How exposing the true character of ‘men of honour’ can help victims of domestic violence
THERE’S a certain prestige and standing in the community that comes with being a member of An Garda Síochána. They might not always feel it, and indeed often complain of the exact opposite, but much like how having a priest in the family was considered something to be intensely proud of, having a direct family connection to a guard can be a source of great honour.
Especially for little boys. To see a dad or an uncle in the dashing dark blue uniform, complete with hat – better still behind the wheel of a white and luminous yellow patrol car – it must make those small little hearts swell to bursting point.
Not so for the sons of Meav McLoughlin-Doyle though.
How their hearts must have sunk as their stepfather, Mark Doyle, pulled up outside the front of their school in his Garda car, and emerged in full uniform. It was, his ex-wife told a courtroom this week, a deliberate tactic to ‘quash’ any suggestion that he was an abuser.
The school had become concerned after a disclosure by a child and Doyle was called in to meet with staff.
‘He was a respected member of the community but a monster in our home,’ Meav explained in her victim impact statement during Doyle’s sentence hearing. ‘He used his position to shake off any suspicion.’
DOYLE was keenly aware of what his position in the community afforded him. His own lawyers told the judge that losing his job still weighs heavily on him and that he’s now reduced to doing part-time building work. They also asked the judge to take into account the ‘considerable publicity’ about the case and how prison can be ‘particularly difficult’ for former members of An Garda Síochána.
So now it doesn’t suit Doyle to have been a member of the police force?
Abusers in elevated positions in society must get an extra big kick from their perverted and debasing behaviour. To the outside world they’re someone to be envied – a man who has it made, with a loving family and career to be proud of.
It’s only at home, behind closed doors, that they show their true character: capable of beating a woman senseless, even while pregnant, dragging her around by her hair, choking her with both of his hands. And inflicting similar kinds of abuse on his young stepsons, punching them in the belly, shooting one in the backside with an airgun, laughing about it while pulling the pellets out with a tweezers.
It was a similar story, albeit with an added sexually depraved element, for Margaret Tweed and her family. In her recently released book, No Peace Until He’s Dead, her eldest daughter Amanda chronicles the abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepfather, Davy Tweed, a once prominent unionist politician and international rugby hero. It’s an extraordinarily affecting book, telling the grimiest of stories in the most matter-offact manner.
Tweed, like Doyle, was a wellrespected family man, who enjoyed and made the most of his popularity and standing. Any slights he felt in public, he saved up for when he got home. Once the door was shut, this 6ft 6in monster would then attack his slightly built 5ft 2in wife, taking out his frustrations and insecurities on someone he knew had no chance of fighting back.
And like Meav Doyle, Margaret Tweed was made to believe she was worthless and deserved the beatings she got for any perceived provocation. Because that’s what someone skilled at coercive control can do – persuade you that it’s your fault, that they had no choice but to punch you in the head until your eardrum burst.
IT stands to reason that a malevolent person who can coax voters to elect him to office, or convince a Garda college to accept him as a candidate, can also brainwash a woman into believing being physically abused is just part and parcel of their life together.
Margaret Tweed still finds it hard to talk about the abuse she suffered at the hands of her husband. Not because of the horror of those memories, but because she spent time in a packed women’s refuge, where she met dozens of women in exactly the same boat. So what gives her the right to complain?
But as Amanda told me this week, because Davy Tweed was a public figure and a man of good standing, their story caught the public’s attention. And she hopes that others, in ordinary households, experiencing similar abuse but who don’t feel able to come forward, can read about them and know that they’re not alone and that there is help.
These abusers’ reputations might finally do some good.