Living With Evil by Cynthia Owen

about it, but I couldn’t seem to get it out of my mind. My head was itching too, worse than ever. Martin was crying in the pram. His cries ricocheted round my head and I stared at the cloudy sky in front of me, wishing I could block everything out.
     
    I could hear the girls giggling when I pushed the pram into the classroom: ‘What’s smelly Cynthia up to this time? Will you look at the state of that baby! What’s she thinking of? Has she no shame?’
     
    The voices tried to get inside my brain, but my head felt like it was full of thick, damp sand. I felt very tired and I couldn’t think clearly at all.
     
    Did I have no shame? I wasn’t sure. I just felt numb and exhausted.
     
    ‘What have we here, child?’ demanded Mother Dorothy, haughtily.
     
    ‘It’s my brother Martin, Mother Dorothy. My mammy says to tell you she’s very sick and can’t look after him. There’s no one else in the house, so I’ve brought him into class. I’ll make sure he’s no trouble at all.’
     
    With that, Martin started roaring loudly, tugging at the side of his buggy and shouting, ‘Out, out!’
     
    I didn’t know what to do. I was eight years old. I tried to rock the buggy discreetly with my foot, while Mother Dorothy stood over the pair of us, glaring.
     
    ‘Is there no end to your boldness? Settle the child immediately, and if you disrupt the class again there will be severe consequences!’
     
    I wouldn’t have minded being sent out of the class that day. I couldn’t focus on a word the teachers said. My foot ached as I rocked the buggy, shushing Martin and pleading with him with my eyes to quieten down. Every time he grumbled and fidgeted, my heart lurched up into my throat.
     
    I hated Mammy for making me bring him. I didn’t want to tell lies to the nuns. I didn’t want to be made fun of by the other girls. I didn’t like the way my head ached with tiredness and itched after Daddy had kept me awake at night. I just wanted to be normal. I looked around and longed to have clean white socks and clean hair, every day, like the other girls.
     
    I wondered why I was the one who always seemed to get lumbered with so many jobs, and caring for the little ones. With Esther gone, things had got worse at home. I was ordered by Mammy to wash the dishes and feed the children. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t want Martin or Mary to be hungry or dirty. I loved them, so I cared for them as best I could.
     
    Yet it didn’t matter how much I helped or what I said or did, things were always horrible at home, and the rows continued with scary regularity.
     
    I often heard thumps and thuds and slaps and smacks when I was lying in bed at night. Mammy cursed and cried, and
     
    Daddy spat and swore while I covered my head under a blanket, praying hard for them to stop.
     
    Wherever I slept, I felt afraid. And it was even worse when Mammy and Daddy had a big row.
     
    That night, I started to tremble when Daddy climbed into bed with me.
     
    I knew he was in a filthy mood, because I’d heard him swearing and cursing at Mammy really badly, so what would happen when he came upstairs tonight?
     
    When I heard the bedroom door open I started gasping for air, as if someone was choking me. I clasped my hands round my body and felt my fingers shaking against my skin.
     
    I was petrified. Something horrible was going to happen. I just knew it. Stay calm, I told myself, over and over again, as I heard him carry out his familiar routine.
     
    The toilet bucket splashed and stank, the belt and zip of his trousers chinked open and his clothes tumbled to the floor. He coughed and spat, and he took a step closer to the bed. I could hear his breathing getting nearer.
     
    Every second brought new fear. My blood was boiling in my head, pulsating around my sore eye.
     
    Daddy was in the bed now, and I braced my spine, expecting him to pull in behind me.
     
    To my horror, he pulled me towards him angrily, turning me to face him as he did