Phoenix Resurrected Read online

  ***

  “Cindy.” James Foster said with an encouraging smile. “We’re now coming to a very difficult stage for you in this hearing. I want you to tell the court when your father began to sexually molest you and what you had to endure. If at any time you feel uncomfortable and want to stop, please tell me. Remember that this is a closed court and everything that you say will be kept in strict confidence. Nobody outside this courtroom will know what you have said here.”

  I nodded and continued with my story.

  ***

  One day, at the beginning of my final year at primary school my father came home from work earlier than usual. It was obvious to my mother and I that he’d been drinking. He walked into the kitchen where I was doing my homework at the kitchen table and my mother was standing at the stove cooking our supper. He sat down at the table.

  “Alice, I’ve got bad news.” my father said. “The company has run into financial difficulties and some of the staff have been retrenched. Fortunately I’m not one of them but my job has been reduced from a full-time job to a half-day job. My pay has only been reduced by a quarter though and I’ve been told that these measures are likely to only be temporary. It’s expected that the situation will return to normal in about six months.”

  I looked up at my mother who stared at my father, her forehead creased by a frown.

  “But the economy’s doing so well!” she exclaimed. “And metal prices are at record levels!”

  I saw my father’s anger flare up.

  “What the hell are you implying?” he shouted. “That I’m lying? That I’ve made up this story? Why would I do that?”

  “No, no!” my mother replied hastily. “What I’m suggesting is that there must have been mismanagement at the company for this to have happened.”

  My father stared up at my mother as he tried to comprehend what she had just said. I saw the understanding suddenly show in his expression.

  “That’s exactly right!” he exclaimed. “That’s exactly what’s happened. There’s been mismanagement at the refinery! Of course! The bloody directors have stuffed up the company and now the workers have to suffer!”

  It was obvious to me that my father was lying but I couldn’t imagine why.

  “So, what are you going to do?” my mother asked. “Look for an afternoon job?”

  “No.” my father replied. “If this situation’s only temporary then I’ll just wait until it corrects itself. I’ll come home and spend the afternoons tending to the pigeons. Some of them are showing signs of becoming winners and I want to spend more time grooming them and training them. Once they’re in prime condition I’ll enter them in some races. There’s a lot of money in pigeon racing.”

  I looked back at my mother and noticed the perplexed expression on her face. It was obvious to me that she also didn’t believe what my father had told us but she couldn’t understand why.

  On the first day that my father worked half-day I returned home from school and saw him fussing about at the pigeon loft. I made myself a sandwich and, still in my school uniform, began to do my homework at the kitchen table. At about half past five my mother returned and began cooking our supper. My father ignored us and went to the local pub to have some drinks. My mother left his supper in the oven.

  On the second day, when I returned from school, my father was sitting in the lounge reading the newspaper. I made myself a sandwich and was just about to sit down at the kitchen to do my homework when my father called me. I went to the lounge and was surprised to find that the curtains had been drawn closed and the room was in semi-darkness.

  “Come in and sit down next to me.” my father said, smiling. “I want to talk to you about something important.”

  I felt fear and confusion well up in me.

  “Dad, I’ve got a lot of homework to do.” I said. “Can’t I do that first?”

  My father’s expression changed from friendliness to anger.

  “Do as I say.” he said, his voice filled with menace. “Come and sit down here on the couch next to me!”

  I desperately wanted to turn and run away but my muscles wouldn’t obey me. I knew that something bad was about to happen but I was helpless to prevent it. I could feel my heart beating rapidly as I walked slowly into the darkened room and sat down next to my father. My helplessness overwhelmed me and I stared at my father, too frightened to do anything.

  “Cindy.” my father said, staring intently at me with hard blue eyes. “I want to talk to you about something that nobody else must know about. It has to be our secret and if you ever say a word about it I’ll cut your face with a knife so badly that nobody will ever look at you again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I stared at my father, my whole body filled with dread. My throat constricted and I gape at him, too frightened to speak.

  My father placed his hand on my thigh.

  “In most families,” he said, “when girls reach your age they have a special relationship with their fathers. It’s quite natural and normal but most girls keep it a secret. There’s nothing to be afraid of, in fact, you’ll find it a wonderful experience and it will help you to understand what sex is all about and help you a great deal when you get married.”

  As my father spoke he began to gently caress my thigh, moving his hand under my short skirt. The shock of what my father was doing numbed me. I sat rigidly next to him unable to move.

  “You must understand that what we’re going to do is quite normal but it’s important to keep it a secret.” my father said. “You’re growing up now and this is something that just about every girl experiences. There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of and I’m going to help you to understand all about sex. But if you say anything to anybody, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Is that clear?”

  Still too shocked to say anything I continued to stare at my father, my helplessness crushing my whole spirit.

  “You’ve grown into a very attractive and sexy girl, Cindy.” my father said, his voice growing husky. “That’s why this is happening between us. If you weren’t so sexy I would leave you alone and at the mercy of all the bad men out there but you’ve developed into someone irresistible and you need me to help you understand what sex is all about so that you don’t get hurt.”

  My father’s hand had now moved to my inner thigh. He caressed it gently and moved closer to me. The sour odour of his sweat and the stale liquor on his breath wafted over me and I almost gagged. He leant closer and began kissing me on my neck as his hand moved onto my crotch.

  “Open your legs a little.” my father whispered.

  I tried to stop myself but my fear and helplessness overcame my resistance and I felt myself slowly opening my legs. My shame and anger were almost physically painful as my father began to slowly knead my crotch. The sensation that I felt as a result of what my father was doing to me shamed me terribly and I forced myself to reject it. I felt myself build a wall against my emotions and swore that I would never allow myself to feel anything towards my father but hate and loathing.

  My father sensed my resistance and leant away from me.

  “I can see that I’m frightening you, Cindy.” he said. “So I’m going to stop now but you’ll soon come to understand that what we’re doing, and are going to do, is for your own good. It’s best therefore that you do what I want you to do and that you keep our secret to yourself. If you don’t, it could result in you getting badly hurt. So, tomorrow when you get back from school I’ll be waiting here for you and this time I want more co-operation from you. I don’t want to hurt you, I really don’t, but it’s up to you as to whether you get hurt or not. Now, go and get on with your homework.”

  I walked to the kitchen and sat down at the table in a daze, struggling to understand what had just happened to me and what was going to be done to me in the future. I stared at the open book in front of me, the words blurred and indecipherable. My whole body shook and my breathing was shallow. I forced myself to calm down by br
eathing deeply. Gradually I began to relax and my hands stopped shaking. My mind cleared and began to function.

  It was painfully obvious to me that I was in a hopeless situation. I had no doubt that my father would hurt me badly and deny any allegations that I made against him and it was highly unlikely that anyone would believe me if I spoke up. My mother would definitely support my father and there was nothing that any of my friends could do to help me. A terrible anger came over me as I realized just how helpless I really was.

  I tried desperately to think of some way out of my horrifying predicament. Should I run away? Should I try to kill myself? Should I try to kill my father? In my heart though, I knew that I wasn’t capable of doing any of these things. At the age of eleven I simply did not have the capability to act so drastically.

  Although I knew nothing about sex, I realized that, regardless of what I did, I was going to be sexually abused by my father and that it would be degrading and terrifying. What I had to do was decide how I was going to react. Fighting my father was impossible. He was much too strong for me, both physically and mentally and he was also far too experienced and cunning. My only option was to endure.

  The more I thought about what my father was going to do to me and how helpless I was, the angrier I became. I had my whole life ahead of me and I had no doubt that my father was about to destroy it. Already I could feel that my life had begun to change. I was helplessly trapped and I knew instinctively that my life would never again be what it had been. I knew that a terrible burden was about to be placed on my life and I vowed never to accept it. I would endure but I would not change.

  That night as I lay in my bed, I kept repeating to myself; “I will not react to what is happening to me and I will block out the memory of anything that my father does to me.”

  But I couldn’t ignore the anger and hatred that I felt towards myself for my helplessness. My inability to do something about my predicament infuriated me but there was nothing that I could do to prevent what was being done to me. My father was too strong and too experienced.

  From the next day onwards I returned home from school and even before I could have anything to eat, my father would call me into the darkened lounge. At first he merely petted me, rubbing my genitals and caressing my breasts. On the third day he slid his hand into my panties and stroked my genitals, slipping his finger into me gently and massaging me rhythmically. I blocked out the strange feeling of pleasure that this produced in me.

  The following day, after he had fondled me for a few minutes, my father undid the belt of his trousers and unzipped his fly.

  "Put your hand inside my pants and I'll explain to you what masturbation means." he said.

  I took a deep breath, blanked off my mind and followed my father's instructions.

  ***

  I continued to masturbate my father for the rest of the week. Over the weekend I spent a great deal of my time on my own in my bedroom trying to come to terms with what was happening to me and steeling myself for what was going to happen the following week. My hatred and anger towards myself grew but it also began to include my mother for not protecting me from what was happening to me. I began to avoid any communication with her.

  My mother seemed unconcerned with my sudden withdrawal although I did catch her watching me surreptitiously several times. I found it difficult to believe that she wasn’t aware of what my father was doing to me.

  On the Monday when I got home from school my father was waiting for me in the darkened lounge.

  “You can have your lunch later.” he said. “I’m going to show you something very special today.”

  I sat down on the couch next to my father and he began kissing me and fumbling with the buttons of my school blouse. Eventually he got them all undone and pulled off the garment. He began to fondle my breasts with his rough hands and then leant over and began kissing them and sucking my nipples, at the same time undoing the hook of my skirt.

  “Stand up and take off your skirt and your panties and also your shoes and socks.” my father said, his voice hoarse with lust.

  I stood up and took off my skirt and panties. As I bent over to remove my shoes and socks I felt my father slide his hand between my legs from behind and push his finger into me. I pulled away and then sat down beside him staring fixedly at the opposite wall of the room.

  My father began sliding his hands over my body crooning softly. His breathing quickened and suddenly he stood up and took off his clothes.

  ***

  My father continued to sexually abuse of me for the next six months but when the refinery began to employ him on a full-time basis again, the molestation stopped. Although I could see that my father wanted to continue abusing me I never gave him the slightest opportunity, always making sure that I was never alone with him in the house.

  Strangely, although the parents of many of my school friends worked at the same refinery as my father, none of them ever mentioned any staff retrenchments or shorter working hours.

  Although my helplessness angered me greatly and made me hate myself and my parents, I was determined not to let the abuse that I’d suffered ruin my life. I began to nurture a pride in myself and in the way I had endured my degradation. I worked hard at my schooling even though I knew that I had a rather limited academic ability. I also tried hard to avoid blaming other people for not helping me. But the deep hatred and anger within me couldn’t be ignored that easily.

  I told myself that I only had one life and I shouldn’t allow anyone to destroy it. At the age of eleven these were huge obstacles to overcome and many times I came close to allowing my anger and hatred to take over my life. I persevered though.

  CHAPTER 2

  As I sat in the dock listening to my co-accused, Cindy Bedford, giving her evidence it struck me that none of my forefathers had been named Garth and I wondered why my parents had chosen that particular name for me. Unfortunately I would never know as they were both dead now.

  Cindy finished giving her evidence and my attorney, Paul Greave, stood up and addressed Judge Warren Bester.

  “Your Honour.” Paul said. “I would like to introduce my client and first defendant, Garth Gilmore at this stage of the proceedings.”

  The judge nodded and, after I had been sworn in, my attorney spoke to me.

  “Garth.” he said. “As you heard my learned colleague, James Foster say, we want you to feel at ease in the court. 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 Cindy Bedford here today. I would therefore like you to start your testimony by telling us about your earliest memories and then about your relationship with your parents, especially your father.”

  I nodded and began to give my evidence.

  ***

  Like Cindy, I had been born in the Windhoek State Hospital, the first and only child of Dennis and Janet Gilmore, but the grand event had taken place on the eighth of August, nineteen eighty eight.

  All my earliest memories featured both my father and my mother and were filled with visions of angry and hateful faces and emotions of fear, helplessness and bewilderment. I constantly associated my parents with pain as they assaulted me and shouted at me for reasons that I didn’t understand.

  My father was a short, overweight man with longish untidy black hair, dark green eyes that bulged when he became angry, a large flat nose and fleshy untidy lips. Large pockmarks covered his clean-shaven face, the result of adolescent acne that had plagued and embarrassed him for all of his teenage years.

  My mother was even shorter and more overweight than my father, with short, thin blonde hair, small dark brown eyes, a slim beaked nose and a thin grim mouth that gave her an almost vulture-like look. Her chin was small and receding.

  I was my parent’s first and only child and we lived in one of five small corrugated iron mine houses at the edge of the Windhoek suburb, the Southern Industrial Area. A geological exploration company had originally owned the five tiny houses bu
t had closed many years ago and my grandfather, who had worked for the company as a geologist, had been able to purchase the structure at the insolvency auction. Upon my grandfather’s death in a mining accident a year before my birth and my grandmother’s death a year later, my father had inherited the house.

  The whole of the house, including the roof, was painted a light grey and the gutters and window frames were white. Like most mine houses, a narrow passageway led from the front door straight through to the back door with the large main bedroom, the bathroom and the scullery on the right and the lounge, a smaller bedroom, the dining room and kitchen on the right. The floors were concrete covered with brown linoleum and the ceiling was made of pressed steel panels. A small covered porch had been added to the front of the house and a single rickety wooden garage, built onto the side of the house, housed my father’s nineteen fifty four-door Austin A40 Devon sedan.

  When my father wasn’t working as a steam train shunter at the Namibia Railways goods yard, he spent most of his time drinking brandy with his fellow workers at the railway’s employee bar or lounging on the front porch drinking beer. As a result he was almost always drunk when he returned from work and over the weekends when he stayed at home.

  Because of my fear of my parents and the helplessness of my situation, I cried and screamed a great deal as a baby which only served to anger my parents even more, with the result that they inflicted even more unexplained pain on me. This misguided belief that inflicting more pain on me would stop me crying and screaming was typical of my parent’s level of intelligence. When I reached the age where minor injuries metered out to me could be safely healed at home the assaults became more subtle.

  Although my father physically assaulted me far more than my mother did, the reasons for these attacks remained a terrifying mystery to me until I began to understand language and could comprehend why they were screaming and shouting at me.