Don’t say a word
But after four decades of fear, I found my voice
Curling into a ball, I pulled my duvet around myself in bed, my tummy heavy with dread. Will he visit me tonight? I wondered. Then came a knock, a face around the door.
‘Ready for bed?’ Gary asked me.
It was 1981, I was 10, and Mum, Helen, had split from Dad four years earlier.
Now Mum, then 34, was dating Gary, then 27, after meeting him at a community volunteering programme.
He’d stay over, or Mum would take me and my sister Elizabeth, then 13, and twin brother Wayne over to his.
Wherever we were, Gary never missed saying goodnight to us.
Perching on our beds before tucking us in, giving us a peck on the cheek.
The last few night-time visits had been different.
Gary had slipped his hand under the duvet and touched me.
Got in beside me. Even trying to get on top of me once.
I’d stay silent, then Gary would get up, say goodnight and leave.
I hadn’t dared utter a word.
Now, every night
I lay under my duvet clutched by fear of what Gary might do next.
Soon after, we were staying at Gary’s house.
Mum, Elizabeth and Wayne went to bed, while me and Gary watched TV in the living room.
Him in an armchair, me on the floor between his legs.
From where I sat, I could see Mum sleeping soundly through the open bedroom door.
Suddenly, Gary grabbed my head and forced me to turn around.
He’d pulled his pants down and shoved my face into his crotch.
I had no clue what was happening as Gary barked instructions.
Tears poured and all I could think was…
Don’t wake Mum. Don’t let her catch you.
Once he’d finished Gary pulled his trousers up. ‘Don’t say a word, or there’ll be trouble,’ he said.
‘OK,’ I mumbled, scurrying to bed, ashamed, confused.
For the next three years Gary would pounce at bedtime but he found other places to abuse me too. ‘Me and Jacinta are going for a drive,’ he’d tell Mum.
He’d make me do things to him in the car, or do things to me.
One night, he climbed into my bed and fondled my chest.
‘You don’t need a bra yet,’ he leered.
I felt disgusted, but still never uttered a peep.
At home Mum labelled me ‘the quiet one’.
I wanted to scream that I was only quiet because I was keeping her boyfriend’s disgusting secret.
When we were 13, Wayne was diagnosed with leukaemia.
A horrible time.
All Mum’s focus was on his hospital appointments and work.
School was my only escape from Gary.
Then one day he and Mum had a blazing row in their bedroom.
Us kids all huddled in the hallway, listening to the yelling.
Then suddenly, worried the fight was getting physical, Wayne barged in.
‘Get out!’ he shouted at Gary.
To my amazement, Gary did as he was told.
And never came back. Suddenly, it was over. But while I was relieved, the weight of the secret I was carrying started to bear down on me.
As I finished school and went to uni, I held it inside, felt it eating away at me.
Then in 1995, age 24, I finally confided in my GP, telling them about the abuse.
Referred for counselling, my therapist suggested
I tell Mum.
So when she came to stay a few months later, I did.
Mum sobbed, before her anger took over.
‘You need to get him charged! And tell your brother and sister!’ she said.
But I couldn’t face the police, so I told my shocked siblings and it stayed our dirty family secret.
I held my secret inside, felt it eating away at me
For years I lived in fear and shame.
Hardly saw family, jumped between jobs and relationships.
When I was in my mid-30s I learnt Gary was volunteering with children and felt sick.
But while it repulsed me it wasn’t until over a decade later, in November 2020, that I walked into a police station.
‘I need to report historic abuse,’ I told the officer, shaking.
More than 30 years had passed since I’d last seen Gary.
Without evidence,
I knew it would be tricky to prove what he’d done.
The police suggested I call Gary and see if I could get him to confess.
The thought of hearing his voice made me shudder.
But in January 2021, two officers came round and set up recording equipment.
They’d obtained his number, dialling it for me.
Then my heart pounded as the phone rang.
‘It’s Jacinta,’ I said. ‘Jacinta? It’s been a long time. Why are you calling?’ he replied.
Bile rose in my throat. But I’d practised what I needed to say.
I told him my relationship with Mum was suffering. ‘Do you think she knew about our sexual times together?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t imagine so,’ he said. Drawing the net in, I kept going.
‘Did you think you broke up because Mum knew?’ I asked.
He said he didn’t think so.
Getting closer…
I brought up specific incidents, including the time in the living room and asked if he thought she might have woken up and seen.
‘She’d have mentioned it if she had,’ Gary said. Gotcha!
Police went straight over to arrest him.
Gary admitted it all, even other incidents I’d forgotten or blocked out.
When he was charged, another victim came forward, accusing him of historic sexual abuse.
In May 2022, Gary Bruce, 68, pleaded guilty to three counts of indecent assault of a person under 16, and two counts of sexual penetration of a child between 10 and 16.
He was sentenced to five years and eight months.
A short sentence considering the decades of hell I’ve had to live.
Thinking back to that little girl makes me feel sad.
Who knows the woman I’d be today if he’d not zeroed in on me.
Still, I’m proud I finally spoke out.
I got a tattoo on my forearm of soundwaves of my voice.
‘I have a voice,’ it says. Something I never want to forget.
Now I’m in a healthy, caring relationship and hopeful for the future.
I carried a dirty secret for decades, but I’m not the one who should feel shame.
That all belongs on Gary’s shoulders, not mine.
HELP AND SUPPORT If you’ve been a victim of historic child sexual abuse, you can call The National Association for People Abused in Childhood support line on 0808 801 0331, or visit napac.org.uk.