Joe Peters - Cry Silent Tears - The heartbreaking survival story of a small mute boy who overcame unbearable suffering and found his voice again

The heartbreaking survival story

of a small mute boy who

overcame unbearable

suffering and found

his voice again

JOE PETERS

with Andrew Crofts

This book is based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, some names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

HarperElement

An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperElement is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

First published by HarperElement 2008

© Joe Peters 2008

Joe Peters asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007274048

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007283828

Version: 2018-08-14

Title Page Cry Silent Tears The heartbreaking survival story of a small mute boy who overcame unbearable suffering and found his voice again JOE PETERS with Andrew Crofts

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Tug Of War

Chapter Two: A Bitter Battleground

Chapter Three: Inferno

Chapter Four: ‘Turn Him Off!’

Chapter Five: Smelly Woof

Chapter Six: Incarceration

Chapter Seven: Mum’s New Boyfriend

Chapter Eight: Rescued From The Cellar

Chapter Nine: Starting School

Chapter Ten: Being Groomed

Chapter Eleven: The Movie Business

Chapter Twelve: Learning To Speak Again

Chapter Thirteen: A Bid For Freedom

Chapter Fourteen: Betrayal And Capture

Chapter Fifteen: In And Out Of Care

Chapter Sixteen: Thieving For Mum

Chapter Seventeen: Moving On

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

To Michelle, my soulmate, and my five beautiful and special children, Darren, Liam, Kirsty-Lea, Shannon and Paige.

Thanks guys, for all your love and support. Love Dad.

I never doubted for a moment that my dad loved me more than anything or anyone else in the world, and I returned that adoration wholeheartedly from the first moment that I was able to. He was a tall, handsome man with sparkly eyes, who was popular wherever he went, and he made me feel like king of the world every second we were together. I was his first child, his pride and joy, and he put me on as high a pedestal as I put him. ‘My little Joe,’ he’d say fondly, sitting me on his knee and ruffling my curly brown hair.

In almost all of my early memories, I am clinging to his big long legs, viewing the world from between them, or sitting in his car or on a grass verge nearby watching him while he worked. He was employed as a mechanic for an Irish guy called Graeme who owned a garage in Norwich, and had been with him since he was an apprentice, straight out of school. Graeme’s whole family had taken to him as though he was one of their own children and he had repaid their faith in him a hundredfold. He had gradually been given more and more responsibility and trust until he was virtually running the place if Graeme wasn’t there and they all thought the world of him. Dad seemed to have that effect on everyone, and I was able to bask in his reflected glory whenever I was with him. I felt safe and happy when he was around.

My mum, on the other hand, was a terrifying woman. She was almost as tall as Dad, with jet-black hair and a scowling face. It seemed to me she was always angry and, in particular, she seemed to be constantly furious with Dad and me. My three older brothers (from her first marriage) got off lightly, but whenever I was near she would lash out, hitting me round the head, kicking me or pushing me over. She called me all kinds of names I didn’t understand and screamed at me till I cowered, petrified, in a corner.

Well aware of her violent nature and her hatred for me, Dad kept a watchful eye on me from dawn till dusk. Everywhere he went, I went. As a toddler, I was hardly ever allowed out of his sight. Not only did he take me to work, but he even took me to the toilet with him. Not that I needed much encouragement; I wanted to be as close to him as possible. We were mutually bonded and he took pleasure in indulging my every whim. If I wanted Sugar Puffs he would buy me a box a day and let me eat my way through them. Mum would freak out when she found out.

‘You’re spoiling him,’ she would scream. ‘And you’re undermining me when I tell him he can’t have things.’

‘He can have whatever he wants,’ Dad would tell her, in a tone that implied that was the end of the discussion.

In my early years, I had no idea why there was this constant raging battle over me, but so long as I could be with Dad that was fine. And when we began to stay at his friend Marie’s house instead of with Mum, I was even happier. Marie was pretty and gentle, with long, reddish hair, and she was very nice to me. I liked the way she talked to me, explaining things at a level that I could understand and always taking my feelings into account. In all the years I knew her, I don’t think I ever heard her raise her voice. But once we were staying at Marie’s, Mum got even more angry and would come round at all hours trying to force Dad to hand me over to her. That used to terrify me and I’d cling to him like a limpet while they shouted at each other.

One day, when I was four, Dad wasn’t able to take me to work with him for some reason so he left me with his sister, Melissa, instructing her that on no account was she to let Mum get hold of me. Somehow Mum got to hear about where I was and turned up at Aunt Melissa’s house, insisting that she was taking me home with her. Melissa put up a battle but Mum wasn’t having any of it. I stood in the hall trembling as the two women screamed abuse at each other, insults flying.

‘He’s not your fucking child,’ Mum yelled. ‘I’ll call the police and have you done for kidnapping, you fucking cow.’