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Cynthia Owen - Living With Evil: Her father stole her innocence. Her mother killed her baby. A shocking true story.

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Book:
Living With Evil: Her father stole her innocence. Her mother killed her baby. A shocking true story.
Author:
Cynthia Owen
Publisher:
Headline
Genre:
Books / Non-fiction
Year:
2010
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livingwithevil

CYNTHIA OWEN

headline

www.headline.co.uk

The right of Cynthia Owen to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,
this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing
of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,
in accordance with the terms of licences issued by
the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard
to reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be
glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN : 978 0 7553 6012 3

This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk

Table of Contents

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Noleen, to my sister Theresa and my brothers Martin and Michael, and for all victims of sexual abuse and violence. And to women who have become pregnant by their abusers. My wish for you is that this book brings you hope.

This is my story, told through my eyes. I am telling the story of what I saw, what happened to me and what my dead siblings, Theresa and Martin, told me happened to them too. I have not included other peoples account of events. It is their right to tell their own stories, this is mine. Although this is a work of fact, some of the names of people and places have been changed, as well as some descriptions of people and places.

Prologue

Have you reached a decision?

The coroners voice made my heart skip a beat, and silence fell as the foreman of the jury stood up.

Twelve agree that it is Cynthia Owens baby.

I broke down completely. I felt eleven-years-old again. My baby had just died.

Twelve agree that it was 4 April 1973.

The words danced in my head. I had finally proved I wasnt mad, and I wasnt a liar.

I was forty-five-years old, and I had a daughter who would be almost thirty-four-years old, had she lived.

Twelve agree the place of death was 4 Whites Villas, Dalkey.

Cause of death: haemorrhage due to stab wounds. Twelve agree. An open verdict.

The room erupted. People started clapping and shouting, Yes!, at the top of their voices. I felt like a volt of electricity was coursing through my body.

I took the stand, barely able to support myself on my shaking legs, and the room fell silent again.

Mrs Owen, I believe you have given your baby a first name, is that correct?

Yes, I whispered.

And what is that name?

Noleen.

Her name hung in the thick silence for a moment, then I listened, awestruck, as the coroner said he was officially identifying the baby found in Lees Lane on Wednesday 4 April 1973 as my daughter, Noleen Murphy, stabbed to death in my family home.

I looked at the jury and mouthed, Thank you, then dropped into my husband Simons lap and broke down into loud, unruly sobs.

When I finally staggered outside I looked up at the clear sky and smiled broadly. I had waited so long for this day to come, and I could scarcely believe it was real.

Rest in peace, my darling Noleen, I whispered up to heaven. Mummy loves you.

I would like to be able to tell you that my battle to be formally identified as Noleens mother and to have the details of her short life publicly recorded was the worst struggle I faced after the trauma of losing her, but sadly that is not the case.

I faced many more nightmares, each one testing me to the limit and threatening to push me over the edge. If it hadnt been for my wonderful husband, Simon, I am certain I would not have survived.

Thanks to his unconditional love and support, I am alive and well, and able to tell the rest of my story.

Chapter 1

4 Whites Villas

Im eight-years-old and in bed waiting for Daddy to come in from the pub, and Im trembling.

Mammy forced me upstairs to bed hours ago, but I cant sleep. Im in my vest and knickers, huddled under dirty coats and smelly blankets, and Im terrified about what will happen tonight.

Daddy always comes in when its very dark, but that is the only thing I can be sure of. When I hear his leather shoes crunching up the short path to our council house, my heart starts to thump in my chest.

Sometimes I say a prayer, pressing my hands together tight like the nuns at school taught me: Please, God, please can it be a good night tonight? Ive been a very good girl, so I have.

Daddy usually goes straight to the pub after work and drinks and smokes all night with his friends. The pubs are near our house in Dalkey, and sometimes he can take in three or four in one evening, depending on his mood.

Mammy always stays in our house at 4 Whites Villas. Every night she rocks in her chair by the coal fire, drinking glass after glass of sherry and lighting one cigarette from another.

When Daddy gets home, sometimes they shout and scream if they have both had lots to drink, but sometimes he doesnt even speak to her.

Im listening hard, but Im so nervous I start breathing really quickly, and Im gasping noisily for breath. It feels like Im being strangled, but its just the fear choking me and making it hard for the air to fill my lungs.

It sounds quiet downstairs, and that is normally a good sign. Daddy is ignoring Mammy, and shes not speaking either. Thats very good. I hate it when I hear their voices get louder, because then the fights and arguments start.

It scares me, because when Daddy is cross it usually means bad things for me. Despite the good signs, I still cant relax. I listen out for sounds that tell me he is on his way upstairs. I never know what hes going to do, and every time I hear the bedroom door open I start to shake.

Daddys in the room now. I hear him use the toilet bucket at the end of the bed. The smell is terrible. It makes my eyes sting even when Im hiding under the covers, and my stomach starts to churn so much it hurts.

Theres no lid on the bucket, and we never have anything to put in it to make it smell better. We dont even have toilet paper.

Ive buried myself deep under my covers, but I cant escape the stench. It seems to follow me, clinging to my skin and sticking in my throat. I cant get away from it.

I can hear Daddy stripping off his trousers. He always sleeps in just a shirt, or sometimes nothing at all.

My throat goes very dry now, and Im trying to pretend Im fast asleep, even though Im shaking so much the covers must be moving up and down, telling him I am wide awake.

Maybe Daddy will leave me alone tonight?

He wasnt staggering about like he does some nights, and he didnt shout at Mammy. Maybe he will fall into bed and start snoring loudly, giving me the sign that tonight I can go to sleep knowing hes too drunk to do those horrible things to me, that just for tonight, he will leave me alone.

I always prayed hard, but it didnt seem to make any difference whether Daddy was in a good or bad mood. It didnt matter if he was laughing and joking or ranting and raving when he came in, I never knew what would happen next. Sometimes he got into bed and fell straight into the deep sleep I prayed for, but mostly he didnt.

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