Trapped in darkness
All these years later, would a knock at the door change everything?
I couldn’t find the words to tell Mum, or anyone
As my body sped through the water of our local pool, I blocked out the sound of my dad William, then 27, shouting.
‘Come on, faster!’ he boomed, standing by the edge with his stopwatch, timing each lap.
It was the summer of 1999 and I was 7.
Exhausted and hungry, I’d been in the water for hours.
A Science teacher and swimming instructor, Dad expected a lot from me.
To anyone else at the pool that day, Dad would have seemed just like any other parent, spurring me on.
Only, I’d learnt to recognise the menacing undertone in his voice.
Polite and well-spoken,
Dad charmed everyone.
But behind closed doors, he was a different person.
Aggressive and sometimes violent, he’d fly into a rage at the slightest thing.
Weeks after my swimming session, he noticed that a glass eye had fallen off one of my teddies. In a rage, he threw an iron at my head, splitting it open. ‘Tell them you fell over,’ he spat, driving me to A&E, where the wound was glued shut.
But worst of all, Dad couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
Ever since I’d turned 5, he’d insist on taking showers with me, making me wash his naked body.
And, though I went to bed in pyjamas, I’d wake up naked with only hazy, sickening memories of what had happened in the dead of night.
Mum and Dad had split early on.
I saw Mum at weekends, and she never suspected anything was wrong. Why would she?
I couldn’t find the words to tell her, or anyone.
Until one winter in 2003, when I was 11, and Dad crept into bed with me again.
Body rigid with fear, I kept my eyes closed, hoping he’d think
I was asleep.
But he started groping me, put his penis between my legs.
‘I feel sick,’
I blurted out, jumping out of bed and running to the bathroom.
Thankfully, he went back to his own room, but the next morning I walked to school in a daze.
In the classroom, I sat at my desk in a trance.
‘Are you OK?’ my teacher asked.
‘No,’ I sobbed.
She took me into a side room and the horrors I’d been living through came tumbling out.
‘I’m going to help,’ she said. But the relief of sharing my story soon wore off.
And when I saw Dad waiting at the school gates, another feeling hit me. Guilt.
Have I got him in trouble? Seeming on edge, Dad gave me a big hug.
‘Let’s get some sweets,’ he said, walking me to the shop.
Later, he cooked spaghetti bolognese – my favourite.
But as we were eating, there was a rap on the door.
Dad went to answer it and was confronted by two police officers.
My heart thumped hard in my chest.
They’d come to take me away.
Dad put his head in his hands and started to cry.
That day, I was taken into care.
The police told my mum, too, and although she
was unable to take me in, she was devastated and blamed herself.
‘I wish you’d told me,’ she sobbed.
Dad was eventually released without charge.
There wasn’t enough evidence against him.
But while his life carried on like normal, mine began to spiral out of control.
I was angry, quick to get into fights.
I started drinking heavily and took drugs.
Anything to block out the pain of what my dad had done to me.
Only, in August 2012, when I was 20, all that changed. I gave birth to my son, Joe. Lying in the hospital bed, cradling him in my arms, I knew I had to turn my life around.
So I focused on being the best mum I could. Got a job as a care worker. And two years later, I had a little girl, Amanda.
Things didn’t work out with their dad.
Being a single mum didn’t faze me, in fact I relished it.
But no matter what joys life gave me, the darkness of my own childhood was always there.
I hadn’t seen Dad for years but he still infected my life.
Then, in 2019, there was a knock at my door.
I opened it to find myself face to face with a female police officer.
‘I’m here about your father,’ she said.
Inviting her in, I felt sick when she told me Dad had been charged with sexually assaulting two other kids.
The report that my teacher had made all those years ago was still in my files.
‘Would you testify against him in court?’ she asked.
I was terrified, but...
‘I’ll do it,’
I said.
My dad was a sexual predator who had preyed on young kids.
Even his daughter. He needed to be behind bars to keep others safe.
At court last September, my father William Murphy, 47, denied a string of sexual offences, including nine counts of rape.
Three charges related to what he did to me – inciting a girl to commit gross indecency, committing gross indecency with a child and sexual assault on a child.
Giving my evidence, I looked over at Dad, who was staring down. Coward.
With Mum and my social worker willing me on from the public gallery, I got through it.
When the verdict came, I burst into tears.
Guilty on all but three counts of rape.
To my relief, he was jailed for 28 years.
‘It’s where he belongs,’ I sobbed to Mum. Now, I dote on Joe, 7, and Amanda, 5.
I’m still working as a carer and training to nurse.
Surrounded by family and friends, I feel happy.
What Dad did to me and his other victims is truly unforgivable.
It will always haunt me.
But at least everyone knows who he really is now.
A predator and a paedophile.
GET SUPPORT
The National Association for People Abused in Childhood (NAPAC) supports adult survivors of any form of childhood abuse. Call 0808 801 0331 or visit napac.org.uk