P T Saunders - Cupboard Boy

Cupboard Boy

T he following is a harrowing story, and may be as distressing to read, as it is for me to write.

However, the events that took place during the years 1963 to 1980 need to be recorded, for the sake of future generations of children to come, and out of respect to all the children who have already suffered and perished at the hands of demonic parents.

I especially dedicate this book to one hell of a brave boy, my step brother Little Paul, who sadly died with a great deal of dignity at the young age of 19 from cancer.

God bless Him!

The Following story is true and the names of the individuals have been changed to protect their identity.

Chapter One

A walk in the dark

I cant remember the exact date, but it was sometime in the winter of 1963 and I had just turned two years of age. It was a dark and cold winters evening, and the air was still and thick with the smell of burning coal. Visibility was down to just in front of your nose.

I was being pushed along the streets in my little pushchair all wrapped up nice and cosy. My mother and I were on route to what was to be our new home, 62 Hill Street. The place where in the not too distant future my soon to be step brothers, sisters and my own nightmare existence was to begin.

What happened to us and the things we witnessed between the years 1963 and1980 would psychologically scar me and my step siblings for life.

When my mother and I eventually arrived at 62, we were greeted by a hugely built, brick shithouse of a black man. I had never seen a black man before, so as he stooped down to greet me with his huge black face, beaming white smile, I remember feeling fairly scared!

He went by the name of Roy, and after my initial shock, he seemed a nice enough man. After an hour or so, he started to grow on me, even though his size still felt quite intimidating. It still does to this day actually.

I didnt know it then, but he was going to be my new stepfather, and the man I would later hate with a vengeance, and someone I often dreamt of killing.

I think the only reason I never did attempt to kill him when I was younger, was the fear of the possible repercussions of failing in my effort. That fear of failure is probably the only reason he still alive today plus Im a law abiding citizen.

Chapter Two

Deserted at two

M y real father, had selfishly deserted my mother and me for another woman about ten months prior. Taking with him my older brother Duncan age 4 and Sister Caren aged 6. My mum told me some years later that he had an affair with a woman who lived across the road from us and had moved in with her. Although he lived about 15 yards away he never once came back to visit me.

My first and only memory of my real father prior to him leaving us, was when he drove his motor bike through our front door, which happened to be locked at the time. He and my mother had fallen out earlier during the day and she put the latch on to stop him from coming in. As a result he simply tried to break the door down with his motorbike, not knowing I was playing in the hallway. His reckless riding got him into trouble and some policemen came and took him away. Leaving our door hanging off as they did so.

The day my father moved in with his lover would not be the last time my father would abandon me over the next few years. In fact it would be fair to say that my real dad never ever gave a shit about me. I dont know why, but hey I couldnt give a shit now, and even if I did want to know Its too late as he died when I was 27.

I was a soldier and on tour in Northern Ireland at the time of his death. I had just come back from a four hour street patrol and was tucking into well-earned scran, when I was called into my commanders office and told the news. Due to heart failure apparently.

My commanding officer offered me the opportunity to take leave and attend his funeral. I declined. Deserting him for a change.

My commanding officer was quite surprised when I declined the offer, and probably thought that I was in shock. He asked me again the following day, and the answer was the same. No.

Chapter Three

Dying for the loo

I t didnt take my mum long to get over my dad leaving her, and within the space of a few months she started to enjoy her regular Friday nights out on the town with her girl friends

It was whilst out on one of these nights, that my mother suddenly got caught short and desperately needed to use a loo. As there were no public toilets and no suitable bushes to hide behind in the vicinity, my mother decided to knock on the nearest house with a light on, and ask if she could use their toilet. That house just happened to be 62 Hill Street.

That was the first time she met Roy (The Obeah Man) which is Jamaican for, one who is evil or practices witchcraft.

The following day my mum nursing a hangover and having a brew with her friend Shirley, recounted her meeting with the black man from No 62 the previous night. Shirley quickly realised that Roy was the guy who had lost his wife in a horrible fire a few months previously she remembered reading about it in the Chronicle.

A few weeks later, on another girls night out, she bumped into Roy again. This time it was in the Express pub. Apparently mum had gone over to him to thank him once again for letting her use his loo. The two of them seemed to hit it off, and over a few drinks and a couple of Friday night one on one dates they started to develop a relationship.

Four months later, mum and I were moving into this giant of a black mans house.

That was the beginning of my 14 year nightmare.