”I was raped by my son’s best friend”
When teacher Carlyn Thompson, 58, from Scotland, let her sons’ childhood friend into her home, she had no idea what he would do next. Now, 14 years later, she’s ready to tell her story to help others
The rap music was turned up so loud I could hear it before I even put my key in the front door. I sighed, guessing what I was in for. Sure enough, it was the usual mess – coats thrown all over the floor and halfway up the stairs.
I shouted above the ear-splitting volume, “Turn that off!” and stomped up the stairs of our home.
My sons Matt, then 14, and Dom, then 12, were in their bedroom with three mates.
“What have I told you?” I shouted at my boys. “You can have your mates round, but only when I’m in.”
Matt and Dom looked sheepish. “Sorry, Mum,” they replied.
Still annoyed, I turned to their friends. “I’ve just told them off and now I’m telling you – out! Go on.”
The three of them trooped out, but the next day one of them, Greg Houslin, was back.
That was OK, I was in this time.
I worked hard as a teacher and tried my best to make our house in Watford, Hertfordshire, a home for my sons, as I’d been a single mum since they were small.
My home was often filled with teenage boys as Matt and Dom brought their friends back after school. Occasionally they’d even stay for dinner. I didn’t mind cooking for them – they were all OK at heart, never disrespectful, just typical lads, sometimes thoughtless.
Over the next couple of years, the boys and their friends drove me crazy. I’d come home to find dirty plates piled up in the sink, crisp wrappers strewn all over the living room and rap music blaring from upstairs. One day it all became too much.
“Will someone come down and clear up all this mess?” I shouted. I knew I was wasting my breath because, as usual, they ignored me. I started to clear up.
“I don’t why I put up with this,” I muttered, but of course I did. The way I saw it, even though those boys were messy and noisy,
I’d rather have Matt and Dom under my roof where I could keep an eye on them than off out with their mates where I’d have absolutely no idea what they were up to. It’s the price you pay for having boys.
By June 2002, Matt, who was then 20, and Dom, then 18, had moved out. Matt lived in the house opposite me and having him so close by made me feel safe. Although I missed my sons, I was happy to have peace and quiet in my house.
Despite Matt and Dom moving out, some of their old friends would pop by from time to time. I didn’t mind them coming round – they were good company. I was like a second mother to them. They all called me Carlyn.
As my sons got older, they’d grown apart from Greg, but he still visited me sometimes. I thought he was turning into a nice young man – much more thoughtful now he’d grown out of his teenage bravado.
In January 2005, he called round unexpectedly. “I was in the neighbourhood so I thought I’d pop by,” he said.
I was delighted to see him and made us a cup of tea. For the next three hours, we nattered away about our lives.
Suddenly, I realised it was late. “I should get to sleep,” I said, yawning.
“Let’s chat for longer,” Greg said.
“I’m exhausted,” I said. “I’ve got work in the morning.”
I opened the door, expecting Greg to put on his coat and leave. But he didn’t move from the sofa.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he snapped.
No escape
I wasn’t in the mood for games, so I grabbed my mobile and called Matt. But there was no answer. I glanced at his house and noticed the lights were off, so I figured he must be asleep. For the next 20 minutes I pleaded with Greg to leave, but he refused – although he wouldn’t tell me why.
“You’re acting strange, you need to go right now,” I yelled.
Suddenly, Greg grabbed my upper arms and pushed me on to the sofa. Fear hit me.
“What are you doing?” I screamed. “Get off me!”
Greg’s body felt so heavy on top of me that I couldn’t breathe. Panic took hold of me and I realised I had no idea what he was capable of. I was still holding my phone and I desperately dialled 999, but I couldn’t feel
‘I sprinted to a female police officer and burst into tears’
where the call button was and in my attempts to grapple with it, I dropped it. Greg ripped my trousers and underwear off. He stared into my eyes, panting – he looked evil. I prayed my next door neighbour, Gary, was at home.
“Gary! Help me! I’m being raped!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Greg put his hand over my mouth.
“If you go through with this, I will report you,” I sobbed. He gave me a menacing smile. Then he raped me. Pain tore through my body and I cried hysterically throughout.
Afterwards, Greg got dressed. I frantically put my trousers on, grabbed my phone and ran to the bathroom and called the police.
“My rapist is in my house right now,” I cried to the operator. “Come quick!”
Suddenly, Greg appeared behind me and stared at me in the mirror, smiling. I couldn’t breathe and felt completely powerless. I heard sirens and, taking my chance, I pushed past Greg and sprinted out of the front door towards a female officer. I burst into tears and collapsed into her arms.
In shock, I was driven to the police station at around 2am by two officers. They told me Gary had thought I was fighting with my sons, which is why he hadn’t called the police.
I was in a terrible state, shaking and crying. I really needed a hug but the officers explained that they weren’t allowed to touch me until I’d been examined to avoid contaminating any evidence. But they told me the doctor wasn’t available until the morning so I’d have to wait.
Even though I was upset, I understood. The officers were both as kind as they could possibly be, but their hands were tied.
At 6.30am I was taken to my own GP’S surgery for the examination. The doctor was male and I really wanted a female, but I was still so in shock I did what I was told. When it was over I was driven to my friend Sue’s house – the police forensic team was busy in my house collecting evidence so I couldn’t go there.
At lunchtime I was allowed back home. Matt and Dom had been told what had happened and came straight over.
“Mum, are you all right?” Matt asked. “What a bastard.”
In September 2005, at court in St Albans, Greg, then 24, denied raping me, so we were forced to go to trial. I was terrified because I’d read that only 25 per cent of rape defendants were convicted. I knew I was facing an uphill battle.
Giving my evidence, I faced Greg in court. I wanted to show him I wasn’t afraid. He told everyone we’d had consensual sex and said I’d been flirting with him for years.
fresh start
Thankfully, the jury found Greg guilty and he was jailed for five and a half years. I cried with relief, but for a while after I still suffered mentally with flashbacks. Then, in October 2009, I got a call from my case officer telling me Greg had been released early.
“He’s only served four years,” I gasped. “He’s free to walk the streets while I suffer for the rest of my life.” I wanted to throw up.
A month later, I was with Dom when we spotted Greg at a café. I froze. Dom grabbed me and we rushed out quickly. After that, I hated leaving the house and avoided seeing friends and family. I’d walk to the shops, but would feel terrified and would always be looking over my shoulder.
So in 2011 I moved away from Watford, to Hatfield, but I continued to see Greg around town and still didn’t feel safe.
In 2014, I moved to Scotland. It’s hard being away from my sons, but my mum is close by. The last I heard, Greg was back in prison for attacking another woman.
Although the trial was horrible to go through, I’m proud of myself for getting justice.
If I saw Greg now, I’d call him out as a rapist in front of everyone.
I’m sharing my story to let women know you can keep other women safe by reporting your attacker.
It has taken me 14 years, but I can finally tell my story without falling apart.