Behind Closed Doors by Sue Smethurst

Author:Sue Smethurst
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited

Chapter 7

Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.

— Martin Luther King Jnr

It was fairly early in the morning when I saw Jane’s car pull up out the front. I breathed a massive sigh of relief.

It was 13 February 2005, the day before St Valentine’s Day, and although I didn’t know it at the time, from that day on my father would never touch me again.

I hadn’t slept all night, despite the cocktail of drugs I was taking to try to keep me calm. I just lay for hours in a strange bed in a crisis refuge in the countryside, waiting for the sun to come up. It was the longest, loneliest night of my life.

For some time Jane had been working on a secret plan to help me escape. She didn’t share too many details with me – it was best I didn’t know – but the time had come and she was ready. She’d organised everything with military precision and, if all went to plan, by that night I’d be free. If it didn’t, I’d be dead.

I wasn’t confident about any of this. I was sure I would never escape him. Either he’d find me and kill me, or I’d kill myself. Jane knew I was fragile, so she was taking a huge risk but I put my faith in her.

She arrived at the refuge early, knowing that I might not be there if she left it too late. If my legs could have carried me I’d have run away but my whole body was numb with fear. I don’t remember exactly what she said; we didn’t talk much because there wasn’t much to say. She motioned me to come as quickly as I could. I grabbed my things, she bundled me into the car and we took off – that was it. I was gone.

Forty-eight hours earlier I’d walked out of my house with nothing but my handbag, I left everything else behind and never went back to that house again. Jane had taken me to a secret safe house where I could stay hidden until a new home, on the other side of the state, was ready for me.

• • •

About a week earlier, my father had attacked me for the last time. It was a brutal assault while he was in a state of drunken psychosis. He’d staggered in from the pub pissed and wanted to have his way with me. He was angry and exceedingly violent, smashing everything in sight and punching the walls. My boys were frightened, in their bedrooms. I hoped by now they were asleep.

I was in my room folding up washing when he came in. He stank of beer and I wasn’t in the mood for his crap. I told him to go away but he was out of his mind. ‘You don’t say no to me,’ he yelled. Then he punched me in the stomach hard, and again and again. Three massive blows that winded me, followed by a punch in the face.

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