Living With Evil Cynthia Owen (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

livingwithevil

CYNTHIA OWEN

headline

www.headline.co.uk

Copyright © 2010 Cynthia Owen

The right of Cynthia Owen to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,

this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,

in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing

of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,

in accordance with the terms of licences issued by

the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard

to reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be

glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN : 978 0 7553 6012 3

This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK Company

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.headline.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 - 4 White’s Villas

Chapter 2 - Don’t Wake Mammy

Chapter 3 - Meeting Mr Greeny

Chapter 4 - A New Dress

Chapter 5 - Bye-bye, Esther

Chapter 6 - ‘Please Stop, Daddy’

Chapter 7 - Christmas

Chapter 8 - Telling Mammy

Chapter 9 - Scarlet Ribbons

Chapter 10 - The Relatives

Chapter 11 - Daddy’s Friends

Chapter 12 - Mammy’s Friend

Chapter 13 - ‘You’re Having a Baby’

Chapter 14 - Noleen

Chapter 15 - Goodbye

Chapter 16 - The Fire

Chapter 17 - Nightmares and Dreams

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

LETTER TO MY LEGAL TEAM

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Noleen, to my sister Theresa and my brothers Martin and Michael, and for all victims of sexual abuse and violence. And to women who have become pregnant by their abusers. My wish for you is that this book brings you hope.

This is my story, told through my eyes. I am telling the story of what I saw, what happened to me and what my dead siblings, Theresa and Martin, told me happened to them too. I have not included other people’s account of events. It is their right to tell their own stories, this is mine. Although this is a work of fact, some of the names of people and places have been changed, as well as some descriptions of people and places.

Prologue

‘Have you reached a decision?’

The coroner’s voice made my heart skip a beat, and silence fell as the foreman of the jury stood up.

‘Twelve agree that it is Cynthia Owen’s baby.’

I broke down completely. I felt eleven-years-old again. My baby had just died.

‘Twelve agree that it was 4 April 1973.’

The words danced in my head. I had finally proved I wasn’t mad, and I wasn’t a liar.

I was forty-five-years old, and I had a daughter who would be almost thirty-four-years old, had she lived.

‘Twelve agree the place of death was 4 White’s Villas, Dalkey.

‘Cause of death: haemorrhage due to stab wounds. Twelve agree. An open verdict.’

The room erupted. People started clapping and shouting, ‘Yes!’, at the top of their voices. I felt like a volt of electricity was coursing through my body.

I took the stand, barely able to support myself on my shaking legs, and the room fell silent again.

‘Mrs Owen, I believe you have given your baby a first name, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘And what is that name?’

‘Noleen.’

Her name hung in the thick silence for a moment, then I listened, awestruck, as the coroner said he was officially identifying the baby found in Lee’s Lane on Wednesday 4 April 1973 as my daughter, Noleen Murphy, stabbed to death in my family home.

I looked at the jury and mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ then dropped into my husband Simon’s lap and broke down into loud, unruly sobs.

When I finally staggered outside I looked up at the clear sky and smiled broadly. I had waited so long for this day to come, and I could scarcely believe it was real.

‘Rest in peace, my darling Noleen,’ I whispered up to heaven. ‘Mummy loves you.’

I would like to be able to tell you that my battle to be formally identified as Noleen’s mother and to have the details of her short life publicly recorded was the worst struggle I faced after the trauma of losing her, but sadly that is not the case.

I faced many more nightmares, each one testing me to the limit and threatening to push me over the edge. If it hadn’t been for my wonderful husband, Simon, I am certain I would not have survived.

Thanks to his unconditional love and support, I am alive and well, and able to tell the rest of my story.

Chapter 1

4 White’s Villas

I’m eight-years-old and in bed waiting for Daddy to come in from the pub, and I’m trembling.

Mammy forced me upstairs to bed hours ago, but I can’t sleep. I’m in my vest and knickers, huddled under dirty coats and smelly blankets, and I’m terrified about what will happen tonight.

Daddy always comes in when it’s very dark, but that is the only thing I can be sure of. When I hear his leather shoes crunching up the short path to our council house, my heart starts to thump in my chest.

Sometimes I say a prayer, pressing my hands together tight like the nuns at school taught me: ‘Please, God, please can it be a good night tonight? I’ve been a very good girl, so I have.’

Daddy usually goes straight to the pub after work and drinks and smokes all night with his friends. The pubs are near our house in Dalkey, and sometimes he can take in three or four in one evening, depending on his mood.

Mammy always stays in our house at 4 White’s Villas. Every night she rocks in her chair by the coal fire, drinking glass after glass of sherry and lighting one cigarette from another.

When Daddy gets home, sometimes they shout and scream if they have both had lots to drink, but sometimes he doesn’t even speak to her.

I’m listening hard, but I’m so nervous I start breathing really quickly, and I’m gasping noisily for breath. It feels like I’m being strangled, but it’s just the fear choking me and making it