A Sister's Secret Page 13

  ‘And what was that then?’ asked Rob.

  Before I could think about what I was saying, it all came tumbling out. I told him about being sent to the foster parents after Mum’s breakdown and how David was abused every single night for months.

  ‘I didn’t realise how much it had affected him,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he ever got over it.’

  I could tell by Rob’s face that he was shocked and I knew exactly what he was going to say next.

  ‘It happened to you too, Debbie, didn’t it?’ he said.

  My eyes filled with tears. I felt so ashamed, I couldn’t even look at him.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  Rob came over and put his arms around me.

  ‘Oh, Deb,’ he said. ‘I always knew there was something but I didn’t want to come out and ask you in case I’d got it horribly wrong. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me,’ I sobbed.

  At first it felt like a relief to tell someone after all these years. But then, when I’d sobered up, I instantly regretted blurting it out. It was too late, though; the wheels were already in motion. That day Rob phoned a helpline for victims of child abuse.

  ‘They said you should think about going to the police,’ he told me.

  ‘I don’t want to go to the police,’ I said. ‘They won’t believe me and even if they did, they’re not going to do anything about it now.

  ‘I was four years old, for God’s sake! I’m not even sure of their surname, never mind their address.’

  ‘Debbie, you’ve got to,’ he said. ‘You told me it’s what David wanted.’

  That was the only reason that I agreed to go through with it. I’d wrestled with my conscience for months about breaking the promise that I’d made him but now it was out of my hands. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen when Rob made the call to Eastbourne Police.

  ‘An officer’s coming round tomorrow to take a statement,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the day off work so I can be here when they come.’

  I was dreading it. That night I didn’t sleep a wink, I just sat up, drinking wine. At 9am a police officer was on the doorstep. It was a bloke in his thirties and he seemed nice enough but I was dreading having to describe what I’d been through, especially to a man.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering. I know you probably won’t believe me,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Grafham, I’m sure you’re telling the truth. I just need to ask you a few questions and I’ll take down some information,’ he said.

  Rob sat with me on the sofa as I described what Auntie and Uncle had done to us. My hands gripped a mug filled with tea but I desperately wished that it was wine in there instead.

  ‘I know it’s difficult but I need to know exactly how they touched you,’ he said.

  I felt so embarrassed, describing the things that had happened to David and I. My voice was barely a whisper as I told him about the bedtime stories and the touching. I couldn’t look at him or Rob, I was mortified.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve talked about it?’ the officer asked, writing everything down.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I can remember everything. I can tell you exactly how that house looked, down to the Paisley carpet on the stairs.’

  I was determined not to cry but I couldn’t stop myself when I had to describe what they’d done to David.

  ‘He died last year,’ I sobbed. ‘He never got over what they did to him.’

  After two exhausting hours of questions, it was finally over. My hands were shaking and I was desperate for a drink. I just wanted the policeman to go so I could have some wine and try and blot out those memories.

  ‘You did so well, Deb,’ Rob told me afterwards.

  But I was a wreck. It made me even more sure that I could never tell anyone about Patrick Ryan and what he had done. I couldn’t cope with going through that all again.

  ‘It’s over now,’ I said. ‘I did what David wanted and now it’s in the hands of the police.’

  But one thing I did know was that after going through the trauma of making a statement, I wanted the police to find the foster parents. I wanted to make them pay for what they’d done to David and I, all those years ago. He wasn’t here to back up my story but at last I had kept my promise to him.

  ‘I’m doing this for you, David,’ I said as I took my first gulp of white wine.

  I didn’t tell my mum or Laraine. I was still so ashamed that I couldn’t bear another person knowing.

  But a few weeks later the police officer phoned me.

  ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  He explained that they’d tried their best but they were unable to trace the foster parents based on the details that I had given them and there were no Social Service records available.

  ‘So I’m afraid we’re unable to pursue it any further,’ he said.

  It was a huge blow. I was angry, upset, disappointed and maybe at the same time slightly relieved.

  ‘I put myself through all that for nothing,’ I sobbed to Rob.

  It had opened up old wounds for no reason and I took it badly. I was drinking more and more, and took so many sick days off from work. But slowly, over time, I started to come to terms with the fact that nothing could be done.

  One day I went to David’s grave in Charlton cemetery, where he was buried alongside Granddad George.

  ‘I’m so sorry, David,’ I said. ‘I did my best. I kept my promise but they’ve got away with it. I hope you can rest in peace now.’

  I knew there was nothing more that could be done and I just had to accept it. It made me even more sure that I could never tell anyone about Patrick Ryan or my father. I wasn’t going to put myself through that again and it come to nothing.

  In time, I managed to cut down on my drinking and slowly I got back on track. But I was never allowed to forget the past for too long. One day Davina called.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news,’ she said. ‘Dad’s dead.’

  Someone was trying to trace his relatives and had found her name and phone number at the back of one of his diaries. She explained that he’d had lung cancer and had passed away a couple of weeks ago.

  ‘I feel so bad none of us were there with him,’ she told me.

  ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, Debbie, you always were so horrible about him!’

  I knew she was shocked but I didn’t care. All I felt was relief.

  Mum didn’t really have any feelings for him any more either. I think over time she’d come to hate him and wish that she’d left him sooner, but Davina and Laraine were upset. They were the only ones crying at his funeral while I stood there, stony-faced. I’d only gone to prove to myself that he was really dead.

  Dad had always been good at drawing and when the priest was paying tribute to him he said, ‘We’ll always remember Fred because he was very artistic with his hands.’

  Before I could stop myself, I burst out laughing.

  ‘Deb!’ said Laraine.

  I knew only too well how artistic he was with those hands of his.

  None of the others knew what I was laughing about, of course. I think they thought I was just being a bit weird.

  It was a long, drawn-out Catholic service and I was glad when it was over. As we all got up and walked out of the chapel, I turned around to take one last look at him. I watched the velvet curtains close on Dad’s coffin before it was cremated and all I felt was a huge sense of relief. The past could stay in the past now as far as I was concerned. Little did I know what was about to happen.

  Chapter 13

  Allegations and Revelations

  Picking up my mobile, I dialled the number for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

  ‘Come on, Lal,’ I said out loud, drumming my fingers on the kitchen table. ‘Answer your bloody phone for God’s sake!’

  Now that I lived fifty miles away, I couldn’t just pop
in and see my little sister and I was really worried about her. Mum had gone up to London the other week and had come back really concerned.

  ‘Laraine looks terrible,’ she said. ‘She’s drinking way too much.’

  I had a horrible sense of déjà vu after everything we’d been through with David. I know I’d had my own issues with booze in the past too, but I was determined not to lose another loved one to alcohol.

  Even though I didn’t see her that often, Laraine and I would talk every day. We’d chat on the phone, we’d post silly things to each other on Facebook or she’d text me.

  Hi Lal. Miss ya! What you up to? xx

  Miss u 2 Deb. Come and see u soon x

  But today I’d not heard a peep from her, which I thought was strange. As the day went on, I grew more and more concerned. Just before tea time someone finally answered the phone.

  ‘Thank God, Lal, I was getting worried about you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not Laraine, it’s Mitchell,’ said a boy’s voice.

  ‘Oh hello,’ I said. ‘It’s Auntie Debbie here. I’ve been ringing all day, trying to get hold of your mum.

  ‘Has she gone shopping?’

  ‘No, I think she’s poorly,’ he said. ‘She’s on the floor and she can’t get up.’

  I knew then Mum was right, things had got really bad.

  ‘Listen, Mitchell, don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’ll call your dad at work and get him to come home.’

  I rang Brendan at the garage where he was a mechanic and he went straight back to their bungalow in Erith.

  ‘She’s in a right state, Debbie,’ he told me. ‘She’s been on the red wine again. As soon as I go to work, she goes out and gets it. I don’t know what to do.’

  I was really concerned. The next day I phoned her up and she sounded dreadful.

  ‘You can’t go on like this,’ I told her. ‘You’re going to kill yourself, like David. You need to go to hospital and dry out.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  But every time I spoke to Laraine, I could tell she was drunk. She’d be slurring her words and crying down the phone.

  ‘I made dinner but it turned out all wrong,’ she slurred. ‘It’s all burnt and black.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Lal, you’re pissed. You shouldn’t be anywhere near a cooker in that state.’

  I was constantly worried she was going to burn the house down or hurt herself. I had to call an ambulance one day when Mitchell rang me and said she’d fallen over and banged her head, but she refused to go to hospital.

  Brendan and Jordan were out at work all day and Mitchell was at school so there was no one around to stop her from buying alcohol. I knew there was only one thing for it: I would have to go up there and take her to hospital myself.

  Davina and I got the train up to London and went round to Laraine’s. We hadn’t told her we were coming and when she opened the door to us, I was shocked.

  ‘Oh, Lal,’ I said. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  She looked awful. It’d been a couple of months since I’d seen her last and the whites of her eyes were yellow, her skin all red and blotchy. She’d always been quite curvy but she’d lost so much weight, her clothes were hanging off her.

  It wasn’t even 11am and she was already drunk. The house was a tip and there were piles of washing up and a couple of empty wine bottles on the side. I’d never seen her like that before and it was frightening.

  ‘We need to get you to hospital,’ I told her. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

  I phoned St Mary’s in Sidcup, where I knew they had a detox unit, and they agreed we could bring her in.

  ‘We’re going to call a cab and take you to hospital,’ I told her.

  But she was so out of it, she wasn’t making any sense and she could barely walk.

  ‘I don’t think she even knows what day it is,’ said Davina.

  It was devastating to see my little sister like that and it was such a relief when they admitted her. At least I knew she was in a safe place now and getting the help she needed.

  I went to see her every week and slowly, as the effects of the alcohol wore off, she started to look better. The doctors said her liver was slightly enlarged but that hopefully it would repair itself if she stayed off the booze. She started to seem like the old Laraine again.

  ‘Thank you for being there for me, Deb, and making me see sense,’ she told me. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘You did this,’ I said. ‘You got yourself through detox. Now you’ve got to be strong and make sure you stay away from the drink.’

  She was having sessions with a social worker called Antoinette to talk about how she was going to cope when she went back home. During one of my visits, Antoinette took me to one side.

  ‘I know Laraine’s been through a lot and her memory is a bit patchy because of the extent of her drinking. But I thought I should let you know that she’s been making allegations of child abuse.’

  I paused for a minute, trying to take in what she’d just said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘What’s she told you?’

  ‘She’s been talking about being raped by a man called Patrick.’

  I felt sick at the mention of his name.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked. ‘Is he a family member?’

  ‘No, he’s an old neighbour of ours,’ I told her. ‘My sister’s very confused at the minute. Let me have a talk to her.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why, after all this time, had Laraine said something about Patrick Ryan? We’d never ever discussed what had happened. Why had she chosen to open up this can of worms now?

  As soon as I sat down next to her bed, she brought it up.

  ‘Deb, I’ve decided I really want to tell someone,’ she said.

  ‘Tell someone about what?’ I asked.

  ‘About that Patrick Ryan and what he did to me. I haven’t forgotten and I need to get it off my chest.

  ‘You remember him, don’t you, Deb? He had long hair and a ponytail and I fell down the stairs. I remember you trying to get him off me.

  ‘You know what he did, you were there.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to forget that in a hurry.

  ‘But why now, Lal? Why say something now after all these years? You’ve been through so much already.’

  This was the first time that she had ever talked to me about the abuse.

  ‘I’ve always had what he did to me at the back of my mind,’ she said. ‘I was drinking to try and blot it out. I know no one’s going to believe me but I want to tell someone.’

  ‘You’ve been through so much,’ I told her. ‘You need to focus on getting better rather than talking to the police about something that happened thirty-odd years ago.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.

  I prayed that was an end to it. I just wanted the whole thing forgotten.

  After three months Laraine came out of hospital. She was still weak but she looked a million times better.

  ‘Now remember what the doctors said and make sure you stay off the booze,’ I told her. ‘I promise I’ll come and see you every week.’

  ‘Yes, Deb,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson.’

  I hadn’t mentioned Patrick Ryan since. I was hoping that she’d forgotten what she’d said to me while she was in hospital or changed her mind. But when I went to see her at home, she started talking about it again. To my horror, she seemed more determined than ever to go to the police.

  ‘I just want to tell someone even though I know they probably won’t believe me.

  ‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked me.

  Really I thought she should keep her mouth well and truly shut. I didn’t want her to say anything because I knew I would be dragged into it and I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d been through. It had been thirty-three years since Patrick Ry
an had last abused us when we’d left Coleraine Road.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to be involved.’

  ‘Why not, Deb?’ she said. ‘You’re the only one who saw him. You know what he did to me.’

  ‘If you want to call the police then do it, but please keep me out of it.’

  Five months after coming out of hospital, Laraine phoned me one morning.

  ‘I finally did it,’ she said. ‘I called the police and told them about Ryan. They’re coming round in a couple of hours to take a statement.’

  She didn’t want to speak to them until Brendan and Jordan were at work and Mitchell was at school as she hadn’t told any of them about the abuse.

  I really hadn’t thought she would go through with it and I was terrified. It felt like things were spiralling out of control and I knew it was just a matter of time before the police contacted me.

  Sure enough, later that day I got a call from an unknown number.

  ‘Mrs Grafham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is PC Carol Day from the Sapphire Unit in Sidcup,’ she said. ‘Your sister Laraine has made an allegation of historic child abuse against an old neighbour of yours called Patrick Ryan. She says that you witnessed the abuse and we’d like to speak to you about it.’

  I didn’t say a word. My heart was racing.

  ‘Mrs Grafham, please could we come round and see you as we’d like to take a witness statement?’

  It was my worst nightmare come true.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Like I told Laraine, I don’t want to be involved in any way.’

  ‘Perhaps we could just come down to Eastbourne and talk to you? You see you’re the only person who can verify your sister’s story.’

  ‘No way.’ I told her. ‘I’m not doing it. I’m not interested.’

  Then I hung up.

  Over the next few days she kept ringing me but I didn’t answer it. I knew I could only put her off for so long. I started drinking heavily again to try and forget what was happening, but I couldn’t hide from the past any more.

  One night Rob got home from work to find me sprawled out on the sofa, drunk.

  ‘Debbie, this has got to stop,’ he said. ‘What is it? Why are you drinking so much again?’