You would have needed a pickaxe to even break through the outer shell, not that I had any intention of trying in any shape or form.

After the service was over, we all went to the graveside for the burial. He spent all the time throughout the vicar's blessing kneeling at the graveside. He was chanting something, which could only be described as being in a foreign dialect, whilst throwing what could be described as herbs into the grave. It was so strange that even though I hated him, I could not draw my eyes away and in this I was not alone. He had a captive audience, each one of us with our own take on things, but all remaining glued to the screen until the end credits.

At the funeral, I personally stayed as far away from him as possible, but my Mum felt differently, and while I waited, she made her way over to where he was now standing. Their conversation lasted for only a few minutes, and I have never known what had passed between them. My Mum never offered to tell me and I never asked. I am aware that after that time he was still to be in contact with certain members of the family in England. My Mum would also continue with contact by telephone for some years, but mostly this would only be out of necessity, or so she said. I was never really convinced that this was the case; I think any contact for her with him was better than none.

Apparently there were issues surrounding her company pension as he was still paying a sum of money each month into her bank account, what that payment was for I am not really sure. Was it a payment in order to ease his guilt? However, in the fullness of time, this also was to come to a halt; maybe he felt his guilt had been assuaged? He was to rear his ugly head only once more as the years passed by, not to be seen in person but his presence at that time was unmistakable. I was to have a hand in that it's true, but only because of the love I knew my mum still had for him. Once again this would make me far from popular, but it was about my Mum and not me or them, which is why I defend my motives in doing so, shared or not. This will be explained fully as my story continues to unfold, which brings us to a new chapter, not only here, but in so many other ways.

# Chapter 14

I am sure that almost all of you would have heard the classic chart hit 'If I Could Turn Back Time'. Like Cher, I would have given everything I had to achieve that. I've struggled to do so still endlessly and for an eternity it seems, but to no avail. Although painful, we had to move on because there was nowhere else to go. The blame was still firmly planted at my feet by others, but my mum and I were trying to do just that—to move forward—but not without the odd complication. They were becoming considerably less; the awkwardness in each other's company was abating. Don't get me wrong here; there was still a lot of soul searching and issues, bubbling away just under the surface.

We started to spend a lot of time together once more. Holidays were arranged, not only to include myself and my partner but my mum also. I was still estranged from all others within my family, but I could not question that. After all, I could understand their behaviour totally. Sadly for my mum, she continually had to fight my corner; pressure was still being endlessly applied, with regards to the fact that she had anything to do with me.

I knew this hurt her so very much, but I was at a loss as to how to change it. On many occasions I asked her to just cut me of the equation, and then this torment she was going through would stop. But it was not an option for her and she refused to bow down to the pressure. We were all her children no matter what had occurred, so we would all continue to be just that. She stressed that it came along with motherhood, a job that should never be taken on lightly. I am here to tell you that I have yet to meet anyone of my Mum's calibre and I am sure that I never will.

I had started a new full time job while continuing to teach aerobics and weights on a part time basis. My partner was also in full time employment, as she had been for many years, resulting in the fact that we were coping well financially. My son was now working and had set about carving out his own way in the world, as an independent individual needing his own space. He had moved out of our home and into a flat of his own, he was in a relationship and it all looked good for him stepping out there on his own.

I had not been in my new job for very long when everything would change for me once more; it was to alter my finances, my life and the way I lived to this very day. I once heard someone say that God repays debts in many ways; maybe this was to be my cost. But whatever way you look at it, I felt that there should have been a price to pay, so I am not going to sit here and whinge about mine. But I was not the only one who should contact the paymaster?

But that was between my Stepfather and any God that he acknowledged to be above him.

It was a very busy day in the office because it was the end of the month; all invoices had to be entered on to the computer before the middle of the day. If this was not done, then our suppliers would have to wait another full month for payment. At one o'clock the last of them was done and the system was backed up for payment; a new month would now be opened to start the proceedings all over again. I don't think that any one of us had been for a toilet break for a long period of time, and it was now an urgent matter for me. As I walked into the ladies' room my legs just went from under me. I tried to grab hold of something to stop my fall, but there was nothing within my reach. I was in high heels because I was at the office, and this did little to help me. As I hit the floor there was an indescribable pain that just shot up my back.

Lying there on the floor I could feel water all around me. I was wet through all the way up to my waist. I could not understand where it had come from; on entering the toilet it had not been visible to me. I am not very sure how long I had been on the floor, it seemed like an age. I kept thinking that surely someone would come in soon. I waited, but no one arrived. It was now lunchtime, maybe they had all gone to the canteen? I had to get up. I couldn't just stay there, and I had to do it on my own. The pain was unbearable as I pulled my way over to the sink. I needed something to hang onto, and it was the nearest thing available. How I got myself up off the floor I am still not sure. I had never felt pain like it. As I emerged from the toilet I could see my boss still sitting at her desk. All I was able to do was to shout out to her, because I was unable to walk further. To cut a long story short, I was driven to my doctor's surgery, after the painstaking time it took to get me out of the building. From there I was to go to hospital after seemly endless pills to try and control the pain, and I was not set to return to work for some considerable time. Even then it was to be mornings only to see if I were able to work, which sadly in the end proved to be impossible. The company kept paying my salary for a year, long past the time they needed to do so, and at that point I was asked to see the company doctor. It was deemed by all that I would have to be ill health retired; I just could not sit at a desk for long periods of time. I had fractured my coccyx and my two bottom discs had prolapsed, pushing painfully into my spinal cord. This of course also meant that I could no longer teach aerobics or weight classes. I had lost both my sources of income in one fell swoop, both of which I dearly loved.

I was now entering a time that saw me attending a number of doctors and specialists, but when it came down to the crunch, there was nothing they could do to alleviate the pain. I attended pain clinics and anything else available to me, and it was not very long before I was in the hands of the mental health team once more. My life had turned one hundred and eighty degrees. It was a time that would see us struggling financially, there were so many arguments that in truth were all down to my mental health, while struggling to come to terms with where I now found myself. I had always worked, even from as young as the age of seven, spending all day Saturdays, rain, snow, or shine on a mobile fruit and vegetable van. I felt so useless and at odds with myself. Day after day I sat imprisoned within those four walls, not able to do anything much at all to stop myself from going crazy. I hated the world and to be honest, I hated everyone in it. I am sure that during that time I must have been hell to live with. My days had always been full and away from the home, the television was something I rarely watched, but it was now my only daily companion. I liked to read, but nothing would sink in and stay there. I found myself reading the same paragraph over and over again. Nothing could hold my concentration for more than five minutes. I tried crosswords, also pointless because I could not concentrate, or keep my mind still enough for any solution to be arrived at.

Money became an issue and of course that never comes alone. I hit out at everything and everyone within my reach without care. I was drowning and taking my partner with me; she was trying so hard to support me financially but seemed unable to do so emotionally. She had never been the strong one of the two of us, which was something she herself would freely admit to. She could not take over that mantle; it was just not in her nature. Being strong would be a struggle and to her unattainable.

I had to get past this and do something; I spoke to a solicitor with regards to a lawsuit and was advised to take my now ex-employers to court. It would be many years before it was settled, at which time I would find myself once more spinning on my axis. Another turn would be made to alter the outcome, and one that was to tear my world to shreds beyond recognition. It would have me questioning the very existence of God himself; because if he did exist there was just no way that he should he have let it happen, period. Continuing through I will of course reach that point where I will share this with you, but even the thought of it seems to burn a hole right through me. Reliving it and relaying it to you even if only in print, will leave me cold and flailing round like a newborn baby, but I know I have to go there.

The above for me would bring into question my worth, and many hours debating if life was really worth living, but I had failed to consider what those lost empty days would evoke. My days had always been so full, working within the office on weekdays, and teaching in the evenings and on the weekends. I worked my brain during the day and my body within my teaching. Exercise can be such a stress reliever and it was ever more so for me. I did not have too much time to think things out too deeply; accounts needed my full concentration. How could I teach a class without my full attention while doing so? I had the balance just right, allowing in just what I thought was needed. So what now? I had the time with nothing to fill it.

I was about to embark on a road of self hate beyond comprehension.

Time was endless; all those hours freely available to me, for which I spent reliving everything that had gone before: every dirty moment and my involvement in it, along with all the pain it had caused. I would replay these in my mind by pushing the rewind button over and over, until I really thought my head would explode, second-guessing the way I had handled every scenario. Could I have done it differently? What if I had done this, or what if I had done that? Pointless, endless questions arriving at a different solution every time. Time was endless and it was just lurking there waiting for me at the start of each day. I was not sleeping because I could not tune out. The questions needed answers, didn't they? I had convinced myself that if I could arrive at the right conclusion, it could all be fixed. I just had to keep working at it and the answers would come. I deluded myself that I could change the past, but was unable to change anything, within this hollow place with nothing in it but time.

I stumbled across a piece one day that really touched a spot deep inside me, and I could not help but find myself applying it to my own situation. It was referring to a war that goes on inside of people, shaping who they become. The piece was referring to all mankind, and the struggle that goes on inside of all us. This really hit home with me when reading it, because that was just how it was for me during that time. There had been a war going on inside of me on an epic scale. The emotions were maybe different, but nevertheless a full scale war had taken place inside my head. In the present day it is not on such a large scale, a little like how both sides have withdrawn to rethink their strategy. I am under no illusion that the fighting is over, because it is only a matter of both sides regrouping before they strike once again with vigour. I would like to share it here with you, in the hope that you may grasp what I am stumbling along with and trying to explain. Maybe there has been a time in your life where this analogy rings true? Regardless of the set of emotions that preceded it in order for it to take place.

An old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside of people. He told him that the battle was between two wolves—one is good and one is evil. The evil one is anger, envy, regret, greed, and arrogance; its self-pity, guilt, resentment, and inferiority; lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The good one is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, and empathy; generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The grandson then asked his Grandfather which of the wolves would win. The old Cherokee answered his grandson by simply saying... the one which you feed.

The problem with this kind of war going on inside you is that you are only fighting yourself; no good can come of it, unless you include and strive for self forgiveness. Everyone around you can say that they have forgiven you but they are empty words unless you forgive yourself. This was never going to happen within me, so that fight is still very much alive and kicking. Forgiveness is not even in my range of thought or even strived for. I would have paid any price asked to change that stream of events; I still would gladly do so without a shadow of doubt.

If I can now go back just a few steps with you, I would also like to share with you a letter; it was given to me by my partner some years after my accident. The reason I would like to do so is that it reiterates in her words what I have been trying to convey. How she herself felt unable to pick up the reins, and be that strong person needed at that time. My reason for sharing her words is that you may gain an insight into how her life had also been stood on its end. She was in a place where she had to take control, but it was not a place within her comfort zone. I will say no more here and let the words within the letter speak for themselves, because they do it far more eloquently it seems then I am able to do so. The letter reads;

"This is not really a love letter, but it is a letter from the heart. Four years ago when we got together I truly think that it was meant to be. I still think and feel that way, although sometimes other factors in our lives make it seem to you as if I feel differently. I have never felt different in all the years we have been together. I'm sorry if by my actions it is hard for you to accept this, but I do love you. You make me feel safe, strong and protected; maybe sometimes I should try and make you feel the same. That I can only work on; I don't mean to lean on you and allow you to cope with all the pressures. But you do it so well; you have always been the stronger person, and in the early days when you were fit and well it didn't seem to be an issue. But I can understand that has changed and I will try to be stronger for you; don't think that I don't care because I do... Yours always"

Isn't it odd the things that you portray to the outside world looking in? She had thought me strong and I have no right to assume she would think otherwise. The face I was showing was just that—a strong one—while filling my life to the brim, so that there was not even a hair's-breadth of space left unused. My safety zone was just to keep getting up every day, exist and put one foot in front of the other, I had no time to dwell on anything, think or analyse; there was too much to do. The truth is that I hadn't dealt with anything and that little brown girl was still crying out inside of me to be heard. If I looked strong, then I was strong; no one had to know differently, did they? It seems so, because, reading that letter, it was clear I had shut the door to my emotions to all that came knocking, including the one real love of my life; even she did not know the one thing I had to fight daily was time. She could not imagine how I would react or deal with an abundance of it. How could she? I never told her.

I have not looked at that letter for many years because it is just so painful. The sad truth is that today this letter is all I have left of that person. I loved her beyond comprehension; she still fills my mind during every waking hour. But even that is an untruth, because she is still there alive, well, and kicking as I sleep. My one consolation is that at least in my dreams she is still here with me, and for just one moment each day on awaking it still feels real. So what do I have left of the years we shared? My dreams and this letter, that today has started to curl at the edges, but it will never leave me. She was the ultimate price, or so I thought at that time. But unbeknown to me there would be another. Karma had taken control; I was only receiving back that which I had put out. They say that karma balances the scales throughout our lifetime; that in time we are all judged and asked to pay the price. At that time she was mine. It's still something to date that I seem unable to or unwilling to let go of. We still have a few more years to fill here until that point was reached; they were to be the stuff of nightmares for me. On arriving at that point in time, I was to be far lonelier than I could convey to you here. But loneliness is a strange emotion; you can stand in a crowded room, still feeling as if you are the only person there.

As the months passed me by I had to learn to deal with the issue of time, or check out of life completely. I chose to deal with it; maybe I was too much of a coward to do the latter. At that time life felt very bleak for me, and I could see no light at the end of the tunnel. I had no knowledge of what was to come, sitting there alone with only my thoughts which were no comfort whatsoever. Unaware within that time frame that a little boy was set to enter my life—my grandson—whom I have referred to previously. I could never describe here the way his eyes light up when I walk into a room; the way he puts his arms out to me for me to hold him is irreplaceable. He would give me a reason to get up each day. Whether I deserved him and the way he gave meaning to my life I guess is up for debate and a horse of a very different colour.

So had time now become a friend to me, after all the years of being my enemy? It had brought him to me at a time when I had just been marking time endlessly. There's that word again, this paragraph and the preceding ones seem to be full of it... time, my arch enemy or my saviour? In the present day, my grandson is my life, along with my son; they are my one reason to smile, and I have built my world around them. I had for so long looked for the reason of my being; I now know beyond all doubt that they are my reason. So with that thought in mind, I will be eternally grateful that I let time pass me by.

If we can take a step back once more here, to a time before I lost the love that I am sure I can ever replace, or even hope to find; to a time before my grandson and the love he brings to me on a daily basis; there was to be a lull in the proceedings and the next few years would go by uneventfully in contrast to previous years. Maybe this was to allow everyone to catch their breath, learn to trust once more and try to heal their wounds. Sadly, this lull was only to be temporary; myself and time were about to become reacquainted. Time would once more remind me that he always had the upper hand; whether bringing joy into our lives or disaster. It would have me sitting day after day and hour after hour, watching it ticking away; praying that time may alter the expected outcome. Time was needed on the one hand, and filled with dread on the other.

Ultimately time would take me from someone that was a complete and utter innocent. I would feel that loss immensely. I had thought that throughout my life I had felt my share of pain, but I had never even come close.

# Chapter 15

It was early evening when the phone rang and we had just finished our evening meal. On speaking into the receiver I heard my Mum's voice. She was crying and was in so much distress, that I was unable to grasp all that she was saying. This on its own freaked me out somewhat, as crying was something she rarely did. As the conversation continued she explained that she was in complete agony with her back. She had called the doctor out, but that he had been less than helpful. He had left after dishing out a few pain killers, and advised her to attend her own doctor the next morning. I need to point out here that my Mum dealt with pain every day of her life. She suffered badly with rheumatoid arthritis, pain was her constant companion, and had been for many years. But this was different; she was now asking for help. My Mum at that time lived about thirty minutes drive from my home; the conversation was brought to an end, and I headed for my car.

I collected my son en route as I was not sure what I would find; his home was very close to mine, so it only added a few minutes to the journey. The drive there seemed endless; every red light, traffic jam, etc. seemed to be delaying our journey. I needed to get to her and my frustration was mounting. I could count the number of times I had ever heard mum cry on one hand. That day I took more than one gamble in order to get to her. I had a key to my mum's home, so on arrival, I let myself in. Walking through the door, I could hear her crying. It was a cry of such despair that it chilled me to the very bone. She was in her living room positioned half way on the settee and half on the floor. She was writhing in pain and unable to stand even with our help. Every time we tried to help her move, she let out a scream that was just so haunting. Enough was enough—had a doctor walked out and left her like this? I was just so angry, and picking up the phone, I requested an ambulance, intent on giving the attending doctor that evening a piece of my mind the very next morning.

The ambulance arrived after a short period of time to be fair to them, but they were to be met with the same set of circumstances. As we had tried to get Mum up, they tried also, but even the slightest movement would invoke her pain level to a screaming point. We just had to stand there helplessly, and watch as they tried to transfer her into a wheelchair. Quite quickly it became clear that there was just no way of moving her without significant pain relief, and even after this was administered her cries of pain went right through me. I could not fault the way the paramedics were dealing with her. They were kind, caring, and trying so hard not to increase her pain level. Quite frankly, there was only one way to get her to the ambulance, and that was to move her. After some time this was achieved, although not easily or without major distress. We were now on our way to hospital with all the speed the situation seemed to muster, though for my Mum every bump in the road was accompanied by a gasp. She was now on gas and air, which I hoped would help her further, but looking at her face contorted in pain it clearly wasn't doing the job. That drive to the hospital will stick in my mind always, watching and feeling useless, unable to help. But what was to come over the next thirty days was beyond my comprehension. So if you're kind enough to stay with me, I will continue to walk you through events as and when they happened.

On arrival we were taken straight to the emergency department, and the start of a set of events that to this day invokes so much anger in me. My Mum was wheeled into a cubicle and told someone would be with her shortly, but for whatever reason that just did not happen. Sitting there both my son and I were starting to get very agitated. Was anyone actually aware she was here? No one had even been to see her, and, considering the amount of pain she was in, this was more than a little remiss. I could no longer just sit there; something needed to be done and done now. I made my way to the nurse's desk seeking some type of explanation. This did seem to make some difference, as an injection was administered to help her deal with her pain level. It would however, set the pattern for the rest of her time in that particular hospital (little did we know then that there were to be another two hospitals in front of her). Most of that night was spent in a makeshift ward, which in truth was no more than a corridor; she was examined by a doctor in the early hours of the morning. He could give no explanation as to what could be causing her pain, only that she was to be admitted, in order to try and get to the bottom of it. Both my son and I were dead on our feet by this time and finding it difficult to function. We needed some sleep if possible. Returning to my home was out of the question, as it was just too far away. My Mum was now in a restless sleep, and I was not even sure if she knew we were still there. We decided to drive back to my mum's house and try to recharge our batteries, this being only fifteen minutes away if we needed to return in a hurry.

Ultimately this turned out to be fruitless as neither of us could find sleep, and we were back in the hospital only a few hours after leaving. Returning, we were to find her still on this makeshift ward, and the prospects of a ward placement nowhere to be seen. It would be the middle of the next morning before she was wheeled on to a ward, in much the same state as she had arrived at the hospital in. After she was settled, I had to think of returning my son to his home. He had a job and needed to be there, with an explanation of why he had missed that morning. This would be the start of my long association with hospitals wards, and my complete loss of respect for the medical profession and all it stood for. The days just merged into each other as if they were one, and my unreserved hatred for the higher being that we call God had returned with vengeance. Once again, I would question his existence and the justice within this world, while also seeking his reasoning over his distribution of hardship and pain.

Throughout our lives we all have a hill or two to climb, but for my Mum it was always a mountain. Was this the one that would prove to be too high? That was not a thought I wanted going on in my head. Why did I feel this way? Even now I fail to find the answer to that question. She would be fine, she had to be. Was it her arthritis? I had asked her that and she had told me it was different. She should know, for God's sake, she lived with it. It was to be a bone of contention between me and the medical staff for the next week. How could back pain make her so out of it? As the days passed, she slipped further and further away from us. Each day I arrived, it was to find she had deteriorated further, and I was assured that it was not the effect of the drugs she was taking. At this point she had not been seen by anyone more than a nurse or a junior doctor. Nobody could give me the answers I needed and I had quite frankly had enough. It seemed their course of action, was to await the return of a consultant from his holiday. At which point she would be seen and hopefully, diagnosed. They told me to try and get her out of bed, to help her walk around, and that she needed to try to keep moving. As if they were seeing beyond all my concerns. There were countless arguments between the nursing staff, me, and my son, to the point where we were told if this persisted, then we would have to leave the hospital.

One of my siblings had gone on holiday shortly after mum was admitted, and the other lived more than two hours drive away. It was down to me to sit there and hold her hand, and reassure her everything would be ok. They told me she was not eating and really needed to do so. Could I help them with this by encouraging her? So there we stayed, with me trying to get my mum out of bed and walking, telling her she had to try to eat and get her strength up, but to no avail. By the end of the week my mum was quite literally not awake for ten minutes at a time, her hands had swollen badly, she looked bloated, even her stomach was distended. The very next day the consultant would be back on the ward, and she would be seen and given the right treatment. This nightmare would stop; I could get her home and look after her, but that was a possibility that would never materialise. I had lost all faith in this so-called hospital, and with good reason. The quicker she was out of there the better as far as I was concerned.

On arrival the next day, we were told the consultant would be examining her that morning. I was just thankful for small mercies—at last we were getting somewhere. Little did I know it would turn out to be a place I didn't want to go; a place she would never return from—was this justice? But the choice would not be mine to make, alter, or influence. Within ten minutes of that examination my Mum was on her way for a CT scan, and the ward would be turned upside down. Blood cultures were ordered, among other things. Suddenly things were moving at an alarming rate. The nursing staff's attitude had changed, they were now oh so very helpful with offers of coffee or food and even conversation previously denied was there in abundance.

There they were trying to support me. Things had suddenly changed rapidly. Quite what had stirred it all up was unknown to me then. There I sat, waiting her return to the ward, looking for a distraction and finding none, so sure that whatever the outcome of the scan it would all be ok. I had been waiting there for approximately forty five minutes, when I saw her being wheeled back towards me and into the ward. There was much discussion, but no explanations were being given. There were grave faces, which I could only take as not being good news. I was still sure that even if it were to be bad news, they would be able to sort it out; they would now know just what type of treatment she needed.

The consultant was now making his way towards me; I was only seconds away from knowing all that I needed to know. I stood there ready for what I was about to learn, but when it came I was struck dumb. I could not take it in; what was he talking about? She had lower back pain; how was this connected? I was trying to find my voice, but if I had opened my mouth, the only thing to escape would have been a scream. He had to be wrong, this made no sense. I wouldn't let it. Septicaemia, that was blood poisoning, was it not? I had heard of it and I knew that it was not to be taken lightly; it was a very serious condition. How had she contracted that? If so why had they missed it? She had been in that hospital for a week now without the right treatment. Questions and answers were spinning around in my head; this was all just too crazy. They had to be wrong, surely. Finding my voice I asked the question, that on answering would have the power to destroy me.

Sitting in that waiting room that morning along with the consultant and other medical staff, I was to learn just how seriously ill my Mum had become. The scan had showed that she had septicaemia in her spine. It had also travelled to other body parts, because of the delay in diagnosing the problem. In turn, this meant she had not been given the correct treatment. Of course, those were not their words, they are mine, but words I was able to prove at a later date. I will cover this with you at the right time as things continue to fall into line. If correctly diagnosed the symptoms would read something like this: chills, fever, and exhaustion caused by the bacteria and substances they produce; heavy sweating, evidence of localization in the joints, and swelling. Had they not taken any notice of that being present in her hands for all to see; sickness, not wanting to eat, and on doing so vomiting? This was a life-threatening infection, how had they missed it? Falling blood pressure, confusion, do I really need to carry on? Jesus, I had been walking her up and down the ward as per their instructions. She had an infection that is carried around the body in the bloodstream, and there I was helping it along by exertion. How in Hell's name did that make me feel? The whole day passed by in a blur, and the outcome was that she needed an urgent operation. They needed to get in and see the extent to which the infection had spread; to try and remove some of the infection, which even to me looked extensive. I just didn't know the full extent and where that would leave us. A slot was found for the operation and all I could do was to sit waiting. Time passed so slowly, sitting there with her holding her hand. Conversation was now something she could only do fleetingly. I am sure other people have been in this situation, sitting with their loved ones trying to understand why. All her life she had been a rock to her family. Sitting there in the silence I tried to make a pact with my maker—I would have changed places with her in a heartbeat. How is it that so many good people in this world seem to suffer so very much? She had once again been dealt a bad hand, when there are those who seem to sail through life unopposed, hurting others, using and abusing people, generally doing no good.

Truly the scales of justice are weighted too much on the other side at times. We are all acquainted with the phrases the good die young, and that they were too good for this world. How can that be? As soon as that thought popped into my mind I dismissed it; she had to live because I could not if she didn't. Someone up there had to hear my prayers. She did not deserve this. Just how much more shit would she have thrown at her? I was eaten up with anger inside. I was unable to think straight or function properly. She had years in front of her, they should have been good years; time to receive back what she had put out unreservedly and with so much love. Where was the balance in all this?

I was to be the only one to sit with her for the rest of our time while awaiting surgery. I would spend my time next to her bed watching the clock and willing it to pass. The sooner she was in the operating theatre the better. Each hour that passed, she seemed to get worse. She was slipping away from me; only coherent enough at times to ask for water, but this was something I could not administer due to instructions of nil by mouth. She could not understand why I would not give it to her. Why I was withholding it? It seemed to her without reason. All I could do was to wet a small sponge and apply it to her lips, and this was how it stayed, until our journey together down the corridor and right up to the theatre doors. That walk felt like walking on broken glass while trying to show an outward position of strength, still holding her hand trying to reassure her, not knowing if she could even hear me. Once again I had misjudged her because when arriving there she seemed to rally, only to tell me that she loved me, which I of course returned. It was to be the very last words she ever spoke, even though we had weeks in front of us before we lost her. I treasure that day spent with her and those words more than anything else in the world, even though they were spent in such a dreadful and heart wrenching manner. It had been our time to reflect, to understand what's important in life. Somewhere in the quiet I felt our minds merged, bringing with it a deeper understanding than I thought possible. I spent the whole time she was in surgery like a cat on hot bricks, unable to settle to anything, and reiterating my pact with whoever was on high. Time seemed to be travelling backwards—why was it taking so long? I asked anyone I could find if there was any news without success, sitting there with my head in my hands accompanied by a pain in my chest I was unable to explain.

The doors of the operating theatre opened and I was on my feet in seconds. I could clearly see that it was my mum, but why all the equipment? The expressions on the faces of the medical team were giving nothing away; they seemed to me like the blank page at the back of a book at the story's end. I followed them into a side room, where they set about connecting the equipment, while moving my mum from the trolley and on to the bed. I could see there was a tube in her mouth, and a mountain of other things all around her, which meant nothing to me. I found myself wondering when she would wake up from the anaesthetic, but also thinking that it could be some time. I would just sit and wait. I wanted to be there when she opened her eyes. Something was wrong—people were milling around everywhere, telephone calls being made as if debating their next move. In the office opposite mum's room, I could see the consultant and anaesthetist engaged in conversation. What were they talking about? At that point a nurse entered Mum's room, asking me if I would step outside. Once in the corridor she explained that the consultant needed to speak to me. The office was only a few steps away from where I was standing, but I was dreading that walk. Did I know at that point it was bad news?

Mum had not moved since her return and the equipment was still all firmly in place; I would have been so very naive not to pick up on something. Opening the door, the consultant shook my hand before delivering the news that would alter so many lives, while pressing down on my chest so hard that I was finding it difficult to breathe.

Mum had returned from theatre on life support, unable to breathe on her own. It was now only the equipment she was on that was enabling her to breathe. Septicaemia was found to be present not only in her spinal cord, but also in her hands and knees. They were still unsure as to the full extent, but the overall picture was not good. They also suspected that it may be present behind her stomach wall, which would further account for the swelling of her abdomen. They were so very sorry that this was the case, and gave me their condolences. If only it had been picked up earlier! They went on to say that she now needed a MRI Scan, which was not available there, and because of that she had to move to a different hospital. People were trying to arrange this as we spoke, hopefully for that day or in the morning. But that was not to be the end; they then explained that as she was so very ill she may not even make the journey. But it was a chance they would have to take if there were to be any chance of saving her. The equipment in the hospital was far more powerful, than the mobile unit she would have to travel with. It would be a race against time to get her there as quickly as possible. A doctor was to accompany her in the ambulance to give her the best chance, other than that all they or I could do was pray. I made the calls needed to my siblings, who at that point you have to remember, were still treating me with all the contempt they could muster. Understandably the calls were difficult for us all and I fully understood that, but we had to put that aside. Mum was extremely ill and that was all that mattered.

That drive to the second hospital warranted blue lights and sirens all the way, with me travelling behind in my car, not knowing what was happening in the ambulance in front of me. The struggle to park was a living nightmare; I almost lost it and left the car in the middle of the road. By the time I had parked she was safely back on the static equipment. Little did I know that this would not be her only move; the next would be at a time when she was so extremely ill a further operation was needed. The hospital where that operation would take place had specialized equipment, because she could no longer be removed from the major equipment and stay with us. This specialized equipment could be operated from outside the room, which housed the MRI Scanner. It was made of different material then the one previously. They explained to me that any kind of metal was not allowed within that room, that the move was necessary even with the real danger of moving her. Once there, a surgeon was going to operate on her back, and attempt to assess the full picture. Mum had been in hospital now for two weeks, staying at the second hospital for approximately four days before moving to her final destination, from where she would spend another two weeks. So why do I say approximately? You would think that time would be stamped firmly on my forehead, would you not?

Well it's not. I can't be clear about which day, how long etc, only that I would ultimately sit by her bed for a total of thirty days from beginning to end. I guess the treatment she received while at the last hospital, would be the one that sticks out far more firmly in my mind. I sat by her bed for eight hours or more a day, day after day, returning at times during the night when the hospital called expecting the worst. I also stayed over for many nights, unable to leave. Sleep was something that evaded me, so I was only catching a few disturbed hours. When I closed my eyes, the full nightmare of it all consumed me. Not to say that it was not present during the day, but it helped just being there talking to the doctors. I was trying to be proactive by talking to her, reading books out loud in the vain hope that she could hear me. I was told that the last thing to go is the hearing, and I took what comfort I could from that statement. The care she received while in this hospital was second to none. I watched them as they worked day after day, hour after hour, with the utmost admiration and respect for everyone concerned. They could do no more; by the time she arrived there she was already seriously ill. The care that she had so badly needed at that time of her admission to the first hospital had for all intents and purposes been sadly lacking. The days spent waiting for her illness to be diagnosed, and the right treatment to be administered was to be her downfall. I totally believe that if this had not been the case, she would still be here today.

# Chapter 16

The day arrived for her surgery and I was waiting for the consultant surgeon to arrive. He was going to talk me through the operation step by step. It was to my utter amazement when I saw my own consultant walk onto the ward; I had no idea that he would be the person operating on my mum. If his name had been given to me then, I had no recollection of it, which would not have been difficult taking into account my state of mind. I think he was just as surprised to see me sitting there, as I was by his arrival; this could only be a good thing as I had a lot of respect for his opinion. The fact that he was known to me seemed to help; he was one of the best in his field. I had seen him many times with regards to my own back; and he had always come across as a competent and an extremely knowledgeable professional.

This would be the second time that I had to sit waiting for my Mum's return from surgery. This time, however, she was only just hanging on by a thread to her life. Those few hours seemed endless, and were tinged with such strange thoughts now popping into my head. This may sound a little crazy, but once more there he was, my Stepfather, as large as life. Why the hell was he in my thoughts? Once I had juggled it around, the answer was staring me in the face; it was because of the love my mum still had for him. Not once had that love faltered, diminished or been replaced by another. She was still carrying around that torch for him, burning as brightly as ever. I had to ask myself the question now in the forefront of my mind, would she want him to know? The last thing I ever wanted was to see him again, but how did I know that it was not something she wanted? No matter how I tried to analyse things, I kept returning to that one fact that I did know. She loved him down to her toes. I could not ask her clearly if this was something she wanted, because that door was firmly shut to me. If I suggested contacting him I would be opposed with venom; it would be read as if it was something that I wanted. It was to be a thought that I had to put on hold, until the day Mum passed away. Arriving there I knew that it was a call I was going to make. It was not going to be made directly to him—that thought filled me with hate—but I had available to me the phone number of one of his family. Ultimately, that was to whom I spoke. My actions would not be understood by the people around me, and I cared less of what they thought. Mum would want him there to say goodbye, of that I had no doubt. It could and would not have been the day of the funeral. Feelings were high and it was all just a little too raw. He would be given a chance to make his peace if he felt the need, but it would have to be on a one to one. All that mattered to me was that her last wishes were granted. Don't ask me how I was privy to that information because I can't answer you. The one thing I did know is she had never turned her back on him in all these years; I just knew that she wouldn't do so in death either.

Mum was now on the ward, and I had spoken to the consultant about the operation. There was not a lot of good news to be had, or I could take comfort from. He told me that they had nearly lost her twice during the operation, and that it was only the skill of the anaesthetist which had prevented that. They had tried to remove as much of the pus as they could, from her hands, knees, and behind the stomach wall. It had travelled up from her spine, and they had no way of telling the extent of brain damage caused. In truth, he told me that day that there was little hope, and sadly to expect the worst. Her quality of life would be extremely affected if she were to pull through. This was something I kept to myself, until I was approached by the medical staff a few days later. I then heard the words I had been dreading. Tests, from which they ascertain any brain stem movement, had shown no sign of her being able to respond. In other words, it was only the life support machine that was keeping her alive. That it had been collectively agreed that it was time to turn off the machines. There was no life to speak of and we had to let her go.

In some ways this was something I had known for many days, creeping up on me from behind as I watched her lying there so lifeless. How do you make a call to tell someone a thing like that? I had to speak to my siblings, we had passed each other by on the days that they had visited, but it had only been a cursory hello or nod of the head. We had spoken during this time, but only to ascertain information, as I had been present during all of the ward rounds. We would all have to be there standing shoulder to shoulder, which was something we had not done for many years.

How do you explain how it feels, standing there watching the last breaths of someone you love, albeit the machine doing the work? We would have to put aside all of our own stupid childish thoughts; there was no place for them there. It was over in such a short few minutes, and a large part of my heart went with her. I kissed her goodbye, unable to control the stream of tears running down my face. In that room I would stand alongside my siblings, clinging to them like my life depended on it, and they were returning my hugs. That group embrace was something my mum had fought for over many years. Why had it taken this to achieve it? I like to think that she was privy to it in spirit, as she left her Earthly bonds. That one time we came together as one, although it was never to be repeated to date.

Walking to my car, I knew I had lost someone so very special. She had touched the world around her with fairy dust, enriching everyone's lives she came in contact with, while her own life had been touched with such pain, sadness, and hardship. It was time to make that call; to the one man she had died loving without doubt. I could not put it off any longer. I had to swallow my own hate, distrust, and loathing and talk to someone indirectly, because I wanted no direct contact. Even the thought of it made me feel once more like that little brown girl. Was I opening a can of worms? Would this erupt into something once more that I could not control? Would I be opening the door to all sorts of unknown horrors? It would be by invitation and have the power to inflict immense destruction; no matter, I would have to deal with whatever came along with it. That little brown girl had to grow up; it was time and that time was way overdue.

Sitting next to the phone I was at a loss as to what I would say. I knew this person fairly well, and I was also aware that they were privy to past events. Those events were as always of his construction, but they were all they would have had access to. I would not be pulled into a debate as to their validity. It would be a matter of fact conversation only, telling of my mum's passing, a short call because all and anything connected to my Stepfather felt tainted. I suppose this was a little stupid of me, as they had no involvement in what had taken place. But the link was close enough to me for it to matter. Whilst speaking that day I spelt it out clearly and left no room for manoeuvre. If my Stepfather were to pay his respects, the day of the funeral was not the time. They were left under no illusion of what would happen if he were to try to attend. I think I would have killed him with my bare hands. I was doing only what I thought my mum would have wanted, of that I was sure, but that did not mean he would be met with open arms. I could do nothing now except to hope that he had the common sense and reverence, to do as I had asked. This was a unique opportunity for him to do something that was not all about him and his desires.

The day of the funeral arrived and I was awash with emotion, still trying to come to terms with the loss. It still felt so unreal, like I had stepped out of a story book and into a horror movie. There was a void in me that would never again be filled. I had also started the ball rolling in the form of an official complaint, against the hospital that was responsible for her care from the outset. I knew this would not bring my Mum back to me, but someone had to be accountable. The care she had received needed to be investigated, if only to stop it ever happening again. In the months that followed, there were to be numerous letters written between me and the bodies concerned. It was going to take months, of this I was certain, but it had to come to a conclusion at some point. Some months later, I was asked to attend a meeting within the hospital concerned. Attending with me that day was one of my siblings, they would hear the horror story in full; unlike me they were privy to some of the facts but not all. I had been with her daily. But also in the early days I had been invisible to them. I had of course tried to fill in the blanks as best I could, but on this day I would be asked to put it across fully and in my own words.

It had to be clearly catalogued in a fashion that would leave no doubt remaining of the immense injustice, failure, and lack of duty of care, that she had suffered whilst in their hands. This meeting took everything out of me, leaving me feeling deflated. Sitting there, relaying my side of events, it was clear to me that they had been remiss in their duty of care. To linger too long here somehow only seems to give it legs; it leaves a taste in my mouth and a feeling of immense sorrow. So I intend to keep this short and to the point, as it has the power to invoke within me an unsurpassed depth of hatred. I received a letter one morning advising me that they had reached a conclusion, that there had indeed been a lapse in duty of care. It went on to tell me that because of this complaint, new measures had been put in place, to make sure this could and would never happen again. I take some comfort that others would not go through what I had endured. Mum's life was spent doing just that, so the twist of irony was not lost. Even in death she still continued to help others, which was of no surprise to me. As I continued reading, the theme of the letter changed to an offer of compensation. To put this amount down in print and the offer they made is something I am unable to do. Did they really think that was all my mum's life was worth? The fact that it was even offered, was an insult to the woman she had been; there was no amount of money in the world that could compensate for her loss. On that note, I have to leave it there, but not without saying that she was priceless.

Returning to the day of the funeral, there were so many things that could go wrong as with anything, but the thought sitting firmly in the front my mind concerned my Stepfather. Would he disregard my request? I had no way of knowing, so it was with much uneasiness that I climbed out of the funeral car. I could not see him anywhere, but that did not mean too much; he always had to make an entrance one that would have the uppermost impact. I was under no illusion that this occasion could be any different if he chose it not to be. Only the next few minutes would confirm the choice he had made. If a funeral can be said to go along ok then I guess this was one of them. There were no surprises and everything went along smoothly. My fear of his arrival ceased as the time passed by, only to be replaced with a question mark. Why had he not come? That's a crazy thing to say I know, but you had to know the man; by staying away I knew he would arrive soon. It's so hard to explain the gut feeling that I had that day; it was like waiting for a caged animal to creep up from behind, but not knowing when or even if. Make no mistake I would be ready for it when it did, and I would rise to the occasion with a strength that had been lacking in me for so very long. No more did I fear this man or anything he could do to me. He would see a completely different person standing before him, than the one he even remotely remembered. When he arrived it would be with such an impact that he would be impossible to ignore. That was his style, the grand entrance. It would be mapped out to make the most impact possible; the showman, the centre of attention and all eyes on him. But once again, I had not given him enough credit for his final curtain call; I expected him to arrive in all his glory, while drinking in the turmoil around him. But when it happened he was not even there to see the impact he had made, robbing me of any satisfaction I may have felt by confronting him.

The day after the funeral, only close members of the family were to be there for the internment. A plot had been chosen for my mum's final resting place. We were to meet at the front gates and walk the path together, a walk to be undertaken as a family unit taking any strength that we could from each other. We were expecting to finally put Mum to rest without any real issues, but that was not going to happen as far as my Stepfather was concerned. You have to give credit here were it is due, he was always the tactician. To underestimate him was to make a grave mistake. This time was not going to be the exception to the rule; he would have made a great general, outwitting all his enemies with pomp and flare.

As we turned into the path leading to the grave, we were clearly not the first ones to be there. A look of surprise passed between us, as if the answer could be found in each other's eyes. Why was I so surprised? I should have known better. How else to stick two fingers up at me and the world around him so effortlessly? He had made his entrance in his own good time, and when it would have the most effect; whatever else he was he was clever. Sitting there right next to the grave was a vase, packed to the brim with yellow roses. I need to tell you here that these were my Mum's favourite flowers, a fact known to us all and the slight against us did not go unrecognised. So how do you react to this? It will be different for all of us I guess; you feel helpless at the fact that you had no control over it. Anger because you are robbed of being able to react; you want to lash out at the person involved. You feel empty and hollow at the feelings this leaves behind, because you have been tactically out gunned.

One of my siblings chose to hit out at the only thing left that they could do, sending the flowers in all directions by kicking out at the vase. But this was not the place for any of that; I myself felt that in doing so, he would once again rob me of any control and the serenity of the occasion. Picking up the vase I explained that it was not for us to judge. Yes he did what he did for just that very reason, a reaction. We had to wonder if mum would have welcomed his presence. After all, this was about her. Our own feelings would have to take a back seat, in the love affair that had been hers. They say that love is in the eye of the beholder, and there was no doubt that she had loved him to distraction. Looking in from outside others rightly question the sense of it all; how had that loved remained so strong? This man had broken her heart; granted, not single handed, so many other factors had been in place to help that along. Beauty and the beast spring to mind, although it was far from a fairytale; to question it we are seeing it through our own eyes alone. I will go through the rest of my life hating my Stepfather, and everything he stands for. But ultimately my Mum's love for him far outweighed that hatred.

We all had to come to terms with what had happened that day, because we had no other option, just as I had to come to terms with my involvement. That is still something I struggle with each and every day; my nemesis, my Achilles heel. My life had been affected so much by my Stepfathers presence. But as I walked away from mum's grave that day I knew this; I knew she had never stopped loving him. You see her love was pure and it had known no bounds; it was given freely while making no demands. The next remark I make depends very much on your own personal beliefs, but if there really is a Heaven and a Hell, she would certainly be bound for a higher place. Maybe even counting the days until they could be together again once more, but sadly I am not that sure things would work out that way. The scales to my mind have to be balanced, if both are to be believed. If there is a higher place, then maybe we need to also believe that the opposite is true. With this in mind, the direction my Stepfather would take when leaving this world, is so very far from a sure thing...
