“Stop crying, you useless little mare. Or I’ll give you a reason to cry.” Tracey didn’t shout, but her tone was stern; just the expression on her face was enough to riddle her daughter with fear. Five year old Elaine, knew exactly what would happen if she didn’t stop crying, but she was in pain, so it was difficult to obey the command. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her school jumper, leaving the stains of tears, and mucus. When Tracey spied the mess, she squeezed the child’s arm with such force that the little girl could not stifle the scream, that the pain had evoked. Some of the other parents in the playground who’d been dropping their own children to school, had turned to see what the fuss was all about. Even though it was obvious what had taken place, nobody said or did anything to assist, comfort, or protect little, Elaine. Some of the women had actually smiled and waved at Tracey.


Tracey Townsend was popular in the village; her father had been the vicar of Ainsley’s, Church of England, congregation for thirty years, before he’d died of a heart attack. Tracey’s mother had been the head of the local WI - Women’s Institute - for as long as any resident of Ainsley could remember, until she too had died of a heart attack, sixteen months after her husband. Everyone was of the belief that Tracey had been the perfect daughter, who’d had an exemplary relationship with both of her parents, but even as a child, Elaine could see how her grandparents had feared and despised, their only child.

Just eight years old when her grandmother had passed away, Elaine had wondered if her Tracey had murdered both of her parents, in order to get her hands on her inheritance, sooner.


Tracey had benefited enormously from her parent’s estate, but that hadn’t made her a better person. If anything, she’d got worse. Tracey had lived a worldly and sinful life from the time she’d entered puberty. Never had she represented the religious and conservative way, in which she had been raised. She had been the epitome of rebellion, and embarrassment to her parents, especially her Godly devout father. Tracey had never cared, or considered anyone else’s opinion, but her own. She’d already had an abortion, before getting pregnant again with Elaine, and she had abandoned her daughter and escaped to London, where she had lived wild, and lawlessly for two years. Before heading back home.

Tracey hadn’t tried to build a bond with her toddler daughter, though; she was totally satisfied and willing, for her parents to continue to raise Elaine. Her parents had thought that was the best agreement, for everyone concerned.


Elaine had been content living with her grandparents, and it was only once they had rescinded their daughter’s allowance, that Tracey had developed a sudden interest in being a mother to Elaine. Reverend Townsend and his wife, had tried to block Tracey’s efforts in a bid to keep their granddaughter safe, but Tracey’s determination to use her daughter in order to obtain government handouts, had been fierce and unwavering. Elaine was three years old, still living with her grandparents, unfamiliar with the mother that she had barely seen in her short life. Tracey had reported to the authorities, that her father, the much loved and respected village vicar, had sexually abused her as a child.


Elaine had been made an immediate ward of the state, whilst an investigation was carried out. After six months of having their lives scrutinised by the police, social services, their neighbours and friends, it was concluded that Tracey’s accusations had been unfounded. The Townsend’s, however, had been deemed unsuitable guardians for an energetic toddler, and Elaine had been returned to the care of a mother who didn’t care one iota about her. The poor child was doomed; she’d been let down and failed by the system, but even normal folk in Ainsley, had turned their back on the vicar and his wife. Instead they had supported, Tracey. No matter what Tracey Townsend did, no matter how low she sank, she always seemed to prosper. It was as though she had the divine support of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and not the man whose seed had produced her.


The next three years were filled with neglect and abuse for Elaine; she saw her grandparents only when Tracey needed childcare. The stress of the abuse investigation had taken its toll on them, and the Reverend had resigned when the congregation continued to decline. There’s no smoke without fire, was the common village consensus, and Tracey did nothing to set the record straight. She encouraged the gossip and rumours, and amassed a loyal group of local supporters. People who considered Tracey to be their friend. The feeling wasn’t mutual, though. Tracey had allies, puppets and assistants. Every relationship that Tracey began and maintained, was for her own benefit; including the abhorrent, abusive relationship with her daughter.


When the Reverend passed away at home, Mrs Townsend hadn’t concealed her thoughts and feelings, that Tracey had helped to send her father to his grave, prematurely. Tracey had been barred from attending the funeral, but she’d gone anyway. Not to pay her respects but to be the centre of attention. People commended her for being there, considering what he’d done to her. What she’d said he’d done to her. Tracey knew how to gain people’s sympathy, and she worked her charm as if it were a skilled profession. Not knowing where to find the father of Elaine, who’d been the result of a one night stand, she’d often dropped subtle hints to insinuate, that the Reverend had been more than a grandfather, to the girl. Tracey had no limits, to her iniquity.


When Mrs Townsend had followed her husband to his final resting place, Elaine no longer had anyone to keep an eye on her. No one to ensure she was taken care of. No one had been able to do that anyway, but her grandparents had tried. They had known exactly what Tracey was capable of, and had suffered at their daughter’s doing; Elaine was vulnerable and alone, except from the men her mother had sold her to. Elaine’s human contact was sordid, painful, evil and perverted. It was persistent, too. For years, the child had suffered for her mother’s gain. Tracey was a malevolent being, who had no empathy for anyone. She had tortured animals in her childhood, and her parents had believed that the power of prayer would fix her. Eventually. But Tracey had grown more wicked as she’d aged.


By the age of thirty, Tracey had a fourteen year old daughter and no living family except a sister, ten years her senior. Carla had emigrated to Australia, when Tracey had just begun secondary school. Tracey was a sadistic sociopath, with narcissistic tendencies.

“Drink this, and it won’t hurt so much.” This was a ritual that Elaine hated, but had no choice but to participate. Twelve years old, she was regularly forced to consume enough alcohol, to make her more receptive to the acts that would be committed against her. Sometimes she was sedated; some of the men who paid Tracey to defile her prepubescent daughter, actually requested her to be asleep. The sick bastards preferred to rape the child, whilst she was almost comatose, and unable to put up any resistance. Tracey was never present in the room; it wasn’t her conscience that prevented her from observing the violations of her child, but because she was more often than not, performing her own sexual acts for money.


Tracey no longer needed the money; her parent’s had left equal shares of their estate to Tracey, her sister Annie in Australia, and Elaine. Elaine’s inheritance was to be kept in a trust fund until she turned eighteen. Tracey had decided, upon learning of Elaine’s financial blessing, that she would get her hands on her daughter’s inheritance as soon as she could.



“Go easy, today. You left her bleeding the last time.” Tracey gave the warning for her own benefit, not her daughter’s. Elaine was a thin, bony girl, without chest or hips. She probably wouldn’t start menstruating for another couple of years. The last thing Tracey wanted was for her daughter to bleed at school, and warrant unnecessary and problematic attention, to herself. Tracey was always looking out for herself. She’d never wanted to be a mother; and would’ve gladly left Elaine in her parent’s care, if they hadn’t cut off her allowance. It had been stubborn and stupid of them, considering how much money they’d left her when they had died.

“I would love to do mother and daughter, one day,” one of the punters had leered.

“No fucking chance,” Tracey had barked, as though that was a step too far.


“Why do those men touch my private parts, mummy?” Elaine had queried one morning before school, having made her mother a significant amount of money the night before. Tracey had slapped her daughter hard across the face, and threatened a harsher punishment, if she ever said anything like that again. Especially outside of their home. Elaine had had to stay home from school for several days, waiting for the bruising on her face heal.


Elaine had never spoken another word about her regular nightmare experience, at the hands of mostly, middle-aged men, from miles away. If anyone had thought it weird, that men came and went through Tracey home at all hours of the day and night, they hadn’t said anything to her. She’d started to dress like a traveller, with a headscarf and plenty of bangles, proclaiming to be a reader of tarot cards, palms, and minds. Tracey always had answers ready - just in case - but nobody ever asked her anything. She’d donated generous sums of money to the local school, hospice, and her father’s old church. Everyone in Ainsley thought that Tracey was an exemplary member of their community. Tracey was clever. Feral maybe, but definitely smart. She had the ability to influence anyone, regardless of age, gender, class or race. Tracey thought she was God, and people treated her as though they believed she was God, too.