Abused : A Hard-Hitting, Honest, and Disturbing Account of a Young Boy's Abuse At The Hands of His Parents, Leading to His Ultimate Destruction.

By Nadeem Wilkinson

A hard-hitting, honest, and disturbing account of a young boy's abuse at the hands of his parents, leading to his ultimate destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244674540

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Abused : A Hard-Hitting, Honest, and Disturbing Account of a Young Boy's Abuse At The Hands of His Parents, Leading to His Ultimate Destruction.

ABUSED

Copyright: © 2014 Nadeem Wilkinson

Printed and published by: lulu.com

ISBN 978-0-244-67454-0

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Contents

Introduction

Acknowledgments

Chapter One – The Nursery Years

Chapter Two – The Primary School Years

Chapter Three – The Secondary Years

Chapter Four – The In-Between Years

Chapter Five – The Council Years

Chapter Six – After the Council Years

Chapter Seven – My Marriage

Chapter Eight – The Court Cases

Chapter Nine – Prison Life

The End

INTRODUCTION

Some people are going to be very upset about the revelations in this book.  Nadeem spent his whole life observing people and keeping quiet over what he saw, from what his parents did to the ultimate act of betrayal by his family.  This was an act of extreme loyalty or extreme stupidity. He tended to think it was loyalty but most others in his life have called him stupid. Yes, he could have been stupid too.

This book is a narrative of his life, written to appeal to everyone, learned and layman, abused and abusers, professional and manual, young or elderly. There is no fancy language, no jargon, it was how he lived his life. Simply. Not out to impress, just appeal to the masses.

People got hurt as a result of him turning a blind eye.  People deserve the truth and this book is all about the truth.  Sometimes people cannot handle the truth but that is not my problem.  If you ever knew him, and you did something that you have kept secret, you’re probably going to be in here.

His life from the beginning was one sworn to secrecy, never to tell or be killed. That kind of start in life can break people. It certainly broke Nadeem. He hid it well. He was intelligent, kind, thoughtful and generous. But behind all that, he lived in fear, fear of becoming his father.

As much as he knew it was wrong what had happened to him, he had this dread that one day, he would also become the violent, abusive man his father was and did everything in his power to prevent that from happening.

When people found this out, they used this knowledge to destroy him.

If those people now feel that he deserves to be punished for disclosing the truth, then maybe they should look at themselves first and ask why they did not have the courage to tell the truth in the first place.

People lying about him, and others choosing to believe those lies, helped to destroy his life.  This is his opportunity to put things straight, and hopefully help those people in a similar position to him by demonstrating that things happen in your life, which are often out of your control.

Sometimes no matter how hard you try, it seems that life has an inevitability about it and even though you can see what is coming, you are unable to stop it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With thanks to the following people who were very important in my life:

Christine

Alison

Diane

Madeleine

Gabriella

Chapter One

NURSERY YEARS - 1967 – 1971, AGED 1-4

1st February 1967.  The day that I was born.  There was nothing special about my birth.  I weighed in at about 4 lbs.  at Liverpool Sefton General Hospital, and remember being told by my mother when I was older that she used to dress me in dolls clothes because I was so small.

I guess at that age, all that I wanted was what every other new born wanted.  To be fed and loved.  In fact, I could have probably done without the food as long as I had my mothers’ love.  I never got it.

1st February.  A day that was important to me.  Reaching it each year meant I had survived another year.  It also meant I would have to endure the kind of life people can only read about or see in movies.  The kind of life that people find hard to imagine unless they have experienced the same trauma themselves.  1st February.  A date that would have a life-changing effect on me.

The human memory is a strange beast.  Why do we remember the things we do?  Why do we remember certain things so clearly yet have no recollection of other events that happened at the same time?

For as long as I can remember, I have always had a good memory, (no pun intended).  I can recall events so vividly that they could have just happened.  Events that happened right back to when I was two years old.  To some people, this would be a fortunate ability.  To me, it is quite the opposite.  That was because I could only remember the bad things. 

My first feeling was fear.  I may not have known the name for it at the time but the symptoms were the same.  That feeling where you were unable to move, eyes wide open, expecting to experience physical pain or mental torture.  It was the only feeling I knew in my earliest years. 

My first memory was of suffocation.  Not from a pillow, or from lying face down into the bedclothes, but something horrendous.  In fact, I had kept it locked deep inside and it only surfaced when I began putting my life to paper.  I remember lying on my back, and something being pressed into my face.  Something fleshy, very damp, and slightly hairy.  I didn’t know what it was at the time, how would I?  But that incident changed me for life.

People who grew up in a stable, loving, and nurturing environment did not know how lucky they were.  Never take it for granted and savor every moment.

Another early memory was having a caliper fitted to my leg. I remember having to go to the doctors on Princes Road where it would get stretched causing severe discomfort.  I also remember being petrified when it became lodged in a sewer grate.  That was on for a while and when it was removed the relief was amazing.

My parents lived in a large house in Mulgrave Street, Liverpool 8.  It was one of several that my dad owned in the street at that time.  Due to my diminutive size, the house seemed too big, but even by today's standards, it was huge.  It as a Georgian styled three-storey property.

I remember drifting from room to room, aimlessly looking for something.  I never did know what that something was but I am sure it was love.  My mothers’ love.  Even at that tender age, I knew that my mother should have given love unconditionally.  I never, ever got it.  There were no hugs or acts of affection.  No kisses and no words.  I just existed.  Occupying space, which I tried to make as comfortable as possible by ignoring events that happened almost daily around me.  Events such as my mum and dad constantly fighting and arguing.  The noise was deafening.  You could taste the anger and feel the hatred.

My mum had a fiery temper.  You did not want to get on the wrong side of her.  She was a large, heavyset woman and was strong, really strong.  When she lost her temper, it struck fear into you.  Yes, she was scary.  However, my dad was worse.  He was the only person who could take my mum on and win.  The arguments were rarely just verbal.  They were usually physical.  I cannot count the number of times I saw them fighting, with my dad punching my mum and her retaliating by punching, kicking and clawing at his face.  They did not care that I could see them.  Too distracted by their anger and hatred for each other.  I never knew them being happy.  I did not know what happy was.

The most traumatic event that happened at that time was when they were arguing again.  In a fit of uncontrollable anger, my dad grabbed my mum around the throat and forcibly dragged her to the kitchen sink.  He then picked up a knife from the drainer, held it to her throat with her head over the sink, and threatened to ‘fucking slit it’.  I knew at that moment that my mum’s life was in danger.  He would have done it and had no remorse afterwards.  My three brothers and I would have probably followed.  I stood there rooted to the spot.  I could not move.  I did not cry.  All normal emotions and feelings deserted me in that instance.  In that moment, I truly knew what being petrified meant.

The fights usually ended in the same way.  My dad would storm off and my mum would take my younger brother Weaseem and I out of the house.  It did not matter what time of day it was.  There was always a hurried walk from the house to Upper Parliament Street and then a bus ride to the junction of Lodge Lane and Smithdown Road.  I remember the sound of the conductor’s ticket machine as my mum’s ticket was dispensed.  It was a nice smooth soothing sound.  Much more pleasing than what I had just witnessed.

The walk back to the house always took a lot longer than it ought to.  My mum carefully scanning the road in case my dad had decided to search for her.  Her hand gripping mine.  I enjoyed those moments.  Even getting to hold my mum’s hand felt special.  That was the only time she ever showed any kind of motherly instinct.  When we reached the house, we would have to hide while she crept up to check if he was still in.  He never was.  He was out looking for us.

I had two older brothers.  Tariq and Saleem.  I do not know why they never came with us.  In fact, I do not know where they were.  My dad never took them with him and they were far too young to have been left alone.  The time waiting for my dad to return was always tense.  I never knew what mood he would be in or if the fights would start again.  When he eventually did return, he would slam the front door and ignore everyone.  Although the silence was deafening and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife, it was the best possible outcome for all.

When I was growing up and living at Mulgrave Street, I cannot remember seeing much of my dad.  For the two years that I can remember being there, I could only recall a handful of times apart from the times he spent fighting with my mum.  It led me to ask myself if he actually lived with us or was he and mum just a casual thing.  Additionally, and more importantly, was he really our dad or did he just come and spend time with mum?  I never found the truth out but aspects of their relationship were unconventional to say the least.

As touched upon earlier, my dad owned several houses in Mulgrave Street.  He rented those out and had a wide mix of tenants.  There were two tenants living in our house.  Pops who was an elderly gentleman who always wore a cap and had a walking stick and Mohammed, a large black man who always wore a dark blue raincoat and a smile on his face.  My dad also rented rooms to prostitutes.  I did not know at the time what that meant.  People in the area called my dad ‘The Whore Master’.  I have so many unanswered questions about this completely seedy side to my dad’s life.  Was my dad a pimp?  Was he just a property owner who rented to prostitutes and got the name as an unfortunate by-product of his occupation?  Was my mum a prostitute?

All I knew was that the houses he owned could only be rented to the needy and the desperate.  The condition of them was truly terrible.  By today's standards, they would have been condemned and deemed unfit for human habitation.  I remember one day I was in the kitchen with my mum and as she opened one of the wall cupboards, a swarm of cockroaches poured in from the derelict property next door.  There were literally thousands of them running everywhere.  My mum did her best to get them into buckets of disinfectant but it was a hopeless task.  They just over-ran the kitchen.

One of the main reasons why my mum and dad fought all the time was because of a woman called Jean.  Jean was a red-haired prostitute who my dad used to frequent.  I remember my dad bringing her into our house while my mum was out and my mum returning and catching them together.  Fireworks again! My dad just did not care.  What he said was what happened.  I think there was a lot more to my mum and dad’s relationship than anyone knew.  I found out some of the truth later in life and it seems hard to believe.  I will cover this later in the book.

Something quite strange happened when I was about two and a half.  My brothers and I all went to stay with a woman called Mrs. Phillips.  She was a black woman that my parents knew.  She did not live that far from us but I had only met her once before.  My dad dropped us off at her house and I remember standing in her kitchen crying out loud and feeling lost.  I had no idea why we were there or for how long.  We were told nothing.  I remember her taking hold of me, and placing me in the kitchen sink, where she commenced to wash me down.  My younger brother received the same treatment while my other two brothers were told to undress and were washed down where they stood.

I do not know how long we stayed there.  It was at least a few weeks but could have easily been months.  During this time, my dad visited about once a week and we always thought we were going back home.  We were disappointed as he uttered a few words to Mrs. Phillips and then left without speaking to any of us.  The truth about this short-term re-homing became known, years later.  I will cover this later in the book when I reach the age I was told about it.

One thing I always knew about my dad was how mean he was with his money.  He hated spending it and when he did, he always bought the cheapest possible.  The cheapest everything, including food.  It was not as if he had no money.  He did.  And lots.  He just hated parting with it.  A time this was perfectly demonstrated was one week when my mum was cooking Sunday dinner.  When she opened the bag of sprouts that my dad had purchased she was startled on seeing a load of small pink worms crawling through them.  She said there is no way that she is cooking them only to be ordered to cook them by my dad.  He said he had spent good money on them and we would not mind a bit of extra meat.

I guess you know what happened.  Yes, we were forced to eat them.  I remember feeling revulsion at the thought and every mouthful made me heave.  Eventually, I threw up, filling my dinner plate on the kitchen table.  He even tried to get me to finish my dinner off only to be put in his place by my mum.  You never forgot things like that.

Another thing I remember about mealtimes was when my dad would buy a rack of lamb ribs and after they were roasted, each of us was given half a side each.  We used to call it caveman meat, as that's exactly what we looked like, our faces greased up and bones everywhere.  My dad used to make us chew the bones to get the marrow out and I couldn't understand that.  Did he think we were a pack of dogs?

When I was about three years old, my dad took me out with him.  I did not know where we were going but we ended up in a hospital.  I remember sitting in a waiting area with some double doors to my left.  As I sat there, I heard a woman screaming loudly.  It sounded like something awful was happening to her.  I knew it was my mother.  My dad told me to sit there and wait while he went through the double doors to find out what was happening.  The screaming continued in bursts for about three minutes.  Then silence.  My dad returned and told me we were going but we had to come back tomorrow.  The following day the journey was repeated.  I knew where to wait and remained in the seating area once again for my dad to return.

After about ten minutes, he re-appeared with my mum.  She could barely walk as she held onto his arm.  I never did find out exactly why she was in there.  When I asked years later she told me she was having gallstones removed.  I did not know if she was telling the truth or not.  Would not she have been anaesthetised?  She also had a massive scar across her stomach, which went from her left side to her right side.  I thought that maybe she was having a baby but I do not think caesarean scars are that big or even in that location.  If she were having gallstones removed, surely the scar left would have been much smaller?

Another incident that came to mind from that time is when we were all in the kitchen eating dinner.  My younger brother was so greedy back then.  If he wanted something my dad made sure he got it.  I remember we were served lamb chops and my brother managed to eat his, seemingly without touching the sides.  After devouring his chop, he asked for more.  My mother had only cooked enough for us so guess what happened?   Yes.  You guessed it.  My dad’s hand reached over my shoulder and lifted the lamb chop from my plate.  The same was done with my older brothers.  We were all stunned, motionless.  Did we not want more?  We never even got the chance to sample what looked like a succulent and very appetising piece of meat.  Weaseem just sat there with a satisfied look on his face as one after another, the chops disappeared into his now greasy mouth.  Funny how things like that stay with you.

We never got many visitors to our house in Mulgrave Street.  It was not something I thought about.  I only ever knew what was around me.  I did not know why we did not get visitors at that time but later realised that my dad would not allow it.  He would not even let my mum talk to anyone else and would accuse her of all manner of disgusting things if she even looked at another man.  Such was his control over her.

One day, mid-morning, there was a loud thumping at the front door.  I was downstairs with my mum, probably in the kitchen.  My dad was at the top of the stairs on the landing.  The house in Mulgrave Street had a large sweeping staircase, which veered off to the left near to the top.  My mum proceeded to the door with a look on her face, which was a mixture of surprise and caution.  As she opened the door, a group of men pushed past her, knocking her aside.  Five men in all rushed in.  On seeing my dad, they all ran up the stairs towards him.  What happened next was unbelievable.  One by one, they grappled with my dad.  One by one they fell.  I had never seen anyone being knocked unconscious before but after about five minutes, which seemed like an eternity, all five were sprawled across the stairs at different positions.

Most people would have been proud of their dad to dispatch this number of intruders in such a way.  Not me.  I stood there watching, mesmerised.  That cold feeling of dread, which left me dry in the mouth with my heart beating so hard I thought it was trying to get out, took hold of me once again.  If I needed confirmation that my dad was dangerous, this was all the proof I required.

My mum pulled me into the kitchen and shut the door.  When I was allowed out, the men had gone.  There was no sign that they had ever been there.  No damage, no blood.  I later found out that one of the men was called James.  Mum’s husband.  He must have found out what was going on between my mum and dad and came to save her.  His plan did not work out as intended.  There was no way my dad was letting go of his property because that is what she now was.

The most horrific time until I was four happened one day when my two older brothers, Tariq and Saleem, ran in from the rear yard.  They told me that there was a dead woman outside.  Naturally, I did not believe them.  I thought they were trying to play a trick on me to get me outside so they could lock me out.  They insisted they were not lying and curiosity got the better of me.  I wandered outside expecting to find nothing and then seeing them both laughing at me as they slammed the door.  I looked about, could not see anything, and thought how stupid I was for believing them.