PAPERBACK BOOKS
 NO HOPE IN HELL 

NO HOPE IN HELL

Maurice Ivory was shot, drowned and abducted all before the age of fourteen. And they were the good old days! What followed was a nightmare through his teenage years—but there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

 

 

In Store Price: $AU21.95 
Online Price:   $AU20.95

ISBN: 1 920699 392
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 224
Genre: Non Fiction
 

Warning! This book contains coarse language, sexual references and graphic descriptions. It is for the mature reader only.

 

Author: Maurice Vincent Ivory
Imprint: Zeus
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published: March 2003
Language: English

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READ THESE REVIEWS:

* Wow! What a full-on book. It really makes you think how lucky you are and helps put the plight of repeat offenders into context—Phil Gayen—Today Tonight

* This is a book children should read and then discuss it with their teacher in a classroom.
I recommend this book to all teaching institutions and places of learning—Barbara Holborow—Retired Children’s Magistrate.

* Take the phone off the hook—this book can stand alongside the best—Jenny LaCompte—feature writer—That’s Life.

 

PREFACE.

This book is a true story.
It is about my life as a rebellious teenager and young adult during the sixties and seventies.
These experiences almost spiralled me into a vortex of self-destruction… which thwarted a decade of my most precious years.
The names of the people in this book have been changed, to protect the miserable, the vulnerable and the                  innocent… but the places are real!

Thank you Steve L.

INTRODUCTION 

 

The most vivid memories I have of my parents were their drunken screaming fights, with my mother yelling at my father… she was always saying;

“I'll keep Jack and Benjamin here with me, but you… take your precious little Marty and get the fuckin' hell out of my life!”

My dad would just walk into his room mumbling and close the door behind him… I used to think:

“Why does mum want me and dad to leave?”  “What did I do?”

But when their fights were on in earnest, I would scream and yell too.

As I grew older… 10, 11, 12 and so on, I used to end all their fights by calling them both a pair of fucking bastards and run out of the house.

Sometimes I would stay out all night.

My mum was always goin’ on about how I was dad’s favourite, but for the life of me I could never see it.

On some of those occasions when I did stay out all night, I used to sleep in the doorway of the local barber’s shop, which was on the bus stop on the main road of our suburb (Great North Road).

My father would come up to the bus stop at 4:00 A.M. on the weekdays to catch the bus to work, he had a ‘fruit and veggie’ stand at the Sydney markets.

He would simply nudge me in the ribs with his foot and tell me to get home….

 

C H A P T E R    O N E (part sample) 

 

            It was Christmas morning 1963 and waking up was one of the best experiences of my life, for leaning up against my bedroom wall was my 'new / used' pushbike. Even though it was a second hand bike, the previous owner had kept it in mint condition.

            Although a little faded, it had an immaculate paint job, a frosty dark green with yellow and white insets and black and white pin stripes down the frame, a  Speedwell racer, a classic bike back in the early sixties.

            My parents really couldn't afford it, but I had been badgering them all year to get it for me for my first year of high school. I had told them that if I got nothing else, I just had to have that bike.

            I had received very poor marks on my test at Abbotsford Primary School in 6th class… 256 out of a possible 800, which was a failing grade anyway. But I had already repeated fifth class the previous year and was turning 13 in 1964, so it was time to move up the educational ladder. My sixth grade teacher told me that I had better pull my socks up, or I would never get out of first form.

            At about this stage of my life I suppose I was looking for someone to blame for the way I was, my  attitude towards everybody and everything, and my basic smart-arsed behaviour in general.

            Well I lay the burden of that fairly and squarely on the shoulders of my mother and father, for the simple fact that I was an unwanted child, and they had let me know it from the day I was born.

            I was angry and on the verge of hating them!

            Both of my parents were serious alcoholics, and through out my early years they were always fighting… more often than not because of me, and of the position that ‘I’ had put them in… I can't remember one time in my life when I didn't smell booze on their breaths.

            My mother's maiden name was Nora Phillips and she was 35 when she gave birth to me. She was already an unmarried mother with a nine year old son named Jack Phillips, who was born in 1942. 

            I was never told that Jack was my half brother, I was told that he was my mum's younger brother, my ‘uncle.’

            Then, in 1950 my mum and dad started dating, or they at least dated once, because my mum fell pregnant and I was the result of that liaison.

            In those (good old) ‘archaic days,’ it was totally unacceptable in our society to be an unmarried mother, and due to all the peer pressure that my father {who was 39 and single at the time} received from the community, ended up marrying my mother in October 1950.

            He did the ‘right thing,’ by starting up a legitimate family.

            I was born on the 12th of June 1951… christened Martin James White the first son of Bill and Nora White from the middle class inner western suburb of Abbotsford in Sydney, I began my life.

            My mother gave birth to another son two years later, Benjamin White.

            Our house was a ‘classic,’ for in the centre of our middle class suburb stood, ‘The Haunted House’… well, that's one way to describe it (and most people did.) A huge four bedroom single level ‘in need of a paint job’ fibro and timber dwelling on a large block of land on the corner of Campbell and Bickleigh Street. The grass in our yard was over three feet tall, except for a pathway, which was kept mown for access to the clothesline... and it had an old paling fence that was falling down all over the place.

            Our house stuck out like the proverbial cliché.   Some parents even told their kids not to walk past our house, or to play with the kids from the ‘haunted house.’ Some people even crossed the street to avoid walking past the place themselves, but I think that had more to do with mum and dad’s drunken screaming fights more than anything else, and I could sympathise with them, it scared the ‘shit’ out of me… and I lived there!

            My mother and father had the most unusual relationship and were indeed an odd couple, they had their own separate rooms, and lives.

            It's easy to describe my mum and dad. Mum was four foot ten inches tall and very over weight, and my dad was close to six foot tall and as skinny as a beanpole. Both of them looked ill and much older than what they really were {grey hair and aging.} My mum looked like she was in her late forties, and dad… on a good day looked close to eighty.

            My mum drank with her friend Doris who lived down the road and went to bingo and my dad drank with his work mates and went to the horse races. Both were heavy gamblers as well as alcoholics and were also as religious as the day is long, but never went to church.     

                          

 


 

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