ABUSED BY MY BROTHER
Then Mum walked in
Tucking me into bed, my brother Stephen, then 15, started to recite nursery rhymes.
It’d become a regular treat before bedtime. He’d always want to be the one of my six brothers to take me upstairs. And I loved it!
Only, the once-innocent nursery rhymes quickly changed to something sinister…
Twisting the classic verses, he’d talk about Jack doing sexual things with Jill. Aged just 6, I didn’t fully understand what Stephen meant, but I knew it was rude.
Then, one night, standing on the landing, Stephen appeared. ‘Give me a kiss,’ he demanded. Leaning in, I pecked him gently on the cheek, like any little sister would.
‘No, a proper kiss,’ Stephen snarled, shoving his tongue down my throat.
I froze, confused, nodding silently as he ordered me not to tell our parents.
Other times, he’d climb into bed with me. Maybe it’s normal, I thought. But then things escalated. He’d say we were just playing doctors and nurses.
‘My finger is the injection,’ Stephen would tell me as he then probed me.
Pain tore through me, but I was too scared to move.
Stephen would also abuse me in the downstairs toilet, outside the back door, bolting us in.
The cold, the dark, the concrete only added to my terror.
When would this end?
Stephen would even fondle me when our parents were inside cooking dinner or watching telly, clueless.
One day, when my younger brother and I were playing outside, Stephen appeared and signalled for me to go to the bathroom.
I did as he said, scared of saying no.
But my stomach churned as he ran his grubby hands over my body. I willed it to be over. After, my younger brother asked what we’d been doing.
‘I was tickling Sarah,’ Stephen told him, and my heart sank.
Each time he abused me, Stephen would hand me a £1 note as payment for his perverted pleasure. A chill ran down my spine every time he rolled his eyes upwards, so I’d know to follow him…
Every chance he had, Stephen abused me.
It went on for several months.
Too terrified to tell anyone, I buried the secret inside me for years. Unable to cope, aged 11, I started to self-harm as a way of relief. But any respite was short-lived.
I was a miserable teenager, barely left the house. But
Bedtime nursery rhymes escalated into sick abuse By Sarah Kirton, 47, from Reading Each time he abused me, Stephen would hand me a £1 note
nobody understood. They just assumed it was a phase.
Stephen had moved out by then, and had a girlfriend and job. But I suffered with terrible flashbacks whenever I saw him.
I desperately wanted to tell my mum, but worried that she wouldn’t believe me or might blame me.
Brainwashed, Stephen made me question everything about my life. Maybe I imagined it, I thought sometimes.
Deep down, though, I knew every sickening second of it was true. But I still faced family dinners, Sunday lunches, and day trips.
Stephen was always there, a permanent reminder. Then, when I was 14… ‘Will you be a bridesmaid at my wedding?’ Stephen asked me in front of everyone. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to say no, run away, but I felt I’d no choice.
Walking down the aisle for Stephen in 1984, I felt sick and terrified, the abuse playing over and over in my mind.
Years on, my horrifying memories were still vivid. Right into my 20s, the secret still sat heavily with me. I didn’t go out or have boyfriends, and I continued to self-harm.
One day, arriving home after being out with a mate, my mum looked worried.
‘Don’t you want to be more like your friend?’ she asked, referring to the fact that my mate had a car, job and boyfriend.
Mum had no idea why I didn’t have the motivation for any of those things. But it was agonising to hear, nevertheless – and I ran out of the house, heading round to another friend’s place.
Unable to hide it any more, the truth came tumbling out between heavy sobs as I told my friend everything that’d happened to me.
Everything, that is, except who’d abused me.
As the words left my mouth, I felt my shoulders sag – but, hugging me, my friend promised to support me.
She even confronted my parents for me about what’d been happening to me all that time ago when I was just a child – but she didn’t tell them who’d been responsible.
I wanted to run away. But she arranged for my parents to meet with me.
‘It was Stephen, wasn’t it?’ my mum asked, fighting back the tears. She said she’d once found him in bed with me. When asked what was going on, he’d said I was feeling cold and needed a cuddle. It was another of Stephen’s lies.
My parents were shocked and angry. But I didn’t blame them. They couldn’t have known what was happening...
Years on, my horrifying memories were still vivid…
When my parents challenged him, Stephen admitted what had been going on, but he made it out to be a lot less serious than it was.
He said it was just kissing and a bit of touching – and that it had only happened once or twice.
Disgusted and ashamed, for years my parents and brothers cut ties with Stephen, horrified at what he’d done in the family home.
But, slowly, his name would start cropping up in conversations with my parents – Stephen had been to see them or they’d popped round to his.
He was their son – I understood that – but I was hurt they were letting him back into their lives after everything he’d done to me.
Regardless, I cut Stephen out as much as I could. Then, in 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, my mum died. I was devastated. She’d put all her savings aside for me, her only daughter, to have a big, white wedding. Only, Stephen’s abuse meant I could never form relationships, so mum’s dream was ripped away from her. And me.
Undergoing counselling, as I had throughout my life, I admitted I’d been abused by my older brother.
My counsellor explained he was duty bound to report Stephen to Social Services, in case he had any direct access to children. Afraid my family would disown me if I got them or the police involved, I begged him not to. But, months later, an officer turned up at my door. ‘If you ever decide you want to make a statement, please call me,’ she said. ‘No, thanks,’ I said, fearing what it would do to my family, and certain I didn’t want to take legal action. But, in 2015, I finally found the bravery to make a statement. My brother, Stephen Kirton, was arrested and charged. And, in June this year, at Reading Crown Court, he denied six counts of indecent assault on a female, admitting one, and denied one count of gross indecency with a child, but admitted another one. It meant I had to give evidence behind a screen. Cross-examined for three hours, it was harrowing. But I got through it, speaking the truth, refusing to be overshadowed by Stephen’s lies. Thankfully, he was convicted of two counts of gross indecency with a child under 14, and two counts of indecent assault on a female.
He was handed an 18-month prison sentence, suspended for 18 months, and ordered to undertake 120 hours of unpaid work, and sign the sex offenders register for 10 years.
I was disappointed he wasn’t jailed, and it’s caused an ongoing divide in my family. But I know it was the right thing to do.
I’ve been angry for so long. Now, I’m proud I spoke out to shame my paedophile brother.
Hopefully, now I can move on with my life.
I finally found the bravery to make a statement I know I’ve done the right thing