Thirty years of horror
Tugging at the bottom of his jumper, I glanced up at my mum’s new friend.
‘Hey, mister, it’s my birthday today,’ I said, smiling proudly.
It was April 1978 and my 4th birthday.
It was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on Arthur Ingram, then 28.
He had floppy hair and towered over me.
‘Happy birthday,’ he smiled back.
It turned out that this man was my mother’s new boyfriend.
And it didn’t take long before his feet were firmly under the table.
For the next four years, Arthur
