The (Long) Last Post

The future may, possibly, prove me a liar in my choice of title but right now it feels like this is the last post I ever want to make about this whole childhood abuse thing. I want to finish it, underline it, start on a new page with the date at the top written in freshly sharpened pencil. Proper sharpened, you know, with a stanley knife rather than a little plastic thingy?

This past nine months has seen me defined as a victim within a system and I'm really fucking bored with it so once this ramble is out of my system that's it; I'm reborn, kicking, screaming, unashamedly covered in blood and mucus rather than gurgling and smelling of Johnsons but it's a new start, all the same. Poke your original sin two foot six up your arse cos I never really believed that catholic bollocks anyway.

Wednesday night I got very drunk. Watching the nutters that win [sic] a place on Big Brother will do that to a body. Watching them after a day that included collecting two each of my precious children and nephews from my mother and being drawn in for coffee cos, of course, they're not quite ready yet and anyway, my ex sister-in-law is there with her other chav child that I've never felt the inclination to see despite my mothers insistence that she's just like babygirl at that age but ex sis-in-law would love to see me again and tell me how great my kids are while she jingles her 99 carat Elizabeth Duke on her tattoos, talks about the earthquake and shows off her new football top... well, who could blame me for turning to alcohol after that, I ask you?

My mother put cow juice in my coffee. I don't rememember exactly how many years it's been since I took my coffee white but I do know it's been A FUCKING LOT OF THEM. I managed not to scream that she was a selfish cunt who knowingly sacrificed her female children for her own security, instead calmly relaying the information I had about court times for the following day so she could let bruv know, for practical purposes.

That wasn't even the end of it. After dropping my nephews home, having deep and meaningful 'day before sentencing' conversations with sis and beefy BIL and learning that policewoman was off sick so couldn't attend (but would we call her at home and let her know the outcome please?), I had to go buy a kettle cos my lovely glass designerish effort had died on me the night before and drinking green tea made from a saucepan of water poured through a funnel just wasn't doing it for me.

If I give you nothing else of import, ever, let me give you this. Regular descaling, just say no.

I'm now the proud owner of a Tesco Value kettle that does what it says on the box for a fiver. Ok, maybe proud is stronging it slightly. I mean, obviously I know that there is blood on my hands for buying something that was probably made by someone that lost yet another finger in the dark, damp factory after a 30 hour shift that they earned 20p for. Out, damn spot!

Thursday morning, J day, finally dawns. Copious amounts of green tea from my new kettle rehydrate me slightly. I can't eat though. Ex husband arrives to collect babyboy and babygirl. He's in a different car and seems to want me to be impressed. I surf my wave of incredulity to go outside but all I can offer his expectant look is a rendition of 'Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz'. He didn't take that very well but he did take the kids so I took the chance to have a shower in peace.

As I dressed I thought that I may not want to wear today's outfit again so I chose a skirt that I hate anyway and a cheap enough to be disposable top. I'd already had a conversation with law-trained Peachypants about what to wear; my confusion stemming from not wanting to look too 'together' and thus non-affected in front of the all powerful judge but also needing to feel comfortable and confident enough to get through the day. Clothes may well not maketh the woman but they sure do allude to the mood.

I nipped to town to get my boots re-heeled and talk to a nice old tradesman that knows only what I present at that moment (and buy more cigarettes while he works). (But not from the co-op cos due to total fucking incompetence they've lost / can't be arsed to look in the stock room for my lovely pink umbrella that I left there last week so they'll never see another penny of mine. Hah! Feeeeeel my £4.43 wrath, eco-friendly, idiot employing asshats!)

Blimey, shit and shopping. Welcome to my life! Donations gratefully accepted.

I digress. Beefy BIL collects me, conversation is stilted until we reach the court and he drives two miles past it looking to park. Luckily, cousin calls to tell of spare spaces within the court grounds so my new heels are saved from a route march. We enter the cafe, sorry, 'public restaurant' to meet Uncle, Auntie and Cousin and immediately hear how Uncle has just come face to face with step-dad whilst purchasing hot beverages. So much for the 'he'll be downstairs in the cells, you can walk around sans worry' stuff that we'd heard from cousins policeman boyfriend. Shit, shit, shit!

Have you ever been to a wedding? Woken with that sense of utter urgency, rushed round like mad getting ready only to arrive, giddily breathless, at a trying too hard to be architecturally worthy municipal building then have to hang around for ages while you sweat all down your finery?

The case was due to be heard at 2pm (having been pushed back from 12.15 already). We know that step-dad had been brought by his boss so Bruv, looking every inch the accused, casually wanders round to find him having also worked for him in the past. On his return we learn that step-dad's brief is caught up in a rape case and, unless that judge releases him for half an hour at 2pm, we'll have to hang around till they can fit us in at four.

I catch myself considering a Daily Mail subscription. Had Bruv not gleaned this information we'd never have known what was happening. One of the many gut-stabbing ironies of this past near year has been that step-dad receives information far faster than we do what with his having consistent, paid for representation and us having the CPS machine working for us.

Two more hours to wait. Two hours of Klix coffee and hard seats and people watching. Juries coming and going, defendants coming and not always going. I counted the charms on the girlfriends bracelets, went on to play spot the prison tattoo, watched people watching me and studiously avoided making eye contact with my mother who stood, red faced and teary eyed the whole time.

We were finally called at 4.10 and the bewigged person talking to Her Honour on our behalf began by asking for time to acquaint himself with certain particulars, i.e. the whole case. After bickering about whether she could hear another case while he caught up it was decided that he could speed read the documents and wing it.

Winging it consisted of reading previously highlighted sections of our statements aloud, summarising our lives according to someone else's values including, of course, the most disgusting details. Details I'd only ever disclosed to my nice policelady and was now hearing in deep barristertone along with eight family members, the accused and the assorted randoms in the public gallery. Sweet. Sis and I grip hands harder to try and stop the shaking, try and stay grounded, block out the craning necks, the nudges and the 'it must be them, poor cows' whispers. He completes his reading aloud exercise by respectfully reminding Her Honour that this was a case where she may make a compensation order alongside any other sentence she feels appropriate and sits down to fiddle with his laptop.

His barrister then did much the opposite of ours. Instead of reading out bits of his statement he turned it around completely. Very slowly, very deliberately, he painted a well researched picture of a man full of remorse who had apportioned absolutely no blame to 'the girls', lived a law-abiding, productive life for years before and after this terrible, dark time 28-30 years ago, adored his wife and family and had lost them just as he should be thinking of retirement and spending more time with them.

This was not the sick, manipulative man known to me or sis, not the arrogant man in his statement who insisted that we initiated these things, not the man who consulted with his solicitor then replied 'no comment' when asked about other children, no; a totally different man. An elderly gentleman who had lived with the Sword of Damocles over his head for many years and had already punished himself far more than the law could for his one and only aberration. A man who the public had no need of protection from, who had rehabilitated himself and could therefore, surely, serve his punishment by way of a community service order and save the public purse the huge cost associated with imprisonment? A man made ill by the protracted proceedings of this case which caused him to have a 1.5 hour journey to work each morning and evening since he had been forced to live with his sister. The sister who had sent in a letter praising his character.

I wonder what he told his sister for her to do that? Certainly it was obvious by the shocked, pale face of his boss that the facts just spelled out were not what he'd been told when he agreed to be designated driver and character witness in person. We listened to him torn between revulsion and loyalty, trying to make sense whilst answering questions of job security (he couldn't say for sure, the other blokes on the firm had reservations and he's only a small business...) and reconciling the man he thought he'd known for forty years with the crimes he'd admitted to.

And then it was over, she was asking him to stand up. A passing mention of the position of trust that he abused 'along with those two young girls' and a sentence of three years, reduced to two and a half to reflect how long the proceedings had taken and that nothing had been reported twenty years ago. No compensation award as he would be of reduced means and 'money won't make those girls feel any better'. No, but it sure would have made my bank manager smile. There was another delay as they looked up how long he'd have to be on the sex offenders register for (life, for a sentence of 30 months or more) and then he was gone, Her Honour asked that someone let him know he'll only actually serve half that time and called for the next case.

I walked outside, needing air and space and wanting to be away from the crowd of family that had stopped in the corridor for post occasion cliches. Auntie joins me, I ask if sis is ok, she says yes and hugs me (I learn later that cousin expressly warned her not to cry on me). I finish a cigarette and wonder what's keeping them all inside, the histrionic faint perhaps? Weeping, wailing, renting of garments?

His boss exits, Auntie isn't about to let him go without explaining himself and he expresses his shock, how much he feels for the girls etc. I thought I was invisible until he said directly to me 'it's your poor mother you have to look out for now, this should have been sorted out twenty years ago'.

Shaking my head at yet another one falling for her victim act I looked him in the eye and said 'my mother should have sorted this out twenty years ago, it wasn't our place, it was hers'. He put his hands up and said 'ah, I don't know anything about that' as he backed away. My point exactly, idiot.

Then they're all out and asking how I feel and why am I smoking? Before I can speak my mother answers 'she's celebrating' and I make a deal with God that I'll be good forever if he could just, please strike her dumb. We make our way to the car park, I'm hungry, thirsty and emotionally numb. I want to get in the car so I can text the people that I know have been thinking about me today, let them know that I'm ok and what the outcome was, I want to go home and hold my children but my mother is dragging things out, unwilling to let everyone go their separate ways. In the end she realises I'm really not going to go to her so walks over and awkwardly hugs me, muttering 'stay strong, stay strong'.

I walked to the car saying 'yep, cos some cunt has to don't they?'