It is in the same place. Well houses don’t move, not in Wales anyway. It stares blindly across the valley, its eyes boarded up, its mouth also. Sturdy still, but now unsighted and silent. It is the focus of my misery but I am not satisfied at its humiliation, I want it on its knees, a small compensation for my terrible hurt.

It had been a silent house all those years ago, no sounds of protest as I was forced into womanhood years too soon. An innocence lost, to be replaced by cynicism and bitterness but not guilt, at least I am spared that. I taste the bile now. It is a mistake to have come. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I want the new life growing in my belly to give me a fresh start, or am I being too selfish, putting this burden on such a delicate head?

I blame my mother, for her silent compliance; my sister for not warning me, not protecting me; my father for his selfish lack of control, his willingness to subsume his humanity to satiate his desires but most of all, irrationally I suppose, I hate the house that had made it all possible.

My mother had had to wait for her sixteenth birthday to get married. Patsy had been born very soon afterwards. My dad likes his women young, very young. I was only twelve when he started on me. I often wonder how much my mother knew. She must have had her suspicions. The house is not so big that it could hide all that away. It could not have drowned out my sobbing, but no one came to help or console. My mother, nervous as always, made sure I bathed every night and sent me to be bed with a warm drink and I would lie frozen, rigidly waiting to see whether it was my turn tonight.

It all unravelled just after Patsy’s sixteenth birthday. She had been given a fair bit of birthday money by relatives and had been unwilling to tell me what she was going to buy with it. She had just smiled a little smugly and told me to mind my business. I was fourteen and had put on a timid persona for the world view. To my mind this was the best way to deal with the turmoil in my life. Miss Jones, my English teacher, had once asked me if everything was ok. My timid self was in such stark contrast to the gregarious eleven year old of my first year in the ‘comp’. I couldn’t tell her anything. No one talked about such things then, perhaps not even now. But the house knew. It silently watched.

One school lunchtime I saw Patsy walking quickly outside the school fence. It was odd as she usually spent her lunch break with her mates. She was due to leave school in the summer and would be looking for a job, so I guessed she might be going into town to check out the shops for vacancies. Still, I was curious. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I sneaked after her. I no longer had any close friends, my timidity had become tiresome to them. They didn’t understand. I shadowed Patsy all the way to the train station. She went to the advance booking counter and took some money out of her school bag, handed it across. I couldn’t hear what was being said and I had to leave pretty quickly as I knew she would probably be heading back in my direction. I hid behind an advertising board and waited. She soon passed me and I followed her back to school. We got back just in time for the afternoon bell.

My curiosity consumed me, I was desperate to find out where Patsy was going, what was she up to, where WAS she going? That night it was Patsy’s turn so I could sleep in peace. In the morning I feigned a headache and Mum, never one to push us, let me stay home. As soon as Mum left for work and the house was quiet, I slipped into Patsy’s bedroom and searched. Hidden in a pair of knickers I found the ticket, it was a one way, economy ticket for London, leaving at 11.00am in three weeks’ time. I went cold with fear. If Patsy left then there would be no peace for me, ever. Every night I would be in torment whether I was visited or not. I couldn’t let it happen. I just couldn’t. At that moment I knew I had a decision to make, I had to save myself, no one else would look out for me. I had to find the strength. As the wind raced up the valley causing the house to creak its protest, I returned to my bedroom to think and plan.

In the end it had been ridiculously simple. I waited until the next time it was Patsy’s turn. I knew a bit about DNA and wanted there to be evidence of what had been going on in the house. The following day, after school, before bath time, I tackled her about the ticket, making sure my father could hear. He came storming in and there was a huge row during which Dad slapped Patsy hard on the face. She ran out of the house crying. But I knew where she would go. She had a hideout in the scrub above the quarry where she met friends for a smoke or whatever. As it grew dark, Dad, having calmed down, went out to look for her. I pretended to go to bed but quickly climbed out of my bedroom window, racing to the quarry, stopping at my chosen spot. I called to Patsy, taunting her, I knew she would be mad at me for ruining her plans. She stormed out of the bushes her hands outstretched to grab me. Quite calmly I sidestepped as she came at me and gently pushed her, letting her forward momentum take her over the edge of the quarry. I had chosen my spot carefully. They didn’t find her body until the next day.

I was naturally very upset and only able to give the briefest account of the row between her and Dad. He wasn’t convicted of her murder, as I had planned. They assumed that Patsy had fallen over the edge running from the house, but he was given twenty five years for sexually abusing the both of us. I, of course, had reluctantly given evidence against him once the DNA of the semen found in Patsy was identified as his. I was taken into care and fostered by a wonderful family who have been very patient with me. I have never seen my mother since and never wish to. I never regretted my decision or felt guilty, does that make me bad, or just damaged.

He will be out shortly, apparently he has behaved himself inside. So, I am making this pilgrimage to finally lay to rest my ghosts, still alive in this house. I have a bottle of white spirits in my coat pocket and a box of matches. I know what I must do. This house must never again protect the wicked and their vile deeds.

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