Dirty Old Man , livre ebook

Dirty Old Man
Moll French
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-02-28
Dirty Old Man About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Disclaimer Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Epilogue My Poem for Darren (Moll, aged 12)
About the Author
Moll French is an author, martial artist and musician. Her debut memoir, Dirty Old Man , was the bestselling memoir in 2014 and has since enjoyed success internationally.
When she isn’t throwing kicks and punches, she enjoys reading and writing in most genres, short stories being a personal favourite. Work aside, she lives with her two boys and her beloved American bulldog/boxer, Lulu.
Dedication
For my dear friend Dr Julie Louise Steele.
10 February 1971 – 3 September 2010.
May my dear friend rest in peace, she’ll never know how many times she saved me from a similar fate back then, simply by being present.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Moll French (2019)
The right of Moll French to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528901024 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528947756 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Disclaimer
Whilst the information contained within this book is my own recollection of events, I have changed names to protect the identities of those mentioned.
Chapter One
My family huddled close by on edge with bated breath. It was a conversation they would have to hear to believe because at that moment I was an attention seeking liar as far as they were concerned. Sickness flooded the very pit of my stomach and a cold sweat which escaped every pore took its grip upon me.
I sat with my back to the family, though I envisioned their familiar faces and their expressions of disgust only too well. There would be, “I can’t believe she’s fabricated such a story” and “she’s so deluded she must be mentally ill.”
Bernie was such a well-respected, well liked family friend that my recent admission had shaken the family to its core.
On the last ring, Bernie answered in his nasally voice as he spoke over the crackling connection.
“Hello?”
I hesitated for a moment, but my dad prompted a reply with a rough shove on the back of my head; I cleared my dry throat.
“Hello? It’s me,” my voice crackled with a dry hoarseness.
“Hiya, are you okay, Petal?”
The line was silent as I listened to the buzz.
“No. Not really.”
“Why? What’s up?”
My dad gave another rough shove and I flinched.
“They know everything,” I said, as I tried to compose my shaking voice, “every single little thing.”
“Oh,” was all he offered to me as a reply. I immediately detected his self-preservative tone and felt isolated, as though it was my fault and I’d landed him in it.
Anxiety darted to every safe corner in my imagination and I worried that when the conversation was over – when I’d put the receiver down – I’d be left to face my family alone.
Bernie could deny everything, of course, and dismiss the facts, even put it down to me being a disturbed child and perhaps it would be plausible enough for my family to believe; they certainly didn’t believe my version of events at present.
I didn’t want to hang up the phone and sever my contact, so long as I just stayed on the line – no harm would come to me. I’d really left myself open to punishment this time.
I wept quietly as the receiver slipped in my perspiring hands.
“Are you on your own? What have your parents said? Are they angry with us?”
It seemed he was testing the water to see if he could deny it; unaware that he was on the loudspeaker. His voice was dry, distinguished by his overly pronounced words that clicked as he spoke. Bernie was the only person I felt able to rely on now and my pillar of strength sounded more like a scared rodent at the end of the line.
I finally understood what it meant to open a can of worms.
My dad snatched the receiver away and turned off the hands free; much to the spectators’ disappointment.
“Angry? I’ve not even started to get angry yet!” he spat, “You’re a dirty old man and if you even think of coming near my house again, I’ll go up into my loft and fetch my gun down. I don’t care how long you’ve been teaching martial arts and how tough you claim to be, but nobody can stop a bullet.”
Dad silenced for what seemed an eternity and I tried to make out what was being said. It was distorted, wild and out of my control now. My racing heart threatened to jump up into my throat and choke me at any moment and I’d have welcomed it. My skin was clammy and both palms were sweating. I didn’t dry them on my sleeves, I didn’t dare move a muscle. I felt it was part of the impending punishment to sit in discomfort because I deserved it.
“Of course I’m threatening you, idiot. I thought you were supposed to be intelligent!” Dad scoffed. “She’s only fifteen; you’re thirty-nine. You’re twenty-four years older than her. There’s a name for your sort,” he paused momentarily. “Hang on, hang on just a moment.” He looked towards my mum. “Just how long has this been going on for?” he paused again and his eyes widened with rage. “Come on. How long?” he shouted like a deranged madman.
His answer from the line, if any, had proven to be unsatisfactory, so he turned to me.
“You!” he thrust his finger in my face, “You disgusting tart! How long?”
I didn’t say a word – I couldn’t. The words were shrivelled stuck in my throat; frozen in place by the cold sweat. The adrenaline rode my breath in waves, and I felt likely to vomit.
“How long?” he shouted as he took a swipe at my face.
“Three years,” I told him as best I could with a dry croak, “It began around three years ago.”
The glares came from every corner of the room and pressed upon me like a dead weight.
My mum sat perched on the edge of her chair with an all too familiar expression of revolt for me. I could see her shutting down, which meant there’d be no support from her. Just as I thought things couldn’t get much worse, my dad changed his strategy; he wanted to play a game.
He was now in a position to intimidate and make someone he once respected, and looked up to, feel very uncomfortable. This was more like the dad I knew. He held a silent contempt for people more intelligent than himself.
“I suggest you get around here and explain yourself,” he said. “If you don’t come over right now, I’m calling the police.”
He slammed the phone down and grinned wickedly at me.
My body felt as though it would stop breathing any moment, as I hyperventilated through the tears of humiliation that streamed down my burning cheeks.
“You can cut that out right now, madam,” said Mum. She told my siblings to make themselves scarce in their rooms, and not to come down unless told otherwise.
Dad had always been fascinated by the military, though unfortunately, he lacked the backbone to join. He ran his family and home like a boot-camp. There were curfews for every event and consequences for everybody if something happened and the guilty party didn’t own up. He craved feeling in complete control, likely because his own life was so out of control, and having a large family gave him the resources.
There were army cargo nets hung about the house, and a huge mural of a woodland pasted onto one of the walls in the living room. The attic was filled with all manner of weapons: shotguns, rifles, hunting knives and crossbows, all things he’d collected at the expense of the tax payer, as he decided he was no longer fit to work because of a bad back and nervous disposition. He’d spent some of his younger years locked up in a mental institute because he’d experimented with far too many drugs during the sixties and seventies.
“But Mum!” protested my sister Beth, as she walked towards the door.
“It’s not a bloody freak show! Now, get up to your rooms,” she said, in a tone dry of any emotion, “and you, madam,” she pointed at me, “you sit there and don’t move even a bit. You’ll do exactly as your dad tells you. What he says goes.”
She always took his side when it came to me; I don’t think she was afraid of him. Rather, her life had become a vicious circle of working to support the family, coming home every night to a messy house, and Dad not progressing any further with his own life. He simply existed in the house, smoking my mum’s wages away each day.
We all secretly wanted her to leave him, we fantasised about spending more time with her when it happened, but it was difficult in those days. It was hard enough to survive as it was, and things had become reasonably stable as far as money was concerned. Dad received his benefits every week and saved up for military related items, like binoculars and image intensifiers so he could see in the dark during his woodland escapades.
Alex and Beth slipped past me triumphantly; I was going to be in deep trouble. Alex made eye contact as he took his turn out the door.
“Slag,” he hissed and spat in my face. It would be the only occasion where could use such profanity within earshot of our parents without consequences, so he seized the opportunity with no repercu