Looking for pizza

I don´t think you can really understand till you´ve been through it yourself, and even then its difficult to explain. I mean, to be honest, I´m surprised I remember any of the details at all, it was so long ago. And then there was the memory block, but that comes later.
I think I was about 3 when it started, maybe 4? He was a friend of the family, as they so often are (or so you read about). In fact, he worked for my parents for a bit. He always had these funny little rhymes and songs he would make up, and he was a big barrel of a man with wispy white hair like candyfloss. I suppose i saw him as a "grandfather figure, and so did my parents i think. He used to babysit for us sometimes or I´d go to his house for tea. He used to take me and my big sister out for fish and chips along the seafront, and we always went to the same place. I think his friend owned it or something, he was a nice man. He used to sneak me a double-sized portion of arctic roll for afters.
Anyway, it all revolved around those silly songs to begin with. On the last line of this one particular song, he would tickle me on the tummy. But as time went on, the tickling moved lower. I was so young and it was so gradual, that I suppose I never really realised anything was wrong. I mean, I knew no one else played games with me like that, but then people are different aren´t they.
I think I was about 6 or 7 when I mentioned it to my dad. It was nighttime and dad was sitting in his battered old threadbare armchair, in the corner of the living room, watching telly. I was sitting on his lap in my pyjamas, with my feet tucked under his leg. I´ve always had cold feet, and dad used to rub them with his hands or tuck them under his leg to keep them warm, when we were watching tv together. I can´t remember why, but I was up later than usual that night, because something came on the tv that was unsuitable for children. It was only a 10 second scene but dad immediately put his hands over my eyes and said, "This is not for you darlin´. I think its about time you went to bed now. but before I was thrust into the darkness by his oversized hand, I managed to catch a glimpse of what was going on between the two people on the screen.
I said, "Len does that.
Dad asked me to repeat myself, as if he hadn´t quite heard, but looking back on it, it was more like he was hoping that he´d heard me wrong.
And that was it. Nothing more was said about it. I have a vague memeory of my big sister telling me that Len had been beaten up, but apart from that, nothing else happened. Of course, I never realised that I´d said anything significant at the time, but my subconscious must have known, because it blanked out every memory of it from that day on.

I carried on through childhood and adolescence without a memory of it until that fateful day. I was 18, leaning into the chest freezer in the utility room, with the icy breeze flushing my cheeks. I was looking for a pizza, but instead I found a memory. Everything came flooding back. It was really difficult to comprehend because, like I said, I´d had no recollection of these happening for more than 10 years. By this time of course, Len was dead. My big sister had nursed him for quite a while when he became wheelchair-bound, taking him to town at least a couple of times a week. But now, I was reaching adulthood, and on top of the normal hormonal issues that a teenage girl has to contend with, I had to try and come to terms with my memories.
The saddest part of this whole thing is, another 14 years on, and I´m still no nearer to finding any answers. In fact, I think I´m even more troubled than I was before. You see, there is more to this tale.

It turns out, as I discovered a couple of years ago, that Len abused my elder sister too, before me. Apparently she told my parents and the police were called. But when you´re six and you´ve got your parents and a policeman standing in front of you, and the policeman is asking you to tell him what happened, it can get a little intimidating. In fact, my sister was so scared that SHE was the one that was going to be in trouble, that she backed down and told them she´d made it up. Of course, after that he left her alone, and moved onto me.
Since she found out it happened to me too, my sister has never really got over the guilt. After all, if she´d told the truth that day, he wouldn´t have had the opportunity with me. But I don´t blame her one bit. After all, she was a little kid, I probably would have done the same in her shoes.
The thing I can´t understand though is, knowing what he´d done to her, how she could have taken care of him all those years later?!

I want to ask my dad why he never called the police for me too? But of course I never will. Dad´s ill you see, has been for many years. And knowing that he hasn´t got an awful lot of time left on this planet, I´m scared of upsetting him, making him worse, or even falling out with him, if I were to ever bring the subject up.
I´ve spoken to my mum about it a little (her and dad split up when I was 12). She was horrified. She said she never knew. I find that a bit hard to believe to be honest. I mean, my sister said that mum was there when the police came. How could she not know?
So that has now been added to the long list of things that out fmily doesn´t talk about. I don´t even think my other brothers and sisters know. But i do. And every day it haunts me.