I had never named her before that day, but I’d recently asked my good friend Diane to help me choose one.
Diane had been my long-suffering friend for seven years and had been a rock. Noleen was her middle name, and when she suggested it I thought it was perfect.
As incredible as it may seem, it took twelve long years from that point on for Noleen’s name to be formally recognized, and for the cause of her death to be publicly recorded at her inquest.
The police didn’t exhume Noleen’s body, because of the passage of time and the fact she was in a communal grave, so there was no chance of linking me to her though DNA evidence. My parents were never prosecuted, because of lack of evidence, and when I eventually plucked up the courage to report the abuse I’d suffered at the hands of all those other men at the building, they were never prosecuted either. Lack of evidence was cited in each case.
With each setback, I refused to give up hope of finding justice for Noleen. Simon supported me every step of the way, telling me I had to follow my heart.
We held a memorial service for Noleen in April 1996, and Theresa stood with me as I laid a bunch of pink and white carnations on the grave. I placed a card there, which said:
‘To Noleen, cry no more. Sleep in peace. Two broken hearts have been mended.’
I hadn’t seen Theresa for several years. Our shared memories of abuse had been too much to bear, and it became too painful to spend time together, but I was comforted to see how well she looked that day.
She was stunningly beautiful, with her glossy dark hair and pale skin. Somehow, she had found the strength to push forward with her life, and she had a good job, travelling the world as a nanny to a famous pop star. I was delighted for her.
I was suffering from crippling depression as my legal battle dragged on and on.
In time, the Minister for Justice said she could not help me, and the European Court of Human Rights turned me down flat.
I was struggling to sleep at night. I had frightening flashbacks of my father grabbing at me in bed, and I often woke up screaming.
Sometimes I couldn’t bear to let Simon touch me. That hurt me so much. I loved my husband dearly, and it felt like my parents even had the power to damage my marriage, which infuriated me and fuelled my fight.
My luck finally changed in 2000, when I was introduced to Gerry Dunne, a Dublin solicitor who knew of my case and wanted to help. He had a top barrister, Kieron Wood, on board too, as well as Michael Forde, a senior member of counsel.
They were a godsend. It was Gerry who first suggested we could ask for Noleen’s inquest to be re-opened. It had been opened and adjourned on 27 April 1973, but to formally identify Noleen could only improve my chances of prosecuting my parents. For the first time ever, I wasn’t feeling my way through the legal system on my own. It would take time, but I could see light at the end of the tunnel.
I was doing the housework one morning in June 2002 when I got a text message from an old friend in Ireland:
‘Did you know Michael has gone missing? I read it in the paper.’
I grabbed the phone, instantly in a panic, and called Dalkey police station for confirmation.
‘Yes, Mrs Owen, he has been missing for nine days now.’
I was paralysed with shock. Was he lying dead somewhere?
I sat in bed shaking, and didn’t eat, sleep or even wash for four whole days.
I lived for the phone to ring with good news, but it never did. I felt laden with guilt. I had practically raised Michael single-handed as a baby. I hadn’t seen him for a while. Had I neglected him, too caught up with fighting for Noleen?
My parents were both in their seventies by this time, and living comfortably in a retirement bungalow in Sallynoggin, not far from Dalkey. It sickened me to think of them pottering happily around while Martin lay dead and Michael was missing.
My desire to punish them for their crimes was so strong it spurred me on, despite the terrible trauma Michael’s disappearance brought me.
It was nearly three years before he was found. In my heart I had known my little brother had to be dead. His decomposed body was finally found at Killiney Station on 1 February 2005.
A few weeks later I spoke to Theresa for the first time in ages, and I was shocked when I heard her voice. The strong and confident woman I’d been so proud of at Noleen’s memorial service sounded like a scared little girl again.
‘I can’t get over Michael,’ she said in the thinnest of whispers. ‘I heard you’re still fighting. You’re stronger than me, but you’ll never win against those bastards.’
Her voice frightened me. ‘Theresa, I am coming to Ireland tomorrow to see you,’ I said.
When we met, she cried in my arms like a baby for three harrowing hours.
She told me Michael’s death had triggered horrific memories of the pair of them being raped by my father, and she couldn’t get them out of her head.
‘I keep having flashbacks of Mammy ripping at her own arms with needles and putting her head in the gas oven, telling us she’s going to kill herself,’ Theresa sobbed.
‘Then she’s forcing us upstairs to sleep with her dirty bastard of a husband, so he could rape us instead of her.’
Hearing her sum up my own memories so bluntly was agonizing. We had shared the same pain as children, and we were still sharing it.
‘I cried in desperate fear going up those stairs every night. “It’s your turn, Michael,” I’d sob. “No, it’s your turn, Theresa.” We’d fight and hit each other, even though we loved
