Stories
Tickles at bedtime
Even as a child, I knew Dad's games were wrong. But who could I tell...?
They say time’s a healer and, if we try hard enough, we can put even the worst heartache behind us.
But the problem with burying pain and keeping secrets to yourself, is that it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with you.
Growing up, I’d learned to keep all sorts of secrets. As a kid, you quickly realise there are just some things your parents shouldn’t know – like if you didn’t do your homework, or you wrote a fake note to get out of doing PE.
Unlike most kids, though, I had a sinister secret to keep…
When Dad sneaked into my room one night, when I was five, I’d thought he’d just come to tuck me in.
But as the door quietly clicked shut behind him, and he knelt down by my bed to peel back my duvet, I’d gazed up at him utterly confused.
Was he going to let me come and sit in the lounge, to stay up late and watch telly?
‘Ssshh,’ Dad said, lifting a finger to his lips. ‘We’re going to play a game, but you have to be really quiet so we don’t wake Mum.’
Even better! I loved games.
Smiling, I nodded excitedly. Dad had always been the cool one. Ever since I could remember, he and Mum had taken me to the local working men’s club to have a dance and chat to their many mates.
Having Dad spin me round to Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean, I’d be giggling hysterically as he twirled me, then tried to moonwalk backwards pulling funny faces. That was my dad – always the life and soul of the party.
Now here he was making up a special game just for us.
‘It’s called the tickling game,’ he whispered, grinning. ‘I’m going to tickle you and you’re not allowed to laugh, okay?’ I nodded again.
Stroking his fingertips lightly over my bare arm, I stifled a giggle as my skin tingled. Then he moved to my ribcage – that one always got me. Not tonight, though, I was determined not to lose.
‘Hmm,’ Dad frowned. ‘You’re good at this. What about… here…’
Grabbing my foot, he tickled my toes.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop from laughing.
Two seconds later though, I didn’t have to try not to laugh any more. As Dad’s hands pushed my nightdress up over my stomach and he tickled the tops of my thighs I froze in shock.
I was only five, but this felt wrong.
Tugging my nightdress back down, Dad leaned over to kiss my forehead.
‘You win,’ he murmured. ‘And remember, it’s our secret game.’
Getting up, he walked out without another word.
After that, Dad came into my room most nights to play the tickling game. It always finished the same way, too.
I didn’t want to tell Mum. Dad would have a fit if I told anyone.
Besides, what he was doing couldn’t be wrong – everyone said what a good dad he was, his pals, all my friends’ mums, everyone.
No, there couldn’t be anything wrong with it.
But when I turned eight, the game changed.
Instead of stopping at the tops of my thighs, this time Dad pulled down my knickers, climbed on top of me…
Searing pain shot through me, I bit my lip to stop from crying out. What was happening?
When it was over, Dad stood up zipping up his jeans.
‘Our little secret,’ he winked, leaving my room.
Turning to face the wall, I pulled my knees up to my chest, curled into a ball. I waited for the pain to stop, crying until I fell asleep.
From then on, Dad’s late night visits were just as regular as before, but far worse.
Sometimes he’d rape me in the afternoon when I got home from school and Mum was still at work.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Who’d believe my perfect dad would ever hurt me?
Instead, I threw myself into any after-school club I could find – netball, dance, gymnastics… Anything to avoid what waited for me at home.
But, some days, I just couldn’t escape it.
‘You coming to work with me today?’ Dad smiled over breakfast one Saturday when I was 12.
He worked at a recycling centre, sorting through the things people threw away to fix them up and sell them on.
I looked away nervously, trying to think of some excuse not to go.
‘That sounds like fun,’ Mum nodded at me. ‘You used to love going to work with your dad when you were little.’
Of course I did. Back then, I’d loved sitting in Dad’s van, eating pasties for lunch and singing along to the radio.
But things were so different now. I hated being alone with Dad.
Was now the time to tell her? To stand up and scream at him for what he’d done?
No. My voice stuck in my throat. All I could do was nod silently, gulping down a piece of toast.
As soon as we were alone together, the tickling game would start again.
By the time I was 13, I couldn’t take any more.
Listening to Mum waffling on as she washed up after dinner about how great Dad was – ‘always giving you a tenner to go to the shops with, and telling all his mates what a great daughter you are’ – bile rose in my throat.
‘You should go down the club and see Dad tonight,’ she smiled. ‘He misses you not going. It’s like you don’t have time for us any more, always off out with your mates…’
Before I could stop it, the words came spilling out.
‘I’m not going anywhere with Dad,’ I spat, seeing red. ‘Mum, I need to tell you something…’
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to say the words I’d bottled up for five years. ‘H-he’s been raping me since I was eight.’
I waited for the shock to register on her face, for her to throw her arms around me and for her tell me everything would be okay, that we’d get out of here together and never see Dad again.
Instead, she carried on washing up, she didn’t miss a beat.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charmaine,’ she scoffed, scrubbing a pan. ‘You must’ve had a funny dream or something. Dad would never hurt you.’
I stared at her stunned. ‘But… he did,’ I breathed.
Mum just shook her head and rolled her eyes as she wiped down the sink.
Tears welled in my eyes. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. The one person in the world who should’ve trusted me, didn’t believe a word I was saying.
Why should anyone else?
Turning, I raced up to my room and collapsed on to my bed.
Over the next three years, I didn’t try to talk to anyone about the abuse again. I resigned myself to the fact that I just had to get on with it until I was old enough to leave home.
The minute I turned 16 and finished school, though, I left.
Being out of Dad’s reach was bliss. In my own flat, tucked up in bed not having to worry about the late-night visits, I finally felt free.
Despite everything, I still went home to see Mum when Dad wasn’t around, though.
I’d never forgotten how she hadn’t believed me when I was 13, but I couldn’t cut her out of my life completely.
After all, she wasn’t the only one Dad had fooled. Who’d suspect lovely, happy-go-lucky, Adrian Davies was capable of raping his own daughter?
She’d probably convinced herself I was just being an over-dramatic teenager.
Besides, I was free of all that now. It was time to leave things in the past where they belonged, to get on with my life.
So, when Mum invited me over for a drink while Dad was at the pub one night, I didn’t think twice about going. By now I was 23, not the weak little kid I’d once been. Even if Dad did turn up, I could just leave.
Sitting round Mum’s sharing a bottle of wine and watching a film, I felt my spirits lift. This was what I’d craved my whole life – a happy, normal family.
The pair of us chatted away about clothes and nights out. We were still nattering away at midnight, too. Knowing Dad would be safely out of the way all night staying over with his mates, I’d decided to sleep over. It was great just relaxing with Mum for a change, and I knew I’d be up and home before Dad even saw me.
Sprawled out on the sofa in my PJs, in a happy haze of wine, I soon drifted off.
When I woke up, though, it wasn’t to the sound of the alarm I’d set on my mobile…
My legs felt chilly despite the thick pyjamas bottoms I was wearing. Groggily, I looked down – and I swear my heart stopped.
The top of Dad’s balding head was visible from between my legs, my pyjama bottoms and knickers pulled down to my ankles. No!
‘Get off me!’ I shrieked. Kicking out, I shoved him away and scrambled off the sofa. I tugged my clothes into place as I backed away from him.
‘Why?’ I sobbed. ‘Why do you do this to me?’
Swaying and clearly drunk, Dad tried to look innocent as he raised his hands defensively. ‘I was just trying to put a blanket over you,’ he slurred.
Who did he think he was trying to kid? I felt like hitting him – beating him until he was in as much pain as he’d put me through all these years.
But I had to get out, I couldn’t stomach another second in the same room as him.
The next day, Mum came over to ask where I’d disappeared to the night before. So I told her again what I’d blurted out when I was 13.
This time, though, her reaction was totally different to before.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she gasped.
Was she serious?
‘I-I did!’ I stammered, utterly baffled.
‘I don’t remember that,’ she said, shaking her head.
Suddenly, I didn’t care if she’d forgotten or just been in denial the whole time. All that mattered was that she believed me now. I burst into tears with relief.
A few days later, I went to see her.
‘How did Dad take it when you kicked him out?’ I asked gently.
‘Oh, umm…’ she reddened, looked flustered. ‘Well… he’s still living here.’
Suddenly, she looked straight at me, defiantly. ‘He has a right to be here, to see the rest of the family.’
Gobsmacked, I stormed out.
That was it. I’d tried to bury my secret for years and it’d only come back to haunt me. This time, I was determined he’d never do it again.
Calling the police, I told them how he’d raped me since I had been a kid, and his latest attack while I slept.
Unlike Mum, they took me seriously, straight away.
Dad was tried last December at Portsmouth Crown Court for 19 sex offences, including multiple charges of rape. He had the cheek to plead not guilty.
Thankfully, no one believed his lies – no one except Mum. She stood by him, even as he was found guilty and sentenced to 15 years.
I felt elated and sad. I finally had the justice I needed to move on, but I’d lost my parents in the process.
I now have three little girls and I’ll always believe what they tell me. I’ll never let anyone hurt them.
I might’ve lost Mum and Dad, but I’ve gained something much more important – freedom.
Michelle Davies, 47, says: ‘I don’t believe Adrian abused Charmaine. He’s a lovely bloke, and a good dad. I was shocked when I heard that she’d accused him of abusing her. I don’t know why she came up with this load of rubbish.’
Charmaine Davies, 24, Havant, Hampshire
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