Terrie Duckett - Stolen Voices - A sadistic step-father. Two children violated. Their battle for justice.

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: ‘Humble Beginnings’

Chapter 2: ‘In the Picture’

Chapter 3: ‘Last Laugh’

Chapter 4: ‘New Beginnings’

Chapter 5: ‘Family Games’

Chapter 6: ‘Eye of the Storm’

Chapter 7: ‘A Dog’s Life’

Chapter 8: ‘Hidden Hurt’

Chapter 9: ‘Fighting Back’

Chapter 10: ‘Tipping Point’

Chapter 11: ‘Down not out’

Chapter 12: ‘Into an Abyss’

Chapter 13: ‘An Eye for an Eye’

Chapter 14: ‘Holiday Hell’

Chapter 15: ‘Timed Torment’

Chapter 16: ‘Fresh Hell’

Chapter 17: ‘Betrayal’

Chapter 18: ‘Best-laid Plans’

Chapter 19: ‘Thwarted’

Chapter 20: ‘Thumbscrews’

Chapter 21: ‘Work Life’

Chapter 22: ‘Triggered’

Chapter 23: ‘Cycle of Life’

Chapter 24: ‘Taking the Bullet’

Chapter 25: ‘Hope’

Chapter 26: ‘Straightjacket’

Chapter 27: ‘Gloves Off’

Chapter 28: ‘Shadow in Sun’

Chapter 29: ‘The Truth’

Chapter 30: ‘Police Searches’

Chapter 31: ‘The Trial’

Afterword

Exclusive sample chapter

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Copyright

About the Publisher

We dedicate this book to each other and to every other brother and sister struggling to survive: with strength, humour and love we came through this together. Our bond is unbreakable.

‘What’s up?’ I yawned into the phone to my brother Paul. It was almost 1 a.m. and I was feeling bloody tired.

‘I’ve just got off the phone to the police,’ Paul blurted out. ‘You know they arrested Peter today and searched the house? Well, you’re just not going to believe this!’ He took a breath. ‘Apparently, it’s been designated a crime scene and they’ve left police outside all night, to make sure no one gets in. There was so much evidence they ran out of time and need to go back and collect the rest. They reckon it’s an “Aladdin’s cave”. Their words, not mine.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I’m gonna drive over. Do you wanna come?’

I didn’t even have to think twice. ‘Yes! Come and get me. I’ll be waiting outside.’ I hung up, threw on some clothes and ran outside. I stood waiting impatiently by the side of the road, trying to calm my breathing. A few moments later, Paul’s car turned the corner and pulled up next to me. I jumped in and we screeched away.

‘Fasten seat belt,’ Paul’s car lectured me repeatedly in a mechanical monotone.

‘All right, all right, shut the fuck up,’ I muttered, cutting the car off as I clicked the belt in place. Paul rolled his eyes and drove on.

We drove silently towards our childhood home, lost in our thoughts. We were both feeling numb, not able to believe they had finally arrested him. We had had a couple of intensely stressful weeks waiting for the police to call, and now here we were driving towards the place we had barely survived as children, not knowing quite what to expect.

None of the events of the past few weeks had actually sunk in; whether it was the police telling us it was the worst case they had dealt with in a long time, the pitying looks we had received as we gave our interview, or the fact that we’d been brave enough to tell anyone at all.

My thoughts snapped back into focus as the car turned into Churchill Avenue, an ordinary estate filled with neat council houses; a place we’d avoided for over 10 years because it evoked so many traumatic memories. As the well-trodden pavements swept past, my stomach twisted into a hard knot.

In the distance the familiar silhouette of our childhood home loomed: the box-shaped porch, the white wooden cladding, the thin paving snaking from the public footpath to the front door. Such an innocent-looking house, yet one that hid so many dark secrets. Today Number 59 looked tardy and neglected.

As we approached, we saw a police car parked opposite the house with two men inside it. With a quick glance at Paul, I could tell we both felt weird and in some ways wrong to pass by the empty house. The reality was starting to sink in, and although neither of us was sure how as victims we were meant to act, we knew that together we’d get through it, just as we did through our childhood.

Paul accelerated so that we passed the house at normal speed.

‘Well, it looks like we’ve got the ball rolling now,’ breathed Paul as he sucked long and hard on his roll-up.

‘I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to be an easy journey.’ I sighed.

‘Can’t be any harder than what we’ve been through,’ Paul commented.

‘Don’t you wish we could have told our younger selves how things would work out?’

‘I wouldn’t change a thing; the struggles we went through have made us the people we are today. I believe if we changed one thing in our past it would change who we are now.’

I glanced at Paul and nodded. ‘True.’ I was full of apprehension about the days and weeks ahead. I was just glad we had each other.

My parents, John and Cynthia, were childhood sweethearts. Their relationship had begun like a storybook romance, but with their marriage their dreams died.

Mum intended to follow in her father’s footsteps in Northampton’s traditional calling, designing shoes, until she naively showed her designs to a local shoe manufacturer during one lunchtime, who stole them. Dad joined the parachute regiment and aspired to be part of the SAS – until he failed their selection course.

In 1968, with both their dreams in tatters, life was to change irreparably again. Mum discovered she’d accidentally fallen pregnant. To say Dad was not best pleased was an understatement, but in 1968 pregnancy meant marriage and that was that. So Mum abandoned her place in college and went up the aisle – or at least the corridor – of Northampton register office.

She didn’t tell her parents, my Nan and Pap – Gladys and George – at first. Not only had she let them down, but they believed she could do better than my dad. However, by the time she told them the damage had been done, and at the very least they felt he’d done the honourable thing.

I arrived on 27 June 1969 in Aldershot, the garrison town where Dad was based. For the first month of my life we lived in married quarters, though Dad was desperate to be released back to Civvy Street, not being able to face being returned to his parachute regiment after failing the SAS selection course. The only way he could be discharged was to buy himself out, so Mum raided her savings and stumped up the required £200 – a prohibitive sum, but a small price to pay to keep her new husband happy.

Mum and I lived my first year with my Nan and Pap in their cosy two-bedroom house. But the first home I remember clearly was a council maisonette in Moat Place. It was a bit sparse; the kitchen and lounge were downstairs and the bedrooms were up a white-painted stairway that had a thin carpet runner tacked loosely to the wood. Two wooden slats ran down the side of the stairs, with a narrow gap between them, so that as a small child I could peer through. I spent a fair bit of time sitting in nervous silence on those stairs, listening to Mum and Dad argue their way through life.