WritersShowcase

In the beginning I began writing this account of my life as a fictional story many years ago. I decided to take up writing after several months of confinement which allowed me to read a lot of books. I found that I was drawn to books about killers and people who would inflict great evil upon others. At the time I did not realise I was actually writing about myself or the people who were related to me. When the discovery dawned on me that my life, my reading preferences and my writing were all connected I decided that I should in fact be writing about myself

In the early stages of my writing I was mainly trying to shut out a lot of anger that was burning inside me. I thought if I can talk about my past experiences then maybe they would not threaten my future. Unfortunately as the years progressed I brought some of the past with me, it clung to me and no matter how hard I tried I could not escape from it.

I personally was beaten, ridiculed and often the witness to my mother’s savage beatings at the hands of her family. I was starved of true parental love and offered no encouragement. I don’t remember my parents telling me they loved me or that they were proud of me.

What I do remember was misery and plenty of it. Violence became a natural occurrence, a black eye a fashion accessory. Some violence almost ending in death.

As I grew into my teenage years the beatings became more brutal but I accepted them because I thought that was how life worked. I look back now and realise I was turning into the kind of people they were.

After managing to get through my childhood with many bumps, bruises and blood loss, I then discovered a secret so dark and frightening it brought back all the horrific memories that I had fought long and hard to keep locked at the back of mind. Once I had grown into an adult I had learned to forgive but now I would neither forgive nor forget.

When I got to the age where I could hit back the more devious personality of one despicable individual took over. I hated this man as a child for the fear he instilled into me but because he considered himself as the head of the family I fought hard to be accepted by him. I thought if he liked me he wouldn’t hurt me – I learnt the hard way.

After all the abuse we suffered at the hands of these vile people it was inevitable we would strike out in retaliation. I did and the consequences were severe for both parties.

Throughout my life my mother has been a constant thorn. She has never put me or my siblings first or second. Her continual drinking causes no end of problems even to this day. She is a grandmother who doesn’t realise (and in some cases care) what our children are witnessing. She has never and will never change her ways but unlike our childhood these children do have parents and relatives who do care.

I feel my future was set from the moment I was born into a feuding family who new nothing of loyalty. I myself have struggled to show emotion to the people I love and just saying those words in a serious manner makes me really uncomfortable. I used to think it was because it was considered "girly" to say or show these emotions that stopped me but it isn’t – it’s because I was never embraced with it as a child.

My sisters’ and my girlfriend believe I am incapable of showing love to the people closest to me. The truth is I am - because more than anything I fear rejection. I have been let down so often and also guilty of letting others down that it seems easier to keep a safe distance. That’s why in the beginning this story was about my survival but now it has also taken the function of telling my family including my mother how much I do care for them and how much it hurts me to see us enter a destructive phase that threatens to re - live past experiences.

I have read other accounts of similar up-bringing described as unusual. These stories are unique in their own telling but not unusual, in fact I would assume it is more unusual to have a normal upbringing. Like others I have written my story for myself but I see no harm in letting others into a life of misery and violence because I am still standing and able to tell the story.

Over the years I have asked myself two imposing questions.

How does a child survive an up-bringing as brutal and degrading as mine? The answer to that is easy. Sheer determination to see the job through and let the people who tried to break me, see they have failed.

The second, who does a child, turn to when their father has walked out, their mother ignores their pleas, some of the family beat them and the rest act as though they don’t exist? The answer to that is still beyond me.

I am not looking for sympathy, I have given myself enough of that over the years. Nor am I looking to erase any imaginary demons of my past, for that the sword is much mightier than the pen. I want people to know that there is only one person who you can truly depend on in life and that is yourself. Learn to love yourself for who you are and you will find loving others that much easier.

You can close the door but you can’t shut me out.

You can bang on drums but you won’t drown me out.

You can beat me to the ground but up I’ll get.

You can shout the odds but it won’t hold any threat.

I was spending the night at my sister’s when she decided to tell me a secret she had been keeping for the past fifteen years. When she told me I didn’t know what to say or how to comfort her but her revelations jerked my memories back into existence. I went to bed later that night unable to sleep because of all the horrors that came screaming back at me. When I was confident that I had them all safely locked away again I calmed myself and fell asleep but I had forgotten to turn the key and when my barriers were relaxed they came out to play. Unable to wake myself I ventured back into a nightmare of real events and fantasy that threatened to keep me asleep forever.

It was a cold night and me and my sister lay close together on an old and battered settee. We both lay at opposite ends hugging each others feet. I must have been having a happy dream because my face looked cheerful and hopeful. My sister shivered as though cold or frightened, she was already locked in her own nightmare.

The banging on the front door startled both of us, we shot upright and I headed for the window. Outside I could see my mother hammering frantically on the door with her shoe, blood was pouring from her nose. I went to the door and opened it; my mother rushed past and told me to bolt the door. I did as I was told.

Inside my mother was cleaning herself up; Steph looked on, her tiny face distraught. Both of us didn’t have to ask we already knew who was responsible and in most cases like this the reason would be totally unjustified.

‘When are you going to learn Mum?’ I asked.

‘Just leave it Kevin,’ said my mother.

‘Forget it; she will never listen to us,’ said Steph.

‘Will you both stop giving me a hard time?’ snapped our mother.

I shook my head, ‘It looks like somebody has beaten us to it.’

‘And we don’t need to ask who,’ added Steph.

No sooner had the words crept from Steph’s lips the real nightmare began. The banging was thunderous, the language unrepeatable and the terror nerve shredding. Our mother gathered us closely and wrapped her trembling arms around us (whether it was to protect us or shield herself - who knows). We stood huddled in the darkness watching, waiting for the inevitable and all because she had spoken up for herself she was now going to pay a bloody price.

The banging was louder and quicker now; the door wouldn’t last much longer. It made me jump and almost brought me out of my sleep.

‘Why doesn’t somebody phone the police,’ I whispered. I had noticed how people in the street would turn deaf, dumb and blind at the first sign of trouble however they were quick to gossip and ask questions the following day. (Ignorance is bliss until you are on the receiving end)

I pleaded with my mother to let me go out and contact the police, she refused, telling me ‘Don’t worry kids, he’ll give up soon.’ Her veiled assurances were one’s we had heard before and Steph being a year younger than me had long given up on believing the words of our mother.

‘He won’t give up until he has broken down the door and, and.’ Steph stopped herself the fear in her voice evident.

I sensed her fear, we were both scared but this was a different fear, a dread so unspeakable, so horrific that it would never, could never be mentioned. I stood frozen to the spot watching as the warm trickle ran down Steph’s leg forming a puddle around her still tiny feet. I could not understand at this time what was making her so frightened we had both bore witness to this on numerous occasions, maybe this was once too often.

Maybe she couldn’t take it anymore.

Maybe it was spur of the moment anxiety.

Or just maybe there was something more menacing.

Then the banging stopped, I could hear my heart thumping away trying to break free from my chest. I pulled away from my mother and moved slowly towards the windows, creeping on my tiptoes I edged closer to the drawn curtains. I gently placed my hands on the cloth and parting it slightly I peered out. There was nothing, no one to be seen, my mother was right he had given up. I confidently opened the curtains wider and looked back at my mother and sister, there was no joy in their faces for when my gaze returned to the window the look of evil was staring right back at me and how I wished I had never opened those drapes.

The chaos was now in full flow, I had snatched back the curtains in horror and my chest had begun to tighten, my lungs struggling to catch a breath, an asthma attack is not a pleasant experience under any circumstances. I searched my pockets for my inhaler grabbing at it as the attack increased. I shook it and placed it in my mouth pressing the canister hard and releasing the soothing vapour into my hot aching lungs, except the container was empty.

I stumbled back to my mother and struggling for breath I mumbled ‘Please Mum’. I didn’t have time to finish when the door collapsed heavily against the adjoining wall. The whole house seemed to shake as the heavy footsteps crashed down on the broken debris of shattered glass and splintered wood and marched violently down the hallway towards us.

Stephanie tugged at my arm, ‘In the kitchen,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ I sluggishly replied not taking my eyes from the one remaining door, the final barrier between us and the monster that advanced relentlessly through our home.

‘Your inhaler, your other one is in the kitchen drawer. I’ll get it for you,’ she said.

Stephanie raced into the kitchen and I stood firm, scared but firm next to my mother. My aching were lungs almost at bursting point but I wasn’t about to let my mother face this alone. I watched as the door flung open almost severing itself from its hinges. In the doorway stood a fiend of a man if that is what you could call it. At slightly under six feet tall and shoulders as wide as the doorway he blocked, his size was immense. To me he was a giant. His jet black ruffled hair cut short highlighted the large indented scar across his forehead. He wore large thick soled working boots around size ten feet and carried hands as big as shovels.

Uncle Frank was a malevolent bastard of a man, he thought his size gave him the right to bully anyone that opposed him and in most conflicts it worked. Frank had become even more ruthless if that was possible after a late night incident involving a local rival. His nose was torn from his face as his enemy sank his teeth into Frank’s face; he lost several pints of blood and almost his life. The scar on his forehead was from the resulting skin graft to reattach his nose to his face. The operation was a huge success with his nose being rebuilt; apart from the scar’s left behind, his face was relatively back to its original ugliness.

This huge disfigured man barred the passage to safety, he didn’t say a thing just stood there staring almost crazily at me and my mother. His angry expression was filled with malice, perhaps he had seen his reflection in the glass of the door before he crashed through it and that is what enraged him. A constant reminder of the evil ugliness that oozed from deep inside his rotten core and now he wanted to make people as displeasing and miserable as himself.

The monster moved forward, gliding his hand along the wall searching for the light switch. The street night lamp gave partial lighting to the room and although I could only see part of the monster’s face that had invaded our home, in my mind the face would be etched forever. Eventually the light switch was found and me and my mother stood close together highlighted by the overhead spotlight as though we were performing on the stage.

The room was by no means comfortable, the carpet had long gone and the settee looked as old as us. Drapes that hung from the windows were less than modern, wallpaper decorating the walls looked exhausted and as for the television, we were just glad to have one. The monster scanned the room looking, looking for what? The person he sought stood next to me why did he look elsewhere? Perhaps he was searching for afters? After the inescapable attack on his victim maybe he wanted some personal amusement?

Uncle Frank moved towards my mother with hatred, for a monster of that size he was very agile and moved with lightening speed. I stepped into his path not that it would prevent the attack but it was a duty I felt I must perform. The blow that struck the side of my face caused my neck to snap back and sent me shaking sideways. I rubbed my cheek, the stinging sensation threatening to allow a tear to flee from the corner of my glazed eyes. I refused to give in to the pain in my face and even though my chest felt crushed I steadied myself to continue my defence.

‘Please Frank, don’t hurt me again,’ she begged.

‘Hurt you? I am gonna fuckin’ kill you,’ he roared.

Frank grabbed his sister by the hair and repeatedly slapped her face hard causing a swelling to appear under her right eye, it was then the terror finally struck and she began to scream. The monster wound back his arm and clenched his fist ready to strike the absolute blow. I attached myself to Frank’s arm hoping it would calm if not stop him from anymore violence. I should have known better.

The stale stench of cheap alcohol exhaled from Frank’s rotting mouth and invaded my limited supply of fresh air as the contorted face of this hideous thing turned towards me. The stares from Frank’s darkened eyes were torturing enough without the cold words that crept from his lips.

‘Get off me you little cripple,’ he growled as his hand opened and caught me fully in the mouth. The impact sent me crashing to the floor and as I lay crumpled in a heap struggling for my life essential gulps of air I could only whimper as the thing returned its face to my mother.

‘Leave her alone,’ I struggled to say.

Frank ignored my pleas and continued to pull my mother about by the hair, almost detaching the roots from her scalp. My mother stared down at me, I could barely breathe and she caught my look and the look said it all. "Why do you allow this to happen to us?" My eyes were pleading, hers were bleeding. Trying to escape my emotional stare she turned her head, it was then that I understood the sympathy she felt did not belong to me. She felt sorry for herself.

All of this seemed to be lasting for hours but it was only minutes ago that the door had disintegrated under the powerful hammering of a madman. The sudden crack of my mother’s nose sent a feeling of nausea racing through my aching body. The blood sprayed my face as well as Frank’s face and clothes, my mother’s face was a bloody pulp and now the tears did stream from my swollen eyes.

In the kitchen Stephanie was searching frantically for my spare inhaler which could not be found in its usual place. The screams from her mother and the rasping breath from her brother were scaring the hell out of her and that is exactly where she felt she was living. She disliked Frank with revulsion so strong that on occasions she hated herself, he had driven a small innocent child to the brink of…

Stephanie not only despised Frank, she feared him and for good reason too. Frank reserved a special kind of entertainment for her, often when she was all alone or on the unusual times when Frank would stay over.

She searched the other drawers, tossing utensils across the floor until she spotted it. Reaching for the shiny object she placed her small hand around it and took it gently from the tray. Steph began to turn, realising she had forgotten something and turning back she picked up the inhaler and all the fear had gone.

Stephanie made her way to the door, entering the room she could see Frank shaking her mother violently and I lay crumpled on the floor. Frank was oblivious to her as she tossed the inhaler to me, I took two puffs and the sensational feeling of relief almost overwhelmed me. My breathing became more regulated as the agitation in my lungs subsided and the strength in my legs returned. It was at that time with my returning energy that I looked up to see the unfolding carnage before me. Stephanie stood behind Frank with a carving knife in her hands and the fear had well and truly gone.

With as much strength as I could muster, I launched myself in the direction of my sister. I caught her arm just as she intended to strike the fatal blow; her arm jerked back and the knife escaped from her hand flying wildly through the air. The knife landed next to Frank’s foot, he turned his head and then his attentions to the two small people who stood frozen in his glare. I shoved my sister out of harms way and caught another slap to the mouth, this time I stood firm and my eyes shifted to the knife on the floor.

Frank kicked the knife in my direction. ‘Go ahead, pick it up if you have the nerve,’ he commanded.

I bent down and picked up the knife, I looked around at the deteriorated house, my mother’s blood soaked face and finally my sister’s tearful face. I truly loved my sister and I wanted her torture to stop. I looked down at my tiny hands clutching the knife; in the shiny steel of the blade I could see my image and that image no longer resembled a boy but a man and a man who had to defend his family at all costs.

I drew back my arm and looked Frank straight in the eyes.

The events I have described are from my nightmare, a nightmare that really terrified me because it was so realistic I felt I was actually there, standing beside myself watching. When I awoke from this dream I was soaked through with my own body fluids and clutching my blanket around my chin. At first I was cautious about opening my eyes for the fear that I was still that frightened child and still locked in that frightening existence. I was relieved to find that I was an adult.

The nightmare told me that my mother never put us first, my father was never there to care and protect us and how blind I was to my sister’s needs. It also told me that I was not prepared to accept the ill treatment doled out to me and the people I cared about any longer.

As kids we accepted the abuse because of fear but all surviving children grow into adults, the fear gradually fades away and determination rises to the top.

I have never spoken of this nightmare to anybody until now.

I suffered the nightmare for the first time at the age of twenty five – and the same night that my sister told me she had been sexually abused as a child by my Uncle Frank, it wasn’t the last time this nightmare occurred.

I was born on September 28^th 1971, the first-born to Teresa Ann and Kevin Patrick O’Brien. I don’t remember anything of that first meeting but I can only assume that my parents were in love because the following year I had a sister. Stephanie was born on October 18^th 1972.

When I was born I entered a war of internal hatred. This war was contested between brothers and sisters intent on destroying each other without a thought for innocent children. Battles would rage between siblings for no reason other than drunken insanity. The victims were to be the children, children who were incapable of defending themselves. Sometimes a child sees things an adult has no right to witness, for me it would become a common occurrence. This was my mother’s family; she was third eldest in a family of nine.

Life for me did not start off very good. When I was a few months old my mother dropped me whilst getting off a bus, she had also slipped in the bath during our pregnancy –luckily no damage was done. My parent’s were not prepared for the demanding role of parenthood. They could not afford their own place so they moved in with my mother’s aunty Mary and her blind son Tommy. Tommy had been blinded in one eye after an archery accident. His father would not allow an operation and as a result he lost the sight in the other eye.

The first dwelling I remember was a flat in Wadham Road, Bootle. I only remember one room; I think I was about three at the time. The room consisted of a fridge in the corner, our bunk beds in the opposite corner, a fireplace and a small wooden table with two chairs. Myself and Stephanie shared the same bed and I know that was not unusual in those days but it was very costly for my sister, as I was known for biting her toes and stealing her bottle. One day I remember our mother telling us she was going to the front door to get the milk - we did not see her again for hours. So we opened the fridge and smashed all the eggs, not out of spite - just boredom. Her sense of priority was minimal from the start.

Some time before, my mother’s family had moved from a notorious part of Liverpool known as Cantril Farm to the Bootle area. Cantril Farm was and still is now a huge expanse of high rise flats, cul-de-sac estates and notoriously rough families. They were forced to move because of an ongoing feud with another family. The blood feud began with an attack on my grandad and finished when they attacked the family home. The attack resulted in two of theirs’ being hospitalised, one with eight airgun pellet wounds across his chest and the other with a claw hammer embedded in his hand. My mother told me about this war and how she would often get a taxi, throw tinned peas through their windows and flee.

My three uncles who would play a major role in my life were all sent to Borstal - it was the first time in their lives that they went to prison but it would not be the last for any of them. If this event had not occurred then my life may have been very different.

We stayed in the flat for a couple of years before we moved to a house in Suffield Road, Kirkdale in 1975. I liked this house very much because it was ours. It had three bedrooms which meant one each for us all and an outside toilet. In the living room we had a stone fireplace running through a large room, carpets from one end to the other and decorated walls - this would only last as long as my father lived with us. Huge windows allowed me to look out on a street that was long, wide and on the outskirts of a large council estate. At the top was a park with various working playthings and at the bottom of the road was a wall that ran the length of the main road, the other side of the wall housed the railway, very dangerous but hours of endless fun.

The street was very neighbourly and welcoming. The atmosphere in the house was warm and homely and I felt part of something very special. We were comfortably dressed by parents who seemed to love each other deeply but more importantly – they loved us. My mother made friends instantly with many people in the immediate area and that had an encouraging effect on our interaction with other children. I became best friends with a boy called Bobby who introduced me to all his friends. I was in a comfort zone that had growing prospects for the future.

I began school the following year at St John’s primary, which I enjoyed most of the time. It allowed me to work together with other kids and I made more friends quickly. The school was clean and fresh with long corridors and high ceilings in the classrooms. The teachers were considerate and helpful and looked after the children like they were their own. My highlight in primary school was playing Joseph in the Christmas nativity play. I took a shine to Helen who played opposite me, she complained to the teacher after my proposal of marriage.

The one thing I always dreaded was the nurse. After she had checked my chest, it was time to drop my trousers. Two things bothered me. The first was the embarrassment; the second was the pain - she wasn’t exactly the most gentle of people. She would poke and prod and then squeeze. This process happened twice in the school year, just to check that everything was growing normal in your body. The second time I wasn’t hanging about. She checked my chest and then told me to drop my trousers. I remember looking straight at her and my decision was made. I turned, bolted from the room, down the corridor and through the front gates of the school. I didn’t stop running until I reached the park at the top of the road. Asthma or not I wasn’t stopping for anything.

My mother who had to sit in on the examination was surprised at my sudden departure. She eventually gave chase. I looked round at the park gates and could see her running towards me. I didn’t hesitate, regardless of her threats, I took off again. She eventually caught me in the middle of the park and dragged me back to the school. Apologies were made and the examination took place, the nurse smiled sympathetically and made it painless. The following year my mother stood sentry by the door.

From pictures I noticed my mother was very good looking in her younger days and I could see why my father was attracted. She had dyed shiny blonde hair and a beaming smile, a smile that was to be replaced with anger in the forthcoming years. My mother worked at the Jacobs biscuit factory in Long Lane, Walton and she would always bring us home broken biscuits.

I don’t remember a lot about my father. I cannot recall being taken out by him with the exception of an odd visit to his mother’s house, participating in any activity with him or him ever showing any profound interest while he lived with us. We were never up high on his list of priorities. I was often called "Little Kevin" to distinguish who was being called (me or my father). I found this odd because most of the time my father was not called by his first name, my mother and her family had their own name’s for him, the most common one being "Navvy".

The one frightening memory of him that stays with me was when my mother was taking me to my cousin’s christening. An argument erupted about him minding Stephanie while me and my mother went out, my grandad was present. I was sitting in a chair pulling on my shoes, when for no reason other than to aggravate my mother, he came over and slapped me hard in the mouth and split my lip. The blood and tears flowed down my face and the argument became violent. My grandad stepped in and punched him once in the face. He wiped my face, picked me up and told him, ‘If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.’ That was the beginning of a very special relationship with my granddad.

It was very hard for me to understand what had happened. As well as the pain I was in shock. Lots of shouting and snarling between my parents had resulted in me being the injured party. I was very excited at the prospect of an outing but the site of my own blood cured any enthusiasm for that. It was the first time that I remember being hit for anything or more accurately for nothing. Later that night my mother returned home drunk, took a knife to my father’s leather jacket and shredded it. I was five.

My father was quite tall, strong (without being muscular) and always kept his hair long and scruffy. I think he worked on the side as a jack of all trades labourer whilst claiming incapacity benefit. His parents lived not too far away, an unsafe distance from my mother. I don’t recall visiting my grandparents on many occasions; this was probably a result of my mother’s dislike for her in-laws or outlaws as they were more commonly referred to. Every argument my parents had would involve each others family being insulted.

Because my mother had come from a family whose only social skill was to drink themselves into forgetfulness, she obviously did not appreciate the values of a normal family. For all her faults, as a child I really loved my mother. I think any ambitions she may have had in her life began to fade when I came along; they had disappeared by the time my two younger sisters’ arrived. In our early years she was a loving and kind mother but those emotions disappeared not through wickedness, more misguidance.

I had this strange notion as a child that everybody lived until the age of one hundred and then peacefully died. I remember telling my mother that when she got to that age, I wanted to go with her. I would cry myself to sleep pleading with god, not to let me die young.

When I made my Holy Communion a huge fuss was made of me, which I enjoyed immensely. I was kitted out from head to toe in new clothes and after the ceremony a huge party for us all took place at our school. Family and friends from both sides of my parents showed up. I was given a toy gun that fired a piece of cork attached to string from the barrel. We returned home with a close friend of my father’s and my grandmother were we all posed for pictures. My mother took the photograph while we all looked towards her and smiled. When the photograph was developed it was how I imagined it should be except my father had not even bothered to turn his head in the direction of the camera. I guess that was the beginning of the end.

Apart from the split lip my life to this point was painless enough, I don’t remember extravagance but we got by. I was now eight and heading for St John’s junior school, which was only a stone throw away from the primary school. This is when a lot of my early problems in life began. My parents had grown very fond of their drink, which meant that fashionable clothing were unheard of in our house. Also, we now had a two year old sister Sarah and a one year baby sister Donna.

After growing close to my neighbourhood friends and being comfortable in their presence I was very surprised and shocked when I entered junior school. I was separated from my true friends and placed in a class with other boys who looked at my attire with disgust. The majority of my classmates all more named trainers. As for me, I had what looked like a pair of slippers on my feet. I was forever ridiculed by my fellow pupils because of these horrible maroon trainers hanging off my feet. If that wasn’t bad enough, worse was to follow. My school grant had come through and I was to be fitted out in a new school uniform. Me and my mother went to what looked like a disused warehouse in the city centre. The attendant stood behind a counter surrounded by shelving that stretched from one end of the warehouse to the other. My mother gave in my slip and he went to various piles before bringing back my new uniform, I remember thinking that some other miserable kid would be standing in the corner of a playground dressed identical to me. I was given flared trousers, beetle crusher shoes and the collar on my shirt was as wide as my shoulders. I was frightened to turn at speed in my shirt for the fear I would have had somebody’s eye out with my oversized collar. I was now a walking advertisement for the local council and it was easy to notice that my attire was the result of a government grant.

I would sneak out of the house in the morning in my trainers, even though I was supposed to wear my new shoes. The trainers were bad but the shoes were worse. Eventually the school sent home a letter and my mother marched me up to the school with the shoes. She took me straight into the headmaster dropped the shoes on his desk and said, ‘He won’t wear them for me; you will have to make him’. She walked out. I wore them for one day.

The taunts at school were really bad but I was such a weak child that I just accepted it. I had been born with Asthma, so any prolonged sporting activity would cause my lungs to burn. I usually had a pocket full of steroids and an inhaler to help with my breathing. One attack became so bad that I was stretched out on the settee with lots of faces staring down at me. An emergency doctor was called who regulated my breathing, it was very frightening.

The name calling got worse when I was forced to wear glasses. Free black plastic framed specs courtesy of the government that drew more attention to me – when all I wanted to do was fade into the background. The worst of the insults usually came from home and in particular from my cousins and my uncles. I picked up the nickname "Specky". It wasn’t long before I lost the glasses on the way to school and I wasn’t taken for another pair, probably because the next pair would have to be paid for. If I had had the courage to wear them as a child it may helped my eyes to develop instead of being shaped like rugby balls. To this day I still get embarrassed wearing glasses around my family – I see them as a weakness.

I didn’t have real friends in junior school, just kids who allowed me to hang around them at the back of the pack. If decisions were to be made about what game to play I was not asked and if teams had to be picked I was the handicap. Even most of my neighbourhood friends were too embarrassed to talk to me at school.

When I got home from school I would go out and be wild. A favourite and dangerous pastime was to throw stones at the passing cars and buses. Stephanie enjoyed this game. We usually threw at the speeding cars but this day Stephanie hurled a brick through the side window of a car turning into our street. We fled but a member of our anti-social group who got caught kindly showed the driver where we lived. I don’t think Steph got hit. I also liked to hang about the back entries jumping from one wall to the next until one day I lost my footing and toppled head first into a neighbour’s back yard. My mother had to come home from work and take me to the hospital. I had a lump the size of a golf ball poking out of my forehead and slight concussion. As soon as I felt better I was off doing the same again.

Then at the age of nine our home-life turned upside down. My mother was spending a lot of time with her brothers and sisters. Every weekend they would go out on "benders", sometimes my mother wouldn’t come home. My father would work all day, come home, have his tea and then go to the pub.

One evening we were all privileged to be in the home at the same time. We (the kids) sat around the table in the presence of our father. There had been an air of hostility between my parents and unpleasant remarks were being batted back and forth between them. Without warning my mother stormed in from the kitchen and stabbed my father in the neck. It wasn’t deep but blood trickled from the wound. I sat there very frightened expecting him to jump up and violence to follow. I remembered my split lip and thought I was going to get another smack for my mother’s insults. He didn’t, he just sat there and continued to eat his food, either through shock or fear I cannot say.

After that things at home went from bad to worse. My parents spent most of the time arguing about her family. Her brother’s had a reputation for being tough and notorious thieves. If it wasn’t screwed down they took it and even if it was they still made an attempt to steal it. This resulted in my father spending more time away from home, mainly staying with his parents. This allowed my mother more freedom which she gratefully accepted. Stephanie, my younger sister by a year took over the responsibility of looking after our younger sisters. Stephanie was responsible for feeding and cleaning her sister’s. My mother exploited Stephanie’s natural maternal instincts and instead of Stephanie offering a supporting role to my mother – the roles were reversed.

My mother who had many friends in the area took them too much for granted. On the corner of the next street was a convenience shop and the lady who owned it was very friendly to us all. This did not stop my mother from allowing her brother’s to break in, in truth she would have been powerless to stop them but she could have refused to aid them. They emptied the shop of almost everything, cigarettes, money and enough sweets to give us toothache for a long time. I remember going into the shop a few days later and my mother acting concerned, I don’t think the lady was fooled. My father never knew about this, which I was grateful for because all the stolen goods were stored in my wardrobe.

Me and a friend broke into the shop a few years later when it had changed to an ornament shop. We planned to sell the statues at the local market but got scared and returned the statues, minus the broken ones.

My uncles broke into a house of one of the kids who let me tag along, he lived on the next block from the already burgled shop. I didn’t know about this until the following day when he stopped me at the park gates. I denied any knowledge and assured him my mother would not allow such a thing to happen. He didn’t believe me and punched me in the face. I didn’t try to fight back, I believed once the anger was out of him he would leave me alone and I was scared. He continued to punch and shove me about and a crowd of other kids gathered - all eager for the beating to continue.

Luckily for me a saviour was walking through the park and watched the assault take place. Without hesitation she raced through the crowd and jumped on his back. It was Stephanie my younger sister. She hung on until I had managed to escape his clutches. I would like to say that I told him to leave my sister alone and perhaps I did, except I don’t remember as I was to busy trying to break the sprint record for our house. Stephanie arrived home a few minutes later without a hair out of place. As for the bully, he left me alone - he was probably more embarrassed than me. My mother did know about the burglary. She had the stolen goods in our house.

I feel the pain I suffered at the hands of my father years earlier restricted me when it came to defending myself. On an odd occasion when I did defend myself against a bully at school I frightened myself. He was pushing me around, so I grabbed him with all my strength and put him on the floor. When he got up I feared he would hit me in the face, I knew what the pain felt like and I didn’t want to experience it again. These bullies were no stronger than I was but they were more ruthless because they belonged to a crowd that I would never be a part of.

At this stage of my life I had parents who were at war with each other, uncles who were teaching me the art of stealing and another uncle serving eight years for arson - what a bunch of role models. Did I grow up to do the things I did because it was in my nature or was I nurtured? I believe it was both because it was in the nature of the people who nurtured me.

I don’t remember the exact date that my father left our home but it was in the tenth year of my existence that he went out of our life and seemingly without care. There were no birthday presents, cards or any acknowledgement from him that we ever existed. To this day my two younger sister’s have never set eyes on him for over twenty years and by their own admission, they would not know him if he walked past – I believe the same could be said for him.

As I have said I don’t remember much interaction with him but that doesn’t mean to say I wanted him gone. In the later stages of their marriage my parents fought more than they loved. They used us as objects to goad the other into some sort of action - mostly violent.

Before he left an argument erupted and he evicted my mother. We were left in the house with him until he went the pub that night and left us in the charge of his brother, Albert (Albie). Albie was a timid character, tall and gangly, tight curly hair and the dreaded black plastic national health glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was no match for my mother alone but backed by her brother’s every inch of him must have trembled and that’s why he stepped aside when my mother turned up later that night. I am not sure if we were rescued or kidnapped but we were wrapped in blankets and scurried along the main road at the bottom of the street. I remember being in the arms of Phil and a feeling of excitement surging through me, I thought we were the most important kids in the world because so much effort was being demonstrated at retrieving us – I was too young to understand that it was an attempt to anger my father. We were taken to my grandparents were my mother temporarily resided.

Unfortunately for him Albie had been given the responsibility of guarding the house the following day while my father was at work. My mother turned up and threatened him but he would not relent and refused to allow her entry. This time instead of using the heavy handed approach and involving her brother’s, my mother called the police. They arrived and forced him to open the door obviously siding with her because she had a gang of kids around her ankles and assuming she was the victim, an error they would regret in the years after. The police did not interfere when my mother attacked him, they simply told him to be on his way. Inside she broke his glasses, smoked his cigarettes and tore his book to bits.

When my father arrived home and discovered what had happened he was furious. He raged and said he would be back to smash the windows - violence was inevitable. He returned with a hammer but by this time my mother had called in the cavalry - her eldest brother - Uncle Frank.

Frank raced out and head-butted my father, giving him a nasty black-eye. We sat upstairs and listened to it all, too frightened to move. All I wanted was them to return to the days when they loved each other. Or the nights when I would sneak downstairs and catch them being affectionate towards each other and my father would catch me and shout at me to go back to bed. I would rush back up the stairs feeling warm and happy inside knowing that the love downstairs flowed upward to each and everyone of us. Unfortunately it was a memory never to be repeated.

I am not sure what his reasons for leaving were. My mother’s version was she could no longer put up with his filthy disgusting habits. He was known to come home from work, eat his dinner, go the pub and then get into bed without washing the days grime from himself. Another of his habits was to empty the contents of his bowels into a bucket on the upstairs landing instead of using the outside toilet. Not that the toilet was much better, cold, damp and the only toilet paper consisted of the daily newspaper.

I am sure he was not without his faults and his habits were disgusting but my mother refuses to take any responsibility for him leaving even though she was having an affair at the time.

I was out playing this night with my friends when my mother approached and told me I was going with her.

‘We’re we goin’, I asked in my under-developed English.

‘Nowhere’, she replied.

‘Wha, but you just said’.

‘Shut up and come with me and don’t tell your dad’.

Alarm bells went off. I didn’t want to go, I wanted to stay with my friends but what I wanted didn’t matter. After much reluctance on my part I was bribed to go. The bribe was a sweetener, I was going whether I wanted too or not. My mother waved a taxi and dragged me inside. The journey was short and we got out in front of this huge pub. My mother took me to the top of the road and sat me next to a crash barrier.

‘Stay there, don’t move, I won’t be long’. She didn’t wait for a response. I expected to see her go into the pub but she didn’t. She crossed the road and went into a house.

After about an hour I fell asleep on the floor, holding on to the barrier. I was awakened to my mother shaking me. She thrust a shiny coin into my hand - I had been paid off. She waved for another taxi and we got in. I sat there playing with my shiny coin not bothering to ask her where she had been or what she was doing.

Then she hit me with the bad news, ‘I will have to tell your dad I’ve been in the police station with you’.

‘Have your money back’, I said instantly.

Next came the emotional blackmail, ‘If your dad knows the truth, we’ll start fighting’.

You should have thought about that before is what I should have said but I didn’t - for the sake of everybody else in the house I was about to take the blame for something else that was not in my control and how could I control my life I was only ten years old.

We got out of the taxi at the bottom of the street and my mother reminded me of the plan on the way to the house. I was terrified; I knew my father would go mad. We entered the house and on hearing us come in he greeted us at the entrance to the living room. The plan was for me to go straight up the stairs and let my mother explain, hoping that would be enough for him. When he heard the fabricated story he whacked me across the back of the head, I didn’t wait – I took off up the stairs. The inevitable argument kicked off and I heard him shouting at my mother, "He is going to turn out like your brothers".

"Better than turning out like your spineless bastards", was her angered reply. My mother would not accept that this was her fault and allow my father to have the last word. I put my head under the pillow to muffle out the sound of their voices. I wanted to go down and scream at them to stop because I was scared and I didn’t want them to hurt each other but I was more frightened that I would be the one who got hurt again. I put my shiny coin on the floor beside my bed and closed my eyes. The next morning my coin had gone. At the time I had no idea what she had been up to and if I had to I would have probably spilled my guts.

Who could really blame him for going, he was in a loveless marriage and his wife was having an affair.

I feel I missed out on a lot with my father during my childhood. I had forgiven him for the split lip but whether he had forgiven himself was a question I never asked. It would have been nice to go out and kick a ball with him or to be encouraged by him. I always wanted him to be proud of me because I was his only son and his eldest. He never neglected me he just forgot to remember me. Even on the odd occasion when he did take us to see his parents I feel that was just an excuse for him to go the pub with his brothers.

Because we had so much contact with my mother’s family it was as though my father’s side did not exist. My grandmother (father’s mother) was wheelchair bound and mostly confined to bed – I never knew why. My grandfather was permanently hooked up to breathing apparatus, again I never knew why. I had uncles, aunties and cousins I barely knew – we were never given the opportunity to get to know them. In the end like my father they must have decided the effort was not worth the risk.

My two prized possessions as a child were my two pet mongrels, Ben and Rex. Ben was a black fur ball with a white chest. Rex was slightly smaller and all over black. I rescued Rex from a derelict house when he was a pup; somebody had dumped him behind a wall that was too high for him to climb. I pleaded with my father to keep him who remained adamant that I couldn’t until I cried myself sick, then he relented. I hugged the dog and it licked my face, we were both happy that we had found each other. I introduced both dogs and they both lived together peacefully. I never once remembered them having a tin of dog food, they lived of our leftovers. We had quite a few dogs as pets before Ben and Rex. I remember my father telling me that our Red Setter had escaped, a few hours later he came back with the dog in his arms. The dog was limp and covered in its own blood – it had been struck by a bus, it didn’t survive the night. We replaced the dog with a puppy. It was always very excited and animated. One night it raced through the house and out of the front door, I heard the screeching of brakes. My father jumped to his feet and stopped me from following; he went out to see what had happened. By the time he returned the tears were already streaming down my face – our puppy was no longer full of life.

I would go and spend most weekends with my grandparents on my mother’s side. I spent a lot of time with my granddad who was called George or Bunchie. I think this grated on my father’s nerves a lot. He probably felt that it was not a suitable environment for me because of my uncles criminal activities – the truth is my granddad did not allow me to be exposed to anything that might harm me. I didn’t have a lot to do with my uncles at that time of my life, they would be out stealing, drinking, fighting or in prison.

My granddad was an uncompromising man who hit first and then asked his question when it came to his family. He had huge hands attached to thick forearms. His strength was immense especially for somebody heading into his sixties. I was once told that my granddad had to be pushed to our house one day in a pram because he was that drunk he could not walk.

My granddad looked after me and I loved him for it. My grandparents did not share the same bedroom, which I found strange. My granddad’s was the first room at the top of the stairs, which I shared with him on my visits. He had a large double bed and I couldn’t wait to get in it at bedtime to listen to his stories. One night I was suffering from a cold and he forced me to drink a cap full of brandy. The taste was very sharp and I almost brought it straight back up but with encouragement from my granddad and his fingers pinching my nose I managed to keep it down. The next day I didn’t even have a sniffle – I never had any reason to doubt his wisdom.

He had a huge pigeon loft in the backyard and we would both feed and clean the birds. One day he was too busy for the pigeons and he would not allow me to tend to them by myself, obviously for my own safety. I got into a sulk and when he wasn’t looking I sneaked out of the house and decided to head towards my aunt’s house. When Bunchie realised what I had done he came after me and caught me. In the middle of the street he put me over his knee and smacked me hard once. I cried and he explained why he had done it – then he did something that was a new experience to me, he hugged me. My granddad never felt obliged to interact with me, he did it because he wanted to.

At Christmas I watched as he staggered towards the house, drunk and barely able to walk. He didn’t make it and crashed to the concrete floor, laughing as he went, he was still laughing as the family picked him up, it made me laugh – he made me laugh. Early the following year my granddad, the person who cared about me, died.

Stephanie’s early life was very different to mine. In our grandparents I had somebody I could turn to, to protect me, for Stephanie she led an isolated life and carried a secret that she was too terrified to share. She kept this secret hidden for over fifteen years partly through fear but also shame and the first person she ever told was her partner, the father of her children. She then told me.

She came into the world thirteen months after me; perhaps her luck was bad from the start. She was named Stephanie O’Brien (that’s what it says on her birth certificate). However our mother is resolute that she was named Stephanie Pauline O’Brien. On 5^th November 1972 she was baptised Patricia Stephany O’Brien (as written on her baptism certificate). To clear up any confusion she uses the name Stephanie O’Brien, no middle names included.

There are no proper pictures of Stephanie as a baby except from an old battered one were I hold her in my arms. There is no evidence of clothes that she looked cute in, no mementoes, she says that sometimes it feels as though she was found under a bush. In the past she has asked her mum about the mile stones in her life, like what age she was when she learned to walk, talk, when she got her first teeth or what her birth weight was. It would have been nice to compare the differences between herself and her own children. All our mother tells her is ‘I can’t remember, it was thirty odd years ago.’ Well let’s face it; she doesn’t even know her right name, let alone anything else.

I am told Stephanie was a regular visitor to the local hospital because she was a sickly baby, constantly losing weight and vomiting. Our mother was told repeatedly that she had gastroenteritis and that she was being an overprotective mother – a label that my mother wore with pride at the early stages of our life. At the age of three after many tests and hospital visits she was diagnosed with coeliac disease.

Coeliac disease is an intolerance to ingest wheat and gluten products, which causes weight loss, vomiting, diarrhoea and other more severe and even life threatening conditions. She was not allowed to eat food that contained wheat flour or gluten such as bread, pasta, biscuits or cakes. These foods had to be obtained by prescription from a chemist. All her food had to be carefully checked for any of these harmful ingredients.

If left untreated coeliac disease can cause extensive damage to the small bowel, including associated disorders affecting both the nutritional and immune systems. It is a life-long disease that regresses when gluten ceases to be absorbed into the bowel, allowing it to heal. Thyroid disease is an associated autoimmune disorder, something that Stephanie also suffers from.

As children myself and Stephanie would fight and argue with each other like most siblings, usually name calling – trying to wind each other up, we did have good teachers in the art of upsetting the people closest. Amongst the carnage of my parent’s marriage Stephanie also remembers a time when they tried to care for us.

She says she never had a day off school and we were fed properly. My mother would bake Stephanie special cakes and jam tarts, made with wheat and gluten free flour and she ensured Steph followed a strict wheat and gluten free diet. There was the occasional time that Steph sneaked a chocolate biscuit, loaded with the ingredients that were bad for her and would hide behind the sofa with it. This resulted in her getting a rash, my mother and father having an argument about who was to blame. They often blamed each other about the source of the disease, apparently it is hereditary. Instead of blaming each other Stephanie just wanted them to help each other. I was very fond of Stephanie’s "special" cakes and biscuits; at times I believe my parents thought I suffered from the same disease.

Those were special times when we performed as a true family. These two people were in love, they had kids to show for that. Yet somehow, something went incredibly wrong with that love and it turned into spiteful hatred. Steph also remembers the nights when we would get chased to bed so they could be alone or they would let us stay up and watch Christopher Lee play Dracula and we would all pull the settee forward and huddle on it. They were the really good times but they were too few.

I remember Stephanie telling me in the summer of 1977, a few months before her fifth birthday and the time that my other sister was born that she felt very jealous towards her. Stephanie believed Sarah had taken her status as the baby of the family. With having her life long illness she always felt special with the amount of attention she received but when a new life entered her home she felt threatened. It didn’t take long for her to enjoy having a sister and thirteen months later, we had another. For Stephanie it was like having two real dolls to play with.

I will never forget the time when we were all having our picture taken at various locations around the house. My second sister, Sarah was two and she was standing by the wall waiting. Stephanie was standing to the side out of view. She decided she wanted to be on the other side with everyone else, so just as our mother clicked the camera she darted across. When the picture was developed we discovered she wasn’t as quick as she thought. Stephanie was caught in what appears to be slow motion charging across the front of Sarah who is very excited. We all had a good laugh about it and that is an everlasting memory time of us all laughing together as a family.

Stephanie remembers a time when our mother went out and left her to mind our two younger sisters’. There was no food in the fridge or cupboards. The front door had no locking mechanism and was kept closed by a small step-ladder that rested behind it. She heard a knock but didn’t open the door. The people outside pushed open the door and came in. It was two female social workers. Stephanie says they asked a lot of questions regarding my mother. They looked around the house, in the fridge and upstairs. The conditions we were living in then were pitiable. One of the social workers took Steph up to the shop and bought them all sweets, crisps and a bottle of lemonade. Then they left.

Another time Stephanie was left alone with the kids; Rita came to the house demanding my mother’s benefit books. Although frightened Stephanie stood her ground and refused to bow to her demands. A neighbour who was also a friend had to intervene and chase Rita away.

Stephanie’s life was very hard. She herself was a fragile child who suffered from a serious illness. Yet she was left as a surrogate mother to her siblings. She deserved better than any of us because she never ever put herself first. She did everything for her younger sisters and was always the last person they saw before closing their eyes. Most of the time she was also the first person they saw when they opened them.

I was more of a hindrance than help. One night while my mother was out I practiced my darts. Instead of throwing into a dartboard I was throwing them at the headboard of my younger sisters’ beds. Things were going well until Sarah popped her head up and the dart stuck in her forehead. I panicked and Sarah screamed. Stephanie was very calm and settled Sarah. My mother came in with Billy (her new boyfriend) and the panic started again. They took Sarah to the hospital but before he left Billy threw my darts and board over the railway wall.

The highlight of her childhood was taking her first holy communion, an event that almost had to be cancelled. The previous evening she had been exploring in derelict houses and gashed her foot on a broken window. The hospital patched her up and her big day was still on. She was fitted out in a knee-length white lace dress with matching veil. Her hair was styled into ringlets and she looked like Cinderella going to the ball. All day she was the centre of attention and I remember the pride on the face of my mother, our father had been banned from the service, so he watched from a distance. She was their princess for the day, when our dad left our home she became Uncle Frank’s princess.