Barbara OHare - The Hospital: How I survived the secret child experiments at Aston Hall

The
Hospital

The
Hospital

How I survived the secret child experiments at Aston Hall

BARBARA OHARE

with Veronica Clark

Published by Blink Publishing

3.25, The Plaza,

535 Kings Road,

Chelsea Harbour,

London, SW10 0SZ

www.blinkpublishing.co.uk

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Paperback 978-1-911274-63-6

Ebook 978-1-911274-64-3

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by seagulls.net

Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St. Ives Plc

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright Barbara OHare, 2017

Papers used by Blink Publishing are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

Blink Publishing is an imprint of the Bonnier Publishing Group

www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk

While the events described in this account are true to the best of the authors knowledge, belief and memory, some names have been changed to protect the integrity of the on-going police inquiry into allegations surrounding the scandal of treatment at Aston Hall.

Contents

Prologue

Monday, 9 January 1995

The rush-hour traffic snakes back as we inch forward, nose to tail, and make our way along the road.

Stop, start, stop, start.

I turn the heating up, the condensation drips from the front and side windows. There are smudge marks against the glass where Ive tried to rub it clear. The car heater suddenly kicks into life, stealing our breath away, as I chat to my friend in the passenger seat.

Reckless teenagers run across the road, darting in between the cars as I pull on the handbrake for the umpteenth time. Car fumes build up outside as exhaust pipes pump grey chemical clouds out and up into the air.

Oh, turn it up, I love this one, my friend says, as Whatever by Oasis blares from the radio.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music.

The schools have just turned out. Young children, dressed in uniforms, clutch at their mothers hands and line up, waiting to cross the busy road. The traffic lights change to red. I stop again and watch as they pass, some walking, some skipping all carefree and happy that their day is done. My eyes and mind wander as I glance out of the car window. And thats when I see it the nondescript red-brick building. The fire station solid, workman-like, practical. I take in the huge chimney and the bricks small and symmetrical. There are large, white wooden-framed windows exactly like the ones at Aston Hall. My heart pounds and my mouth feels bone dry. In an instant, Im back there, at the hospital. Hes the doctor and Im his human guinea pig. Im his experiment.

I feel his hot breath against my neck as I try to twist my face away from his. The stench of ether fills my nostrils. Im paralysed and helpless. I see his hand and feel the sharpness of the wire mask as he presses it hard against my face.

Drip, drip, drip

The weight of his body pins me down, crushing me; I gasp for breath and uncurl my fist. In desperation, I clutch at the cold rubber cover of the mattress. The room is dark. His soul is dark.

Im trapped, drugged and imprisoned a 12-year-old girl begging to die

Chapter 1

The Tinkers Daughter

Standing inside a strange, dark house, I turned and looked through a window that faced out onto a backyard. There was a sad strip of dying grass in a cluster, surrounded by grey cobbled stones, but very little else. Underneath the window sat a big Silver Cross pram, its chrome reflecting the sunlight like a mirror.

Come on, Barbara. Climb in, a slim lady with blonde hair urged as she waved her hand to try and hurry me up.

I stretched out, grabbed at the side and heaved myself in. The lady held onto the big handle to keep it still as I curled up and tried to squeeze into the space where the baby was supposed to lie. It was no good; I was four years old and far too big to sleep in a pram. I sat up and looked around.

Get in, the woman said.

I couldnt see Dads face, but the lady turned to him.

Shell be alright. Well just stick her in here.

I smile and say nothing because I dont dare complain. The cramped pram is my bed for the night. With my eyes closed, I pretend to sleep. I hear voices and the sound of a door closing. The adults have disappeared and suddenly I am all alone. Theres the faint sound of footsteps as the ladys heels click-clack down the hallway and the banging of the door to a downstairs bedroom. Muffled laughter floats from underneath the door as I hear sounds of the blonde lady and my father together. I cant see them, but I know something is happening and Im not wanted.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember my mother, but it was like trying to catch a cloud in my hands. Without a photograph, the image I had of her in my head thinned and evaporated until I was left with nothing. Dad had told me my mother abandoned me when I was a baby. He said she was an Irish gypsy with bright red hair and that being a gypsys daughter made me a tinker. I imagined her riding wild and free on horseback, her long, flaming red hair trailing behind a Celtic beauty. I prayed that shed come back for me, but as the days and months passed, I realised Id probably never see her again. Dad told me shed left when I was 11 months old and still in nappies. He said shed remembered to pack her prize possessions her fine trinkets and best porcelain, but had left me behind like a pile of old rags. I watched the door, hoping shed return for me.

Meanwhile, our house was never short of women. To the outside world, Dad was a real charmer with an eye for the ladies. Tall with dark, quaffed hair, everyone said he was a dead ringer for Elvis Presley, but he was my dad and Id seen the other side of him. He used his good looks to snare any pretty ladies who crossed his path. But this blonde lady was unusual because shed stayed longer than the rest. Her name was Marion. Although our house had no carpet and a small gas fire in the front room, Dad always seemed to find enough money to take Marion out. By now, I was five years old, but I was always left alone when they went for a night down the pub.

Our council house was pretty basic. We lived in a three-bedroom mid-terrace, with a brown leather couch that doubled as a spare bed downstairs. My bedroom was at the back of the house and it contained a single bed and a large walnut wardrobe that had been pushed up against the wall. I was expected to stay up in my bedroom all day, especially when Marion called around. One afternoon, I heard the front door slam and the sound of her high heels on the bare wooden floorboards. The smell of her perfume wafted along the hallway, filling the house, and then Dads bedroom door closed. There was laughter and the sound of glasses being chinked downstairs in the kitchen, and I smelled Marions perfume as she climbed the stairs and opened up my bedroom door. She was holding something in her hand, and it took me a moment to register what it was because it seemed so out of place it was an egg box. She took a step forward and gave it to me.