Where There is Evil by Sandra Brown Read Free Book Online

reassured by my presence that all was well.
    I remember at that same lochside spot, my friends giggled when he played with us in the rhododendron bushes, but it struck me as odd that a grown man would want to join in hide and seek with wee
girls. He took turns at coming to look for us, and said he knew good places to hide if anyone wanted to go with him. My confusion grew as I played through that summer, and I found excuses not to be
near him. He only laughed at my discomfort.
    One day, I was told by Elizabeth, the redhead, that she was not allowed to play with me any more, and no reason was given. Beth and Elizabeth, too, came to say that they were not allowed to play
with me any more or to cross the doorstep of 51 Dunbeth Road. ‘We’re just not to, and we’re not allowed to say why,’ they murmured in unison, shaking their ringlets
disconsolately. Their cheeks were pink.
    Aged seven and eight, I could not form my doubts into questions, and something would not
allow
me to talk to anyone, particularly not my mother. However, I worked out ways of keeping my
friends clear of my dad. I could not have forseen that Alexander would shift his attention from my friends to young girls he lured into his bus cabin.
    His behaviour was witnessed by a number of his colleagues, who might have found it distasteful, but not one reported it to the authorities.

Chapter Six
    From the age of about seven, when my friends were turning away from me, I began to escape into the world of books. If it was too cold to be out playing, I would either be found
in the tiny branch library, a few doors down Dunbeth Road, where I exhausted their supply of Enid Blyton and Bobbsey Twins books, or curled up in a corner of the house, my back to the wall and a
book inches from my face. ‘Get your nose out of that book, you lazy wee bitch!’ my father would roar if I shut out his constant demands – he was the type of man who refused to
wash a cup, and preferred to leave a row of dirty ones along the mantelpiece for others to deal with. ‘It isnae healthy a lassie reading all the time the way ye do. Ye’ll end up
wi’ glasses, then a’ the lads will ca’ ye Specky – d’ye hear me? Ye’ll wear yer eyes oot!’
    I would ignore him and my mother would try to pacify him.
    ‘Who d’ye think ye are? Miss High and Mighty, that’s you!’ he would yell, ‘Think ye’re better than all of us, don’t ye? Well, ye’re nut, Miss
Prim. Ah’ll show ye who’s boss round this hoose! Ye’ll get ma hand over yer arse in a minute!’
    ‘Leave her alone,’ my mother would implore. ‘She isn’t doing any harm.’
    She would step between us, or send me off on some errand until he was setting off on his next shift. The two of us had our own strategies for coping with my father.
    Yet he had another side and I can remember him too as a loving father, good-humoured and joking, swinging me up in his arms and calling me his princess. Around my seventh birthday, he took me
with a crowd of his mates from Baxter’s to see
The Dancing Years on Ice
. The trip to Murrayfield in Edinburgh was exciting enough, but I was entranced by the spectacular show, and
returned shining-eyed to Dunbeth Road, describing every moment to my mother and treasuring the special programme he had bought me.
    Once or twice I tested the ground with my mother by telling her tentatively that my father ‘acted funny’ with my friends, but I got nowhere. ‘Oh, he’s just playing with
you all,’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s just a big wean himself. Learn to ignore it.’
    That summer of 1956 was warm and my father took me off on a Baxter’s outing, while my mother and brothers were at home. It was an all-day excursion to the Trossachs of Scotland, a
beautiful area to visit on a sunny day. On the bus, my father indulged in his favourite shenanigans with a group of three or four young women right at the back, while an older conductress I
didn’t know was requested to take