Toni Maguire - No Going Home

Also by Toni Maguire

Dont Tell Mummy

When Daddy Comes Home

Helpless

Nobody Came

Dont You Love Your Daddy?

Cant Anyone Help Me?

Pretty Maids All In A Row

They Stole My Innocence

Did You Ever Love Me?

Daddys Little Girl

Silent Child

Please Protect Us

First published in the UK by John Blake Publishing

An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

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Paperback: 978-1-789-465-19-8

eBook: 978-1-789-465-20-4

Audiobook: 978-1-789-465-66-2

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 from the publisher.

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

Design by www.envydesign.co.uk

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Copyright Toni Maguire and Daisy Jones, 2022

Toni Maguire and Daisy Jones have asserted their moral right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of non-fiction, based on the life, experiences and recollections of Daisy Jones. Certain details in this story, including names and locations, have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of the authors, their family and those mentioned.

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.

John Blake Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

To my children, who grew up with me

When I first received a message on my laptop from Daisy, it only took a few seconds for me to be gripped by her story. Unlike other lives I have written about, her early years were happy ones. Which, in a way, proves that the quote from Aristotle, Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man, or in this case, a bright and well-adjusted young woman, has a lot of truth to it.

In Part One of Daisys story, I show her happy years in the UK and how important they were. It was that time that gave her the strength to overcome the years that were far from the safe and secure ones of her early life. The second part of her story shows her touching relationship with her older disabled brother Tommy, a boy who was unable to either speak or walk, yet had an incredible amount of courage. As Daisy says, he refused to allow his disabilities to define him. I found their bond extremely moving, for when Daisy was a tiny child she was able to communicate with him using the sign language that he had invented.

I so enjoyed Daisy telling me some of the stories her mother told her about her teenage years. The music festivals in huge fields she and Daisys dad went to, where up-and-coming rock singers entertained thousands of teenagers who turned up. Carefree teenagers who came to see their favourite bands while they danced until the early hours it took me back to when I was one!

It is in Part Three, titled The Step-Father, that Daisys life changes, and not for the better. Yet, to begin with, when she is barely nine, she manages to cope with extraordinary calmness. It is her brother she worries about much more than her own life.

As for the rest of her story, I dont want to spoil it by giving away too much.

In books that I write, I do try and cover certain themes and make certain points. In No Going Home, telling Daisys story, I wanted to show to readers who are parents the long-time harm that watching porn does to children. Its a central part of Daisys story and the experiences she is forced to participate in, and its accessible on nearly all devices. You will see in this book how it has affected people, and I strongly believe that more needs to be done to block these sites for children.

I hope you enjoy reading about Daisys story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Toni Maguire, January 2022

There is another story linked to the one Im going to tell you. Its about the boy. I call him that for it was the name his stepfather gave him. He, I have also given no name to. I might have heard it, but Ive erased it from my mind. For he doesnt deserve to have one. And even if he once had parents who gave him a name, in my wildest imagination I cannot picture him being christened in a church so I shall just call him the man.

The boy cannot remember what life was like before his mother moved into the building the man owned. Miles away from the nearest town, with only a long, rutted path just wide enough for a truck to drive on, to connect them to the main road. With the thick undergrowth and woods on either side of it, few passers-by would have thought anyone lived there. Nor would they have been able to see the sweeping fields behind the building. In some, grazing cattle munched comfortably away, while others were planted with the mans crops. It was not corn or wheat that he grew, but leafy green marijuana plants. The boy was not to know what made his fathers crop different from the other farmers, a mile or so away. But then when he was still little, he had no way of understanding that the house, infested with mice and spiders, was one that even the poorest families would not have agreed to live in. Outside the back door was a small hut that housed nothing more than an old, battered tin bath. It was there that the boy and his two younger siblings had their weekly bath. Without running water in the hut, it took a good many buckets, which had to be carried from the house, to fill it. Not that there was a proper kitchen inside; just several rooms, where in one a tap gave water and a camping stove was used to cook on.

The first sounds that stayed in the boys head were not bird-song, nor the doleful echo of the cows mooing when they were led into the truck, but the screams of the woman he knew was his mother.

The one who cuddled him when the man was not around.

The one who told him to hide when the man returned home.

The one he loved.

Im sure that once, before he came to live in the mans house, the boy must have had a few good memories of being tucked up in bed and sitting on his mothers knee for a cuddle. But once they moved in with the man, those memories were replaced with ones that only belong to our nightmares. The boys first memory, the one he has never managed to erase, is the picture of the florid-faced man towering over his mother, bellowing drunkenly with rage. That night the boy had done what she had told him to do: hidden under the table as soon as he heard the trucks engine and stayed there until she knew just what his mood was. For the boy was only four, far too small to have the mans meaty fists connect with his small, vulnerable body. His young bones could break, while hers were stronger.