Can't Anyone Help Me? by Toni Maguire Read Free Book Online Page A

apart. I could see her white face, her blue eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as a grey-haired man, with rolls of pale, flabby flesh hanging from his stomach, grunted and groaned with pleasure as he violated her.
    It took him no longer to destroy the last shreds of her innocence than it would have done to boil a kettle or toast a slice of bread. To him she was insignificant, merely a vessel for his enjoyment. When he had finished he left her there, a broken doll with her child’s white knickers lying where he had thrown them.
    The passage of time might have made his features grow faint in my memory, but I can still see his eyes that, once the twinkle had left them, were cold and indifferent, hear his rasping voice – even the smell of him lingers in my memory. I have often thought that if evil has an odour, it was Chubby’s. It crawled into my nose, mixed with my tears and left a permanent stain deep within my body’s memories. Even now just a tone of voice or a certain laugh brings it back and, once again, my mouth fills with the sour taste of my childhood. Nothing has ever erased it. Chubby is trapped for ever within the labyrinth of my bad memories.

9
     
    That first time when my uncle returned and saw my pale, dry-eyed face – the shock had dried my tears before they had even fallen – he made the chubby man leave.
    ‘You shouldn’t have been so rough with her,’ I heard him say angrily.
    ‘She’ll be all right,’ said Chubby, dismissively. ‘They always are.’
    My uncle picked me up, pushed a small tablet between my lips and held me as I dozed. As I slipped in and out of sleep, his voice kept murmuring how sorry he was. Later he bathed me, then dressed me again. I refused to put on the same clothes that the man had taken off me, so he took my pyjamas out of my overnight bag – the top was patterned with pretty little pink mice – and slipped them on to my torn body.
    Why, after what happened that day, did I not talk? I often ask myself that question. But, then, even if I could have formed the words to explain, who would I have said them to? My uncle was the only person who told me he loved me and he already knew about it.
    Why did my aunt not question why I was wearing my nightclothes in the late afternoon when she returned from work? And why did she not notice how sleepy I was and how pale? But if she did, she didn’t comment and just bustled around as always, making supper and talking about her day at work.
    That evening we sat down to chicken and vegetables but the white meat looked dead and the vegetables slimy. I put small morsels into my mouth and forced myself to swallow them slowly, but before I had made any noticeable inroads, I pushed the plate aside. I knew I would vomit if I tried to eat any more.
    ‘What’s wrong with you, Jackie? Aren’t you hungry?’ my aunt asked.
    ‘Oh, leave her alone,’ my uncle said quickly, to prevent me replying. ‘She’ll eat when she’s ready.’ But I couldn’t eat anything else, even when she placed my favourite dessert of apple pie and cream in front of me.
    I think we watched television later, because we always did, until it was time for me to go to bed. It was my uncle who tucked me in and placed Paddington in my arms. Clutching my bear, I fell asleep.
    It was not long afterwards that my uncle, seeing I had survived the chubby man, told me he would show me what those acts would be like if they were done by someone who cared for me and loved me as much as he did.
    Each time my uncle removed my clothes and ran his hands over my body, he whispered endearments before he molested me. I heard his groans of pleasure, followed by his apologies when he knew he had hurt me, and the reassurances that I was loved.
    When I was given more of the sweet drinks, I gradually learnt they contained more than lemonade. I saw something from a smaller bottle being added to the fizzy liquid. Whatever was in it made me feel light-headed and woozy, but it took away the