‘I was raped by my dad and brother – one piece of forgotten evidence brought me justice’

by UAE Breaking
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Suddenly I woke up in my bed, sweat running down my back, and I took a deep breath. “You’re safe now, Sarah. It’s over,” I reminded myself. It was just a flashback, a dream.

But it was so vivid, so real, that I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I even had bruises on my legs where I had fought and tried to protect myself while I slept. I had carried my secret for nearly fifty years.

At times I felt I would never escape the suffering of my childhood. My earliest memory is when I was three and a half years old and my father, Arthur, lifted me out of bed and put me on it. I distinctly remember him covering my mouth with his big, meaty hand to muffle my screams. Then my father raped me.

For the next few years my memories of our home in Chard, Somerset, are hazy and fragmented. But when I was six years old, my nightmares began again. My father abused me regularly, usually raping me in our bedroom.
Whenever my mother was not there he would strike when he had the chance. We had horses in the stables next to our house and sometimes he would say, “Help me feed the horses, Sarah.” He sexually abused me in the stables.

Sometimes he used objects on me, once it was part of the handle of a spade. I was still a little girl and I was in terrible pain. I wanted to confide in someone but after the abuse my father would always say, “If you tell anyone, I’ll shoot you. And I’ll shoot your mother.” Do you understand?

Behind closed doors

With eyes wide and filled with fear, I nodded. I had seen his gun, which he usually kept in the garage but would occasionally bring into the house. I didn’t believe he would do something like that. We also moved around a lot, which made it hard to make lasting friendships and hard for teachers and social workers to get to know me. I lived with my grandmother for a while, but that was just a temporary respite before I was sent home again.

As I grew older, I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me. To the outside world, my father was a charming man, a great man, larger than life, known locally as a construction worker. But at home he was a dark, evil-eyed monster. Once, when I was 10, I was sitting in the living room watching TV when my father came in and nodded toward the door. I knew what he wanted. “No, I don’t want to,” I replied, my whole body shaking with fear. He kicked me into the bedroom, screaming, “Don’t tell me no!” “Kill me,” I begged.

I just wanted the pain to go away. My dad stopped, looked at me, and left the room. I lay in bed and sobbed, pulled a pillow over my head and tried to suffocate myself. But I couldn’t make it. I still had a tiny spark of survival in me, even at age 10. And I knew then that I would never give up.

But that was the last time I dared to disagree with him. From then on, I did as he said. When I was 13, my parents divorced and my mother and I moved out. I thought this would finally be the end of my nightmare.

Like father, like son

My older brother, Arthur Stephen (called Stephen), stayed with my father. He was two years older than me but we were not very close.

A few years later, Stephen came to visit. One day, while I was in my room getting out of my uniform, Stephen, who was 17 at the time, cornered me and raped me. Afterwards I fell to my knees and sobbed. I couldn’t believe it was happening again. To escape my father’s abuse and then face it was even worse. I felt torn apart again. “If you tell anyone, they’ll say that’s what you wanted,” Steven sneered.

Because he was older and my self-esteem was so low, I thought people would believe him and not me. The flashbacks of the abuse were so terrifying that I overdosed right before my final exams. I survived but felt miserable.

Ashamed and scared, I left home as soon as I could. Many times I wanted to share my horrible secret, but my father’s words rang loudly in my head: “If you tell anyone, I’ll shoot you and your mother.”

After school, I worked in a factory and in customer service. I was very artistic and wanted to achieve a lot in life, but the trauma held me back and I had no confidence.

At one point I was married and had two daughters. Unfortunately, my relationship didn’t work out. I had problems with intimacy. But I loved being a mother, so I tried to move on with my life and focus on my children. But the memories of the attack haunted me. I had too much to drink and could no longer see the pictures.

In December 2009 I met my new partner, Darren Sidebottom, through a mutual friend and fell in love. Darren was different to any man I had ever met – understanding, kind and patient. He was the first person I ever trusted.

I confided in him about the abuse and he persuaded me to go to the police. In 2019, almost 50 years after it all began, I filed a complaint.

The investigation was slow. At one point I was told my files were lost which caused me a lot of stress. I had flashbacks and vivid nightmares.

My German Shepherd, Kayla, got me through my darkest times. She once saved me from a suicide attempt by barricading a window so I couldn’t jump. After a nightmare, when I felt I couldn’t go on any more, she would jump on my bed and caress me until I was better. I was so grateful to have Darren, my daughters, and Kayla by my side.

Key Evidence

As part of the investigation, I was shown a letter from the hospital that was added to my medical record on April 25, 1973. My blood ran cold when I read those words. “Your patient was admitted to hospital for surgery after falling down the stairs and landing on the handlebars of a go-kart, causing a perineal tear.”

I continued reading with tears in my eyes. The letter explained that I had undergone extensive surgery to repair horrific lacerations in my abdomen shortly after being raped at age 3 and a half. It required half a liter of blood. I was shocked. Things were different in the ’70s, I knew that, but I couldn’t believe that no one had disputed my father’s description of my injuries. The doctors believed his lies. I had no memory of the surgery and never even knew the letter existed – until now.

“This is crucial for the prosecution,” the police told me. I was shocked. I was angry and confused. I wanted to speak to my mother and get an explanation but the police said I couldn’t talk about the letter as it could jeopardize the proceedings.

My mother passed away in 2021 and I never had the chance to ask her about the letter. I felt betrayed. I had so many questions. I had to accept that I would never get the answers I wanted.

The case went to trial and left me with PTSD and emotionally unstable personality disorder. But I was determined to help others. I now attend forums with police and prosecutors to advise them how they can support victims.

These services need to respond quickly and victims need support. I want others to know that no matter how difficult it is to come forward, you can get justice. Don’t be scared, don’t be ashamed. After nearly 50 years of silence, speaking out is part of my healing. At last my burden has been shared.

A must read, out now

The book about Sarah’s life, named The Letter, is now available to buy here.

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