I could never understand why he would be interested in me, I still don’t, we are very mismatched, but I was lucky: not only was he beautiful to look at, I could be myself, and a version of me I never knew was there. He knew everything that had happened to me when I was younger with Malcolm. Just not a detailed version, some things he didn’t need to know. I wish I didn’t know. Spence was the only other person who knew what happened to me. But no one knew about the others.
Men had always seemed to be the issue ever since I was a little girl. I felt I was not only attractive to paedophiles, I actually thought that there was an invisible sign on my head that only they could see saying easy target, eager to please. I had always been drawn to the wrong ones; the only right one before Edward was Spence but he wasn’t interested in me in that sort of way.
It had all started when my so called ‘Uncle M’ sat my then seven-year-old self on his lap and shouted to my mum in the kitchen.
“She’s going to be a heartbreaker when she’s older,” he said, kissing me on the lips, holding his hands over my ears, pulling me closer so I could not escape. This only happened when my mum was not around. The thought of those sloppy wet kisses now made me feel physically sick. His breath smelling of coffee and fags still haunted me.
At first, I enjoyed going to Malcolm’s as I would see Spence, but then he would start splitting us up, making me work upstairs and him downstairs or vice versa, and that’s when it wasn’t a cuddle any more, that was the problem.
I told Spence everything that Malcolm had been doing to me when he came round to my house one summer evening. I can remember that night like it was yesterday as it was the last time, I stepped foot in that house. It was a warm night and I was sweating from the humidity when I left Malcolm’s. I walked the streets for a while, the smell of charcoal in the air from evening barbecues. When I arrived home, he was there. I can remember my mum giggling as I opened the back door and the theme tune for a popular gameshow, which had come out earlier that year, was on the TV. You would have thought that my mum was the thirteen-year-old, not me, at the time.
I took a deep breath, painted on a smile and wiped my face dry with the cuffs of my blazer from the tears. I tried to sneak past quietly without my mum seeing, but no such luck.
“India, is that you? Look who’s popped round.” I knew who it was even before I saw his face as the scent of his aftershave filled the house.
Malcolm was a similar age to my mum, early forties, not her usual type at all. She would usually go for twenty-year olds.
I poked my head round the living room door. “Yes, Mum, it’s me!” Who else would it be, I thought unless you have let my younger brothers and sister roam the streets at night.
“You look awful, love.”
My face was ashen. I am not surprised I looked awful. I was not expecting to see Malcolm sitting on our sofa. Especially after what had just happened.
“You okay?”
No, I was not okay, but I lied. I was getting good at lying now. I use to lie to my dad when I was younger when mum would take me to see my ‘Uncle M.’ I didn’t mind though at the time as I was a child and would be bribed with sweets and ice cream.
“Yeah, just feeling a bit sick, that’s all,” I replied as I kissed my mum on the cheek. Feeling sick was an understatement. I avoided Malcolm’s stare, but I could feel his eyes following me as I hurried up the stairs.
I felt like I could not breathe. As soon as I got in my room I locked the door. New clothing bags covered my bed again. Twice that week I had gone home to bags of new clothing.
I felt so dirty, like I was covered in germs, did not want to touch anything in my room
