The names have been removed from the following harrowing content.
This week, news of the passing of a deeply troubling figure from my past has stirred emotions I had long relegated to the corners of my mind. My stepfather, a man whose presence dominated my life from 1964 to 1975, passed away recently after years of being absent; not only physically but, mercifully, from my thoughts as well. While his passing may signify the end of an era, the shadows of his actions linger in memory.
To describe his life is to confront a litany of disturbing traits and behaviours. Illiterate, insecure, and violent, he was a misogynist, a liar, a thief, and a coward. He exploited others for his own gain, showing no regard for the pain he inflicted. A manipulator and abuser, his legacy is one of betrayal, violence, and harm. Few could fathom what drew others to him, and fewer still found any lasting good in his presence.
The brutality of his nature was not confined to words or gestures. At 14 or 15, I felt the full weight of his violence when he smashed my front teeth by repeatedly slamming my face into a door. My crime? Attempting to protect my mother from yet another of his assaults. On another occasion, he held a knife to my brother’s throat, threatening to kill our mother in front of him before taking his life too. These incidents were not exceptions; they were part of a grim pattern that defined life under his roof.
I recall one afternoon when he decided my brother or I, who had been coming down the stairs together, had jumped noisily down the last two stairs in our home. Despite our protestations of innocence, he whipped us every half hour throughout the day, refusing to relent until one of us confessed. My brother eventually confessed, and I got half an apple as compensation.
There was the time he threw lighter fluid over a woman and tried to set her alight. The local press once dubbed him “Norfolk’s Fagin” for orchestrating teams of teenage burglars. His crimes escalated further when, defying a restraining order, he abducted my sister to punish my mother, only to repeat the same horrifying behaviour with another young girl later in life.
Prison provided no redemption for him. He emerged unchanged, continuing to lie, cheat, and spread misery wherever he went. His inability to reflect or grow ensured that his relationships were poisoned by deceit and violence. Even his twisted explanation of why he showed no affection to me or my brothers, because he was secretly bisexual, highlighted his warped understanding of love and human connection.
Living with him was like enduring a ceaseless storm. From the age of four, his presence was an oppressive force, one that I carried until our last encounter nearly 40 years ago. Even as a child, I recognised his lack of worth, and my disdain for him was something he could sense. Over time, I let go of hatred, not out of forgiveness but for my own peace.
His death is not a moment of mourning but a quiet end to a deeply painful chapter. Though I will not miss him, I hope the void he left behind is one where healing and resilience can take root.
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