Violated: A Shocking and Harrowing Survival Story From the Notorious Rotherham Abuse Scandal
The shocking first true account from one of the young girls who lived through and survived the Rotherham sex abuse scandal.In the summer of 2014, the Rotherham sex abuse scandal sent shockwaves through the nation. A report revealed that, since the 1990s, up to 1,400 young girls in the town had been regularly abused by sex gangs, predominantly comprised of Pakistani men. As the media descended on the small Yorkshire town, Sarah Wilson watched with horror and relief as her voice was finally heard after years of abuse.Sarah was just eleven years old when she was befriended by a group of older men. Bullied at school, naive and vulnerable, the gifts and attention they lavished on her were what she craved, she just wanted to belong. But soon she was hooked on alcohol and drugs, and then they owned her. She was just twelve years old when she was bundled into a car by a man in his thirties and forced to have sex with him. Soon, the gang were driving her to places where she was raped by scores of men.Falling through the system, from social services to school, no-one was able to help her. She ‘escaped’ when she became too old for the men at nearly sixteen.Finally a victim of the Rotherham scandal tells her story in the hope that other young girls will not fall prey to the same evil that she endured.
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To protect the identities of individuals involved in Sarah’s story some details, including names, places and dates, have been changed.
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First published by HarperElement 2015
FIRST EDITION
© Geraldine McKelvie and Sarah Wilson 2015
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover photographs © Jon Gibbs/Getty Images (posed by model); News Syndication (The Sun); Mirrorpix (The Mirror)
Geraldine McKelvie and Sarah Wilson asserts the moral
right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008141264
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008141271
Version: 2015-06-23
Contents
Chapter Four: The Nightmare Begins
Chapter Nine: The Razaq Brothers
Chapter Ten: Does Anyone Care?
Chapter Thirteen: Building Bridges
Chapter Fifteen: Love Triangle
Chapter Seventeen: A Fatal Decision
Chapter Eighteen: Where’s Laura?
Chapter Nineteen: The Worst News
Chapter Twenty: Abusers in the Dock
Chapter Twenty-One: Murder Trials
Chapter Twenty-Two: A New Life
Chapter Twenty-Three: Truth at Last
My eyes fixed on a cobweb in the corner of the room as I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door creaked open and I shifted on the lumpy mattress on the floor. They’d left me there a few hours earlier and now it was dark, so dark. If I strained really hard, though, I could still see the outline of the cobweb. It gave me something to focus on, to distract me from what was going on in the cold darkness of that room.
A figure appeared in the doorway, but he was just a silhouette, the latest in the line of faceless men who’d come to me that night. Was he the sixth or the seventh? I’d lost count. I didn’t meet his gaze; I couldn’t bear it. I kept looking at the cobweb as I felt him place his weight on top of me. The smell of his sweat and cheap soap filled my nostrils.
He didn’t have to tug at my trousers because they were already round my ankles, but I could feel him wrestling with his own, undoing his belt, impatient and erect as he tore open a condom wrapper. The vodka they’d given me had numbed me a little, but not enough, and anyway, by now I was beginning to sober up. As he entered me, pain tore through me and I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
No one seemed to care about the state of this godforsaken house, just as no one seemed to care about me. When I had been brought there it had been light, and I had been taken straight to this room, where mould streaked the blue walls. I wondered how long the cobweb had been there. Had it been days, weeks, months? I wanted to cry but no tears would come. I wondered how long I’d be left in this filthy room, in a strange town miles from home.
The man said nothing as he writhed around on top of me, only grunting a little. I was too scared to tell him he was being too rough. How could I say that to him? After all, they kept telling me it was all my fault. I was a little slag, they said, I was white trash. I’d brought it all upon myself so this was what I deserved: to lie on a dirty, lumpy mattress, awaiting a never-ending queue of men, all old enough to be my dad.
Gradually, his breathing got quicker and he muttered something in a language I didn’t understand. His hands wandered towards my chest and, as he gripped the breasts just beginning to develop, I asked myself: what does he find attractive about me? I’m only thirteen – and he can’t even see my face.
Eventually, it was over. He put his trousers back on and walked out without a word. Once again, I was alone in the dark room, lying on the filthy, horrible mattress, staring at the cobweb and wondering just how many more men would come before I’d be allowed to go home.
This story probably sounds shocking to many people, but for me, what happened that night was nothing unusual. I was only a child, but even by the age of thirteen, to me it was normal to be bundled into a car and driven around England to be abused by men – paedophiles. Some of these men showered me with gifts and told me they loved me; others didn’t say a single word to me as they lay on top of me, violating me in the most disgusting way imaginable.
