Can't Anyone Help Me? by Toni Maguire Page A

however suspicious I was at nearly nine, I was not mature enough to fathom why he had given no hint of his feelings for me, or why he had just acted as a middle-aged man should towards his niece. He had not changed: he was simply biding his time. My uncle had other plans for me, and he wanted to make sure that, after being away from him for two months, I was still going to comply with them. He could not have found that out in one day.

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    Three weeks later my suspicions were confirmed. I was sent by my parents to stay at my uncle’s house again. There, on his home territory, he used reminders of past deeds, warnings of what would happen should anyone find out, and reassurances that he would always look after and protect me to keep me ensnared in the web he had woven.
    It only took him a couple of weekends to have me where he wanted me.
    Once he was sure that I was once again in his power, Chubby returned. It must have been some time in October because I remember my mother referring to the warm days we were having as an ‘Indian summer’. It was late morning and my uncle and I had taken chairs outside into the garden and were sitting companionably near each other in the sunshine. I had my headphones on, listening to music, and was sipping from a glass of Coke he had poured for me.
    I was daydreaming about Spain while he was reading his newspaper.
    There was nothing in his demeanour that morning to warn me of what he had planned, so when the doorbell rang I wasn’t alarmed.
    My uncle went to answer it, then called out to me: ‘Come into my office, Jackie. We have a visitor.’
    At those words the old dread returned. I walked in to find the man whose face I had tried unsuccessfully to block from my mind.
    ‘Hallo, Jackie,’ he said, as he sat down near to where I was standing. I felt my legs turn to jelly. ‘Remember me?’ From the look of fear on my face he knew that, of course, I did.
    This time there were no presents, no card tricks to entertain me and no twinkling eyes. Just a short fat man, who sat with his ample legs splayed and pulled me towards him while, in a flat, expressionless voice, he told me what he wanted to do to me.
    He was so close to my face that he breathed his sour breath into my mouth with every word he spoke. ‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘this time you’re going to show me your bedroom.’
    I looked at my uncle for help but he turned away and I knew that Chubby’s arrival had been planned and that no assistance would come from him.
    Fat fingers prodded me in the direction of the door leading into the main house. As I stumbled through it, and up the stairs to the bedroom that was mine when I stayed, I could hear him wheezing behind me. But not a word was spoken.
    As we entered the room he closed the curtains, cutting out the bright sunlight and the likelihood of being observed by prying neighbours.
    He then turned his attention to me and removed my clothes. My dress was yanked over my head; my knickers were pulled down until I was wearing only my sandals. ‘Take them off,’ he said.
    Bending down, I undid the straps and slowly set them aside, feeling giddy as I raised my head.
    Chubby, I came to realise, knew the weakness of little girls who had reached the age of being shy about anyone seeing their naked bodies. He knew that the humiliation he could inflict on me would have an even greater effect than the pain of the act. It was the humiliation, as well as the thinly disguised threats – oft-repeated ones that the child would be blamed should they ever be discovered – that ensured silence. Also, to speak out would mean having to relive those moments of degradation.
    I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. It must know when it sees the huge metal machine hurtling towards it that if it doesn’t move it will be crushed. But, transfixed by the lights, the rabbit waits for its inevitable fate. I, too, did not have either the will or the strength to refuse to do what was