expected of me. I knew by the expression on his face that, should I try, his delight in making me would give him even more pleasure.
So I did everything he told me to.
‘Stand there,’ he said, moving the pillows and lifting me on to the bed, pushing my back against the brass rail. ‘Now spread your legs wide.’
My uncle came in with the camera equipment and I shivered as he set up the tripod. A light shone on my face as Chubby instructed me to touch myself. Then, leaving his shirt on, he pulled off his trousers, climbed on to the bed and made me sit on him. Underneath my small frame with his hands holding me firmly in place he jerked and grunted. ‘Uh, uh,’ he groaned. The sounds gradually became higher-pitched and louder as they climbed the scales of his ecstasy, and his fat body shook with shudders. He tossed me off him then and I lay dry-eyed in a small, crumpled heap.
It was when he had finished that, for the first time, I was slapped. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out as his large ring-covered hand slammed against my bottom. He laughed when he saw me wince. ‘You’ll learn to like that soon,’ he said. ‘Pain can become pleasure.’ With those words, which I was to hear more times than I want to remember over the next five years, he stood up and got dressed.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said to my uncle, and then it was Chubby who took over directing the camera.
After the fat man had gone, he couldn’t resume the charade that he was the loving uncle and I the child who was dependent on him. I went silently back outside to the garden. He did not try to cajole me. He was not worried that his power over me was diminishing. He knew as well as Chubby did that any chance of my talking was now past: I was far too ashamed to confide in anyone. I could never choke out the words to describe my pain or the nightmare I was living in once again.
I sat on the grass, my arms hugging my knees. The place between my legs throbbed with pain and my mind replayed the images of what they had done to me.
When I had gone into the house earlier, I had left my half-drunk glass of Coke outside. Several wasps had crawled into it. Some were already dead, but others were struggling to climb out up the slippery surface of the glass. But their bedraggled wings only pulled them round in circles so I picked up the glass and turned it upside-down.
Then I took the newspaper that my uncle had left open on the chair and held it out for them. One by one they crawled on to it and the paper started to absorb the liquid that held them down. As they dried and recovered they slowly worked their wings, before flying up towards the warmth of the sun and freedom.
That day, my time in Spain became only a distant memory. It was the end of the chance I had been given to heal and have a normal life. It was the beginning of me meeting other Chubbys. Those men who used, humiliated and destroyed the child I was. After that time the little girl who, with her suntanned face, had called out, ‘
Hola
,’ to her friends, spun round to the music at the
fiesta
and rushed excitedly into school full of stories about her holiday disappeared, leaving in her place a little girl who heard screams inside her head.
21
On the days when I did not go to my uncle, Kat and I would take our bicycles out and ride along the lanes until we reached the purple heather-covered moors. Sometimes we would spot a field devoid of animals and farm workers, rest our bikes against a hedge and climb over the gate.
There we would lie on our backs, our heads resting on our arms and the last of the autumn sun warming our faces. With my fists screwed up like binoculars, I held them to my eyes as I searched for wildlife but it was only common small brown birds that I was able to find in the curve of my fingers. I felt a tug of yearning for Spain, with its forests and peace, and wanted to see again the flight of a solitary eagle.
It was on one of those excursions that Kat told
So I did everything he told me to.
‘Stand there,’ he said, moving the pillows and lifting me on to the bed, pushing my back against the brass rail. ‘Now spread your legs wide.’
My uncle came in with the camera equipment and I shivered as he set up the tripod. A light shone on my face as Chubby instructed me to touch myself. Then, leaving his shirt on, he pulled off his trousers, climbed on to the bed and made me sit on him. Underneath my small frame with his hands holding me firmly in place he jerked and grunted. ‘Uh, uh,’ he groaned. The sounds gradually became higher-pitched and louder as they climbed the scales of his ecstasy, and his fat body shook with shudders. He tossed me off him then and I lay dry-eyed in a small, crumpled heap.
It was when he had finished that, for the first time, I was slapped. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out as his large ring-covered hand slammed against my bottom. He laughed when he saw me wince. ‘You’ll learn to like that soon,’ he said. ‘Pain can become pleasure.’ With those words, which I was to hear more times than I want to remember over the next five years, he stood up and got dressed.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said to my uncle, and then it was Chubby who took over directing the camera.
After the fat man had gone, he couldn’t resume the charade that he was the loving uncle and I the child who was dependent on him. I went silently back outside to the garden. He did not try to cajole me. He was not worried that his power over me was diminishing. He knew as well as Chubby did that any chance of my talking was now past: I was far too ashamed to confide in anyone. I could never choke out the words to describe my pain or the nightmare I was living in once again.
I sat on the grass, my arms hugging my knees. The place between my legs throbbed with pain and my mind replayed the images of what they had done to me.
When I had gone into the house earlier, I had left my half-drunk glass of Coke outside. Several wasps had crawled into it. Some were already dead, but others were struggling to climb out up the slippery surface of the glass. But their bedraggled wings only pulled them round in circles so I picked up the glass and turned it upside-down.
Then I took the newspaper that my uncle had left open on the chair and held it out for them. One by one they crawled on to it and the paper started to absorb the liquid that held them down. As they dried and recovered they slowly worked their wings, before flying up towards the warmth of the sun and freedom.
That day, my time in Spain became only a distant memory. It was the end of the chance I had been given to heal and have a normal life. It was the beginning of me meeting other Chubbys. Those men who used, humiliated and destroyed the child I was. After that time the little girl who, with her suntanned face, had called out, ‘
Hola
,’ to her friends, spun round to the music at the
fiesta
and rushed excitedly into school full of stories about her holiday disappeared, leaving in her place a little girl who heard screams inside her head.
21
On the days when I did not go to my uncle, Kat and I would take our bicycles out and ride along the lanes until we reached the purple heather-covered moors. Sometimes we would spot a field devoid of animals and farm workers, rest our bikes against a hedge and climb over the gate.
There we would lie on our backs, our heads resting on our arms and the last of the autumn sun warming our faces. With my fists screwed up like binoculars, I held them to my eyes as I searched for wildlife but it was only common small brown birds that I was able to find in the curve of my fingers. I felt a tug of yearning for Spain, with its forests and peace, and wanted to see again the flight of a solitary eagle.
It was on one of those excursions that Kat told
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