Phoenix Resurrected Read online

  Phoenix Resurrected

  Oliver T. Spedding

  Published by Oliver T. Spedding, 2018.

  Phoenix Resurrected

  By

  Oliver T. Spedding

  ©Copyright 2017 Oliver T. Spedding

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Phoenix Resurrected

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  "Yes, Garth." I said as I wiped away my tears. "I'll be here."

  CHAPTER 18

  Sign up for Oliver T. Spedding's Mailing List

  Also By Oliver T. Spedding

  About the Author

  “Your Honour, I’d like to call my client and second defendant, Miss Cindy Bedford, to the witness stand.” my attorney, James Foster said.

  The judge nodded.

  I stood up from the hard wooden bench where I’d been sitting next to my co-accused, Garth Gilmore, and looked down at him. He stared back at me, his dark brown eyes unemotional, the fringe of his thick mane of black hair falling across his forehead and the scars and blemishes of his facial acne clearly visible in the bright courthouse light. His small mouth with its fleshy lips was slightly compressed, betraying the anxiety that he kept trying to hide. Although his white shirt was several sizes too big for him it failed to hide his bulky, muscular build that, even at his young age, was beginning to show signs of plumpness. His thick fingers lay intertwined on his lap.

  I walked determinedly to the witness stand and placed my hand on the black-covered bible that the court official proffered me.

  “Do you, Cindy Bedford, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the man asked in an almost bored tone.

  “I do.” I said.

  As the court official walked away towards his desk James Foster smiled at me encouragingly.

  “Miss Bedford, I’m going to address you as “Cindy” as I want you to feel at ease in the court.” he said. “We’re not here to attack you in any way. We’re here to try to determine what caused the events that brought you and Garth Gilmore here.

  "I would like to begin by asking you to describe your formative years as you remember them, especially with regard to your relationship with your parents. Please remember that this is a closed court, as required under the Child Justice Act, and that your evidence will be strictly confidential to this court and will not be open to the public. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I said, and taking a deep breath, I began my response to my attorney’s request.

  ***

  I was born in the Windhoek Central Hospital in Windhoek, the capital city of Namibia on the morning of June the tenth, nineteen eighty eight, the first and only child of John and Alice Bedford. My first name, Cindy, was chosen for me as it had been my maternal grandmother’s first name.

  According to my mother I was a quiet baby, not prone to bouts of screaming and howling, and when I did cry it was more of a plaintive sobbing. Apparently I smiled a lot and appeared to be a happy and contented baby.

  Most of my earliest memories featured my mother, a short slim woman with short red-brown hair, dark eyebrows that dipped towards the bridge of her nose and gave her a slightly angry look, dark brown eyes, a delicate nose, a thin-lipped mouth and a slightly receding chin.

  My father was several inches shorter than my mother and also slim, his thin blonde hair showing definite signs of receding. He had small pale blue eyes, bushy eyebrows that hung over his eyelids and gave him a slightly aggressive look, a slender blonde pencil moustache that underlined his battered flat nose, a thin straight mouth and, like my mother, a slightly receding chin.

  I think that my father’s short stature had something to do with his pugnacious attitude and I suspect that the bigger boys at school picked on him at every opportunity. His confrontational attitude didn’t help either and, judging by his battered and flattened nose, his false front teeth, his gnarled and misshapen knuckles and the myriad scars on his face, the idea of walking away from certain defeat never entered his mind.

  My father hardly featured in any of my early memories but when he did, it usually involved him shouting at me and belittling anything that I tried to do. My mother told me that he showed very little interest in my upbringing and avoided physical contact with me whenever possible. His belligerent attitude towards me and my mother was a constant damper to the camaraderie that most families strive for and I received many beatings for misdemeanours that I didn’t understand until I was much older. What soon became very clear to me was that my mother never interfered or tried to protect me during these assaults.

  When not working as a wage clerk at a large metal refinery in the Southern Industrial Area to the south of the city, my father spent all of his free time attending to his small flock of racing pigeons that he kept in a corrugated iron loft in the back yard of our small two-bedroom semi-detached house. The house was situated in Simpson Street in the suburb of Windhoek West and had been inherited by my mother from her parents who had died in a motor accident five years before I was born.

  The plastered outside walls of the house were painted a dark beige colour and the corrugated iron roof a dark red. The structure stood on a small piece of land fronted by a brick wall with a wooden pedestrian gate in the centre and two wide wooden gates on the left side closing off the short driveway leading to the garage where my father housed his dark green Morris Minor. A narrow concrete path and three steps led from the small front gate to the veranda that stretched across the front of the house.

  The house itself had a central passageway leading from the front door right through to the back door with the two bedrooms, the bathroom and the kitchen to the left and the lounge, dining room and the scullery to the right. The walls of the bathroom, kitchen and scullery were covered with white tiles and the rest of the rooms were covered in a blue willow-patterned wallpaper. The ceilings consisted of panels of pressed steel while the small windows created a gloomy atmosphere even when the lights were on. The wooden floors creaked ominously, especially during the dry winter months.

  The back yard of the property was bare brown ground with the pigeon loft in the centre against the high brick wall that separated our land from our neighbours on all three sides.

  Although my father took very little notice of me during my formative years there were many times when he was compelled to assist with my upbringing by helping me to dress or undress and take a bath. Although I only realized it later in my life, whenever he had to help me with these activities he took every opportunity to touch my genitals. Whenever he helped me to bath he always made sure that my mother wasn’t present and then he would caress me between my legs and make soothing sounds.

  When he helped me dress or undress he did the same thing, gently rubbing my genitals with his finger and smiling at me, but if he noticed any expression of fear or bewilderment on my face he would immediately cease his caressing. At this tender age my father’s actions meant nothing to me although I think that there were times when I experienced vague feelings of fear.

  My father continued to touch my genitals until I reached the age of three when I think he began to notice that his behaviour was disturbing and frightening me. He immediately avoided all physical contact with me except for the beatings that he subjected me to and which, I’ve no doubt, was noticed by my
mother, although I never heard her comment on it to my father. This behaviour by my father may have registered in my subconscious but I took no notice of it and never mentioned it to my mother.

  I went to kindergarten for three years as my mother worked mornings at the nearby Post Office but they were obviously uneventful years as I don’t remember any incidents from that time. My mother told me later that I was very quiet as a small child and, although I never created any lasting friendships, I was always happy and content. I was friendly and tolerant and seemed to be very considerate towards the other children, letting them play with my toys and never being greedy or selfish.

  At primary school I made friends easily and my marks were good. I loved learning and constantly searched for understanding. Although many of my classmates were more gifted than I was I never felt threatened about my academic achievements and never envied other’s successes. The only dampener in my life was my father and to a lesser extent, my mother.

  Ever since I could remember, my father had been a heavy drinker both at the local pub after work and at home in the evenings and over weekends. This inebriation often led to outbursts of anger and violence being directed at me and my mother for no reason that I could understand. My mother tried to explain to me that my father was struggling to pay his expenses on the meagre pay that he received and was gradually falling deeper and deeper into debt.

  During my early years at primary school the severe beatings by my father for my indiscretions became more frequent but he always used some article such as a hairbrush or a belt to strike me with and never used his naked hand. I began to develop a deep hatred for my father as well as a desperate feeling of helplessness as I often failed to understand what I had done to anger him so. I also began to feel frightened by the fact that my mother never interfered when my father beat me. The support that I desperately needed and expected from her was never there.

  I remember one particular incident when I was about eight years old and my father beat me so badly that I was forbidden to go to school or even leave the house for a week in case someone queried the welts on my arms and legs and my swollen left eye.

  My mother had baked a dish of spaghetti bolognaise for our supper and I had offered to carry the meal from the kitchen to the dining room. My mother had been hesitant about allowing me to take on this responsibility.

  “Are you sure that you can carry the dish?” she asked. “It’s very hot.”

  “Yes.” I said. “I’ll hold it with a dish cloth.”

  My mother folded a dish cloth and handed it to me, watching closely as I used it to pick up the scorching hot plate. As I turned towards the dining room I could sense my mother watching me anxiously. I felt very confident as I walked towards the dining room. I so wanted to be part of the family and little things like this made me feel wanted.

  As I entered the dining room the dish cloth slipped under my grip and my fingers touched the piping hot dish. The sudden pain made me jerk my hands away and I dropped the whole meal onto the floor. The plate shattered and hot spaghetti bolognaise and pieces of china sprayed out across the floor.

  My father stood up from where he’d been sitting at the table waiting for his meal and ran towards me. Thinking that he was coming to help me I looked up at him apologetically as I held my aching fingers close to my chest.

  “You bloody little fool!” my father screamed at me. “You’ve ruined our bloody supper!”

  I stared at my father in shock. He raised his right hand and punched me hard in my left eye. I fell backwards, hitting the back of my head against the wall and slid to the floor. As I lay dazed I saw my father remove the thick leather belt from his trousers, fold it in two, and raise it above his shoulder.

  “I’ll show you what happens when you waste our food!” my father yelled at me and brought the leather belt down across my left arm viciously. I screamed in agony.

  “Please stop, daddy!” I wailed. “I’m sorry! Please don’t hit me! The cloth slipped and I burnt my fingers!”

  My father ignored my pleas and began to beat me fiercely on my thighs.

  “You’ve ruined our supper, you stupid little bitch!” he shouted as he continued to hit my legs and arms with the belt. “You’ve wasted our whole supper!”

  I tried to pull my legs in under my body to protect them and my father began to hit me across my upper arms. The pain was so unbearable that I almost fainted. Vaguely I noticed my mother watching me from the doorway.

  “Please, mommy!” I screamed. “Tell daddy to stop!”

  My mother turned and walked away.

  By now, my father was so out of breath that he had to stop hitting me. He stepped back and his foot landed in the food lying on the floor. He slipped and he almost fell. This enraged him further and he began hitting me once again with the leather belt but his arm was too tired and he quickly stopped. He turned and began kicking the food on the floor, splattering it over the furniture and the walls of the room. He turned back to face me.

  “You stupid little bitch!” he shouted. “No food for you at all, tonight! Get up and go to your room!”

  I staggered to my feet, my legs and arms covered with aching red welts. The pain was agonizing and as I lurched towards the doorway my father kicked me viciously on my upper left thigh. I staggered and hit my head against the door jamb, almost knocking myself out.

  As I left the room I glanced fearfully back at my father expecting to be kicked again or hit on the back with the belt. He stood glaring at me though, and in my dazed condition I noticed a large bulge with a wet patch on it in the front of his trousers.

  I stumbled to my bedroom and fell onto my bed, crying desperately.

  “Cook another dish of spaghetti, Alice!” I heard my father shout to my mother. “But only make enough for the two of us! That stupid little bitch gets nothing tonight! And tomorrow she can spend the whole day here cleaning up the mess that she made!”

  Eventually I managed to gain control of myself. I lay on my bed shivering with shock. I had tried to be part of the family and now I’d alienated myself even more. I hadn’t purposely dropped the dish. The cloth had slipped. Why couldn’t my father understand that all children make mistakes? That’s how they learn. And why hadn’t my mother tried to stop my father? I felt betrayed and my anger and hatred for both my parents seethed within me.

  The following morning my father walked into my bedroom.

  “You’re not going to school or even out of this house until those bruises and welts have healed.” he shouted at me. “You will spend the whole day here cleaning the dining room and the rest of the house. If I come home and I find even the smallest speck of dust anywhere in the house I’ll thrash you so badly that you’ll end up in hospital! You stupid little bitch!”

  Because of my father’s financial problems my mother was forced to work at the Post Office full time which meant that I returned from school each afternoon to an empty house. My parents expected me to make my own lunch and then do a number of chores about the house such as cleaning the bathroom, doing some simple ironing and washing the dishes from the previous evening’s meal. Later I was also expected to prepare the food for the evening meals.

  My years at primary school were particularly uneventful. I mixed naturally with the other children, both boys and girls although, quite naturally, I preferred the company of my girl friends. Although the subject of sex was sometimes brought up it was always mentioned with ignorance and innocence and mixed with a great deal of giggling and blushing. Some of the girls claimed to know all about the topic but quickly backed down when challenged to elaborate on what they knew and where the information had come from.

  It was only in my last year at primary school that I became aware of sex and the strange effect that it had on me. Boys somehow became more interesting and some were even quite attractive to me. The giggling and blushing that had previously accompanied talk of sex amongst the girls disappeared and curiosity took their place. Some of my girl friends began developing rel
ationships with boys that they were attracted to and spent hours talking to them and even surreptitiously holding hands.

  By this time I had developed the physical features that would determine my appearance as an adult. When I entered my final year at primary school I was slightly taller than both my parents, had inherited my mother’s red-brown hair and eyebrows and my father’s blue eyes. Like both my parents my mouth was thin-lipped and wide but unlike my parents I had a prominent chin that my father said indicated stubbornness and arrogance.

  I had also adopted my father’s anger although mine stemmed from my own helplessness at the physical abuse that I suffered and later from the sexual abuse that I was forced to endure. I had begun to hate myself for not doing anything about the abuse that I experienced and yet I knew deep down that there was actually very little that I could do to prevent it.

  My body was also beginning to change and two small breasts with enlarged nipples slowly began to form although they were far too small to require the wearing of a bra. I had also sprouted a small mass of black pubic hair and hair in my armpits. A noticeable gracefulness began to transform my body, something that excited me, even though I didn’t quite understand why.

  I found myself particularly attracted to a boy named Garth Gilmore but to my consternation he remained completely oblivious to my being, just as he was to all the other girls. Compared to the other boys, Garth was noticeably withdrawn and often quite aggressive towards the other boys and girls. He was quick to take offence and looked upon us girls with disdain.

  Garth was slightly taller than me with thick black hair that hung down in a fringe over his forehead, dark brown eyebrows and dark green eyes. His nose was large and flat, his chin noticeably strong and his fleshy lips seldom smiled. At the time that I became acutely aware of him, I noticed that he suffered quite seriously from acne on his face. He was well-built but slightly overweight, with a thick neck and heavy sloping shoulders. According to the other boys at the school he was immensely strong physically. He never spoke about himself and all that I knew about him was that, like me, he was an only child and that he lived with his parents in one of the small grey corrugated iron houses at the edge of the Southern Industrial Area.