Raped by trannie dad!
Jeri-Lee suffered at the hands of her transvestite Dad 'Mandy'
Tuesday 24th June 2008
Everyone has their favourite childhood memory, haven't they? Mine is simple. Closing my eyes, I can feel the sun on my face and gritty Blackpool sand between my toes. There's the smell of fish and chips. The sound of laughter… That's what I remember most, the laughter. Racing across the sand with my brothers and sisters, we laughed until our bellies hurt. We crammed as much fun as we could into those trips, because we knew, back at home, the laughter would stop. That's when the other memories come flooding back. The bad ones.
I spent my life running from my past. Now, at 23, I have a little boy, John, 5. When I look at his innocent face, I wonder how anyone could ever hurt a child. I'd put that question to my own father — if it wasn't for the fact he's dead to me. He dragged me to hell and back, and the only reason I'm here to tell the tale is because I refused to let the bad guy win.
My father, Michael Peterson, was never like other dads. His hair almost reached his bum and he dyed it pillar-box red.
'Brush it for me, Jeri-Lee,' he'd say, perching on the edge of the settee.
When he asked, I painted his nails and dabbed on eye shadow and lipstick, too. As a child, I had no idea this was odd. All daddies wore make-up, didn't they? Just like all daddies crept into their daughter's rooms at night, and climbed into bed with them.
'This is our little secret,' he'd whisper, tugging at my knickers. 'It's my way of showing I love you.'
I remember feeling scared and confused.
'Do you like what I'm wearing?' he'd add.
I'd look at the bra, stuffed with socks and straining around his chest, the thong and suspenders, and the stockings stretched over his hairy legs.
'Pretty,' I'd nod.
You see, Dad was a transvestite called 'Mandy', and it was Mandy who visited me at night. Sick? Of course. I realise that now. But back then, it was all I'd ever known...
'You tell anyone about this and I'll hurt the others,' he'd whisper.
That threat made me tremble. I'd seen the way he turned on my mum, Margaret, and my brothers and sisters. He'd beat them for the slightest thing, so I had to try to protect them.
'I won't say anything,' I'd promise.
Truth was, he beat them whether I told or not. So, aged 8, I had mixed feelings when Mum, then 28, and Dad, 42, split, and I stayed with Dad. I had no say in the matter, and I was too scared of what Dad would do if I protested. There was relief that Mum was safe, but fear that I'd have to deal with Dad's vicious temper and strange ways without her.
'Just you and me now, girl,' he smiled, wrapping me in a hug.
We moved around a lot. Sometimes, home would be a council house in Manchester, other times, a hotel in Blackpool. By the time I was 11, we'd settled in Blackpool and, on a rare day at school, I sat down with my class to watch a sex education video.
The video showed a man and woman together, not a father and daughter.
That doesn't make sense, I thought to myself.
Then it hit me, a realisation that made my stomach heave and brought up my breakfast all over the school table-top.
'Jeri-Lee!' my school teacher gasped. 'Are you OK?'
I didn't answer. I just ran out of the door and down the corridor to the girls' toilets.
Locking myself in a cubicle, I sobbed and sobbed. What Dad does to me isn't normal at all, I realised. It's very, very wrong, How will I ever face him again? Unfortunately, I didn't have much choice. The school phoned and told him I had a stomach bug. When he came to collect me, I couldn't look him in the eye. And that night, when Mandy climbed into bed with me, I was too scared to turn 'her' away either.
A few weeks later, when I did pluck up the courage to say no, Dad battered me black and blue. So that was my childhood. I grew up way too fast and in my early teens, I easily passed for 18. One of Dad's favourite pastimes was shopping. He'd take me to lingerie shops and we'd pick out underwear for each other.
'This would suit you,' he'd say, handing over a red, lacy set or something black and silky.
Often, Dad would take me to The Flying Handbag, a transvestite pub in Blackpool. Sometimes, he'd dress up. He'd leave the house with a carrier bag of clothes and nip into a public toilet in town. I'd wait outside, watch Dad walk in and, minutes later, Mandy walk out.
'Do I look OK?' he'd ask, smoothing back his long, red hair.
Whether he was wearing a pretty floral dress and sandals, or a short skirt and high heels, he still looked like a man in drag.
'Lovely, Dad,' I'd lie.
It was a mixed-up, terrifying time and, when I was 12, I decided enough was enough.
One day, I turned up on Mum's doorstep unannounced. She'd married a man called Craig Fuller, 33, and, taking a deep breath, I told them all about the abuse.
'It's all my fault. I should have known,' Mum wailed.
We went to a police station in Blackpool and I gave a statement. But a few days later, Dad turned up at Mum's when I was alone and marched me to a phone box.
'Phone the police and tell them you were lying or I'll kill you,' he snarled.
'O-OK,' I spluttered and did as I was told.
Mum vowed never to speak to me again.
'How could you lie about something like that?' she spat.
How could she not have seen the terror in my eyes?
I went back to stay with Dad and continued to live in fear. Can you imagine surviving such a childhood? Looking back now, I realise just how close I was to not pulling through. I can't remember how old I was when I first tried suicide, or which attempt came first. There were so many, they blur into one another. Once, I stood on the roof of Blackpool bus station and nearly jumped. Another time, I hung myself from the bannister at home, only for the rope to snap. Then, at 13, I jumped off one of Blackpool's piers. I was going out with Lee Peak, by then. We'd met when I'd walked past his mate's flat and he'd wolf-whistled. Lee, a pizza delivery boy, was my first real boyfriend, and I didn't breathe a word about my home life. How could I?
He was a Jehovah's Witness and didn't believe in sex before marriage. If he knew the truth, what would he think? That I was dirty? That somehow I'd encouraged the abuse?
It wasn't worth the risk, so I kept my mouth shut. One night, I came home from
a date with Lee and found Dad waiting up for me. We'd been living at a hotel near Blackpool's Promenade for a few months.
'Get into bed now,' he growled.
Defiance flashed through me.
'No!' I snapped.
Maybe it was because of Lee. He made me feel good about myself. Didn't I deserve to feel like that all the time?
'You what…?' Dad seethed.
'I said no!' I shouted.
Dad lunged and floored me with one punch. I curled up in a ball as his fists and feet pounded my body. When I didn't think I could take much more, he dragged me by my hair out of the room, past the hotel reception and out onto the street. Broken glass on the pavement ripped at my skin.
'Help!' I screamed.
But no one came to help me as Dad dragged me into an alleyway.
'I'll teach you a lesson,' he spat.
Then he lifted my skirt, ripped off my knickers and raped me. Afterwards, he drove me to Blackpool Victoria Hospital.
'She was in a fight with some girls,' Dad tutted.
'I don't know…' the nurse sighed. 'Girls, eh?'
That night, I crept into bed, nursing my wounds, and cried myself to sleep. I'd had enough. I'd suffered all the hurt and violence one person could take. I was only 13, but all I wanted to do was die.
A couple of nights later, I waited until Dad was asleep and slipped out of my room.
There wasn't a soul about as I crept downstairs, stole a huge bottle of vodka from the hotel bar, and wandered out onto the street. I planned to drink myself to death and what better place to die than one that held happy memories? The beach. I dug a hole and curled up with my vodka. Night turned to day and I kept on drinking.
As my vision blurred, I felt the sun on my face, the sand between my fingers and remembered the rare, happy times. Why couldn't life have always been like that? Why had Dad wanted to hurt me? Why couldn't I have had a normal childhood?
I had so many questions I guessed would go unanswered. So, taking another slug from the bottle, I lay back on the sand and waited to die.
I sat there for three days and nights. On the fourth day, I realised my suicide attempt had failed again. I hauled myself up and trudged across the beach to the pier.
My friend, Howard, 40, worked in one of the arcades, and I hoped he'd give me some food.
'Thank God,' he gasped, when he saw me. 'Everyone's been worried. Your mum's in pieces.'
Howard drove me to her house. When I walked in, she was sat on the settee with Craig and Lee.
'Where have you been?' she cried. 'Your dad said you'd run away.'
I started crying.
'What is it?' Mum asked.
How could I tell them? They thought I lied to them once, why would they believe me now? But what did I have to lose? So, gulping back sobs, I admitted I'd retracted my statement because Dad had threatened to kill me.
'It was all true,' I wept.
I studied Mum's face for disbelief, perhaps anger.
Instead, I saw guilt.
'Why didn't I see it?' she sobbed.
'No…' I whimpered. I hadn't wanted to hurt other people.
But that's exactly what I'd done.
I bolted out the front door, desperate to get away. Then I felt strong arms around me. Lee.
'You don't need to run any more,' he said.
He was right. The following morning, we rang the police and I gave another statement. Doctors examined me, and a forensics team went to the hotel and gathered evidence. A few days later, the police liaison officer phoned.
'Your dad's been arrested and charged,' she said. 'He's on remand until the trial.'
Then she dropped a bombshell. Three other girls had come forward claiming to have been abused by him. Dad denied six offences of indecent assault, four of rape, two of indecency with a child and two further charges of perverting the course of justice. He pleaded guilty to a 15th charge of assault. But because he'd denied all the other offences, we'd have to go to trial. I wasn't scared. I just felt numb.
I moved in with Mum and Craig, but when I went to the hotel to get my things, I was stunned when the staff shunned me.
'They think I'm lying,' I wept to Mum.
Even she had to admit it sounded far-fetched. I'd thought all dads had sex with their daughters while dressed in women's underwear. Now, it sounded absurd.
'If they think I'm lying, how will I convince a jury?' I shuddered.
'Just tell the truth,' Mum said.
Five months on, in October 1999, the trial started at Preston Crown Court. The week before, I'd turned 14, but we were too preoccupied to celebrate. When I came to testify, it was through a video link, and the judge removed his wig to make me feel more at ease. But as Dad's defence began, I felt as if I was being raped all over again.
Will the jury believe me?
At the end of the 10-day trial, my solicitor rang Mum.
'Guilty!' she whooped.
Dad was convicted of rape, indecent assault on two girls, indecency with a child and perverting the course of justice. He was found not guilty of a second count of perverting the course of justice and another of indecency with a child. He also pleaded guilty to a charge of assault. He was jailed for 10 years, but was released this January, almost two years early. I've not heard from him, but I'm not scared. Not any more.
If my childhood gave me anything, it was strength. Sadly, I broke up with Lee after the trial, and since then, I've been through two marriage breakdowns and the traumatic birth of my son. But now, I'm landlady of The Rhoden Inn, in Oswaldtwistle, and I've found real happiness with my new boyfriend, Lee Moore, 22.
Finally, I feel strong enough to break my silence, which is why I've waived my right to anonymity. Hear that Dad? Despite all those years of hell, you didn't break me and you can't hurt me any more.