Horror in the woods
As Mum called by my name
The stadium erupted as the ball hit the back of the net.
‘Gooaal!’ my grandad and I cheered. It was 1981, I was 11, and Grandad had taken me to see our team Dundee United. He loved taking me to the footy.
He and my gran had brought me up since I was a toddler. I had such a happy childhood, I never asked why – even though I visited Mum.
She lived with her partner Ronald Campbell and my little brother.
I liked Ronald. He’d play with us when I came round. Until, one day that summer... Ronald was swinging my brother around in the garden.
‘My turn,’ I cried, and Ronald swung me in the air as I giggled.
Only, suddenly, still mid-air, his hand somehow crept inside my top, and he groped my chest.
My head span as Ronald put me back down on the ground.
It must’ve been an accident… His hand slipped, I shrugged. And I went on playing with my brother.
Only, later on, Ronald called me into his bedroom.
‘Close your eyes and put your hand out,’ he said.
Confused, I did as he said.
Then I felt him drop something into my hand.
It was his penis.
I opened my eyes to see a leering grin on his face. Shocked, horrified, I ran from the bedroom. Just 11, I didn’t understand
I waited 30 years for my day in court, then my abuser escaped justice – for a second time… I was confused and scared – didn’t say a word...
what’d happened or why, so I kept quiet.
After, Ronald started touching me regularly.
He’d get me alone, slip his hands inside my underwear. It was horrible. But I didn’t know anything about sex, or understand why he touched me. So, confused, scared, I didn’t say a word.
Then, one day, weeks later, I visited when Mum was out...
Ronald sent my brother to the shop with some money.
‘Go get some sweets,’ he grinned, and my brother happily sped off.
The second we were alone, Ronald dragged me, kicking and screaming, to his bedroom.
Throwing me on the bed, he clamped his hand over my mouth, pulled my trousers down, then his, and raped me. Agony tore through me. Terrified, I fought, clawing at him, biting his hand. But it was useless.
As he raped me, an evil smirk spread across his face. After he finished, I curled up in agony.
‘If you tell anyone, your grandad’ll die,’ he snarled. My stomach churned. Grandad was my world – and he had heart problems. So I believed Ronald, kept his filthy secret.
Whenever he got me alone during my weekly visits, he’d molest me – put his hands inside my jeans or rape me.
When I was 12, Mum and Ronald took us to the woods.
My brother ran off, and, while Mum looked for him, Ronald pulled me into a dark copse. There, in the dirt, he raped me.
His hand clamped over my mouth again as Mum and my brother called for us.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Mum cried when we emerged.
But I was too scared to tell the truth. Scared for myself, and for Grandad.
It would kill him if he knew,
I thought.
As Ronald continued to abuse me, I withdrew. I became a loner at school, barely spoke to anyone.
Then, in May 1986, Grandad died of a massive heart attack.
I’d just finished one of my GCSE exams when a neighbour met me from school and broke the devastating news.
‘No,’ I wept, breaking down in floods of tears...