Our Lives
‘I know your secret…'
I desperately didn’t want to be part of my brother’s big day. But as I saw him smiling at the altar, I knew one day I’d wipe the smile off his face.
Standing in the shallow end of the pool, I hurled the beach ball to my dad. ‘Good throw!’ he encouraged, catching it.
I was five and we were on our annual summer holiday to Great Yarmouth.
It was my favourite time of year because it was just me, Dad and Mum — and not my older half-brother Ian, 12.
Mum’s son from a previous relationship, Ian, was miserable and moody. I always felt on edge around him.
And with Dad working long hours as a lorry driver, I’d often get left with Ian while Mum went out with her friends. I dreaded those nights. Then one day, soon after we got back from our holiday, Mum left me with Ian to go to the pub.
I was watching TV in the living room, when Ian appeared.
Out of nowhere, he climbed on top of me on the sofa, straddling me. ‘Get off!’ I said, squirming. Ignoring my pleas, Ian yanked down my trousers and knickers and forced himself inside me. It hurt so much, I cried out in pain.
When he’d finished, Ian turned to me and said: ‘If you dare tell anyone, you’ll be put into care.’ ‘OK,’ I sobbed, terrified. That night as I lay in bed, my mind began to race. Surely brothers aren’t supposed to do that? I thought.
I wanted to tell someone, but then I remembered his threat and decided to keep it a secret.
After that, Ian began abusing me whenever we were alone.
I knew what he was doing to me was wrong, and after it had happened in my room one day, I said: ‘You shouldn’t do this to me, it’s naughty.’
‘Remember, you’ll be taken away if you say anything,’ he sneered.
Although I was desperate for it to stop, I feared the consequences.
I couldn’t bear to be without my mum and dad.
But my brother continued to torment me.
On the morning of my seventh birthday, I bounded downstairs to open my presents.
But as I reached the living room, I saw Mum’s face was full of anger.
The carpet was littered with torn wrapping paper and discarded envelopes from my birthday cards. Ian had opened everything meant for me.
‘What did you do that for?’ I sobbed.
But while Mum pulled me into a hug, Ian just laughed.
I hated him. Years passed and Ian’s abuse continued. I felt as if I had nowhere to turn and life felt miserable.
One night after school when I was nine, Ian raped me at our great-grandparents’ house — while they were playing cards in the dining room.
‘Ian, no!’ I wept, desperate for someone to disturb us.
But no one heard my cries. Afterwards, Ian handed me some pennies. ‘Go and buy yourse
