Sarah Wilson - Violated - A Shocking and Harrowing Survival Story From the Notorious Rotherham Abuse Scandal

To protect the identities of individuals involved in Sarah’s story some details, including names, places and dates, have been changed.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2015

FIRST EDITION

© Geraldine McKelvie and Sarah Wilson 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 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

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One: Early Days

Chapter Two: Fitting In

Chapter Three: Nadine

Chapter Four: The Nightmare Begins

Chapter Five: Groomed

Chapter Six: Stolen Innocence

Chapter Seven: Trafficked

Chapter Eight: A Mum’s Agony

Chapter Nine: The Razaq Brothers

Chapter Ten: Does Anyone Care?

Chapter Eleven: Marriage

Chapter Twelve: Escape

Chapter Thirteen: Building Bridges

Chapter Fourteen: Ashtiaq

Chapter Fifteen: Love Triangle

Chapter Sixteen: Alesha

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

Chapter Twenty-Four: Building a Future

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Exclusive sample chapter

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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.

All of the men who abused me were of Asian origin, almost all British Pakistanis, but as I lay there night after night, I didn’t care where they came from or what colour their skin was. In years to come, what happened to me, and many other girls, as victims of the Rotherham sex ring would become a national scandal. Professors would write reports, politicians would resign and people on the news would talk about girls like me and how we’d been failed by the very people who were supposed to protect us.

My nightmare began a long, long time before Rotherham was on the front page of the newspapers, and the memory of that time will stay with me long after our town has disappeared from the headlines. Over the years that followed the abuse, I slowly came to realise that I wasn’t a little slag like they’d told me so many times, but a victim. But I refuse to be a victim forever, so I’m sharing this with you now because I don’t want what happened to me to happen again, ever, to any other child. This is my story. It’s the story of a victim but, more importantly, it’s also the story of a survivor.

I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve never had an easy life.

I was born in Rotherham, a big industrial town just a few miles from Sheffield, in September 1991, blissfully unaware that my parents’ relationship was already starting to unravel. My mum, Maggie, and my dad, Mark, had got together in the late eighties. They’d met when Mum’s sister, my auntie Annette, started going out with Dad’s cousin. Dad had come to Rotherham to visit them and he got talking to Mum when she popped round one night. Mum had just come out of an unhappy marriage and was bringing up my older brothers, Mark and Robert, on her own when Dad asked her out for a drink. Mum was petite, with sandy curly hair, and he had obviously taken a shine to her. He said all the right things when she needed a shoulder to cry on, and soon they were an item.