By killing himself, my father denied me the relief of justice. That's why I can't remain silent about his abuse
Sexual
abuse happens in everyday homes; abusers aren’t untouchable
celebrities, they’re ordinary fathers, step-fathers, uncles. Speaking
out is the first step towards freedom
‘The only thing that kept me going was this overriding drive to not let him get away with it again’.Photograph: Greg Martin
Last Sunday, my dad killed himself.
It was a Remembrance Sunday I won’t forget, but not for the reasons
you might think. My father was not a nice man. Some people would say he
deserved to die for what he did, but I don’t believe in capital
punishment. I believe in justice. Justice, however, is a slippery fish.
And although the British judiciary system is often hailed as an
exemplar, it’s not always a fair cop.
So last Sunday, all I could think was “you bastard”. For nearly two
years, I’d been put through hell and back. I had endured brutalising
investigative and legal processes, not to mention a lifetime of
suffering as a result of having been sexually abused by him as a child,
to come this close to finally seeing him locked up in jail where he
belonged ... But then he went and did this.
Two years ago, the media was saturated with stories of Jimmy Savile
and the terrible crimes he committed as an untouchable celebrity
paedophile. The shocking nature of his depravity was splashed everywhere
– on TV, the radio, in all the papers – it was inescapable. For someone
like me who has tried so hard to bury my past (you can’t, it’s always
there), done my best to forget (it haunts you daily), run away from it
as far as I possibly could (it catches up and finds you) and move on (it
won’t let you), the media frenzy opened up deep wounds. But it also
made me realise that if I chose not to do anything, if I continued to
remain silent, my father would die too and get away with it. He was 73.
It felt like now or never. The author, aged seven.Photograph: Fi Read
My father wasn’t famous, but he was a respected academic believed to
be a fine upstanding citizen. To complicate matters, the abuse had
taken place halfway round the world more than 40 years ago. But it gave
me a glimmer of hope to know that it was still possible to have this
monster held accountable for his actions, and punished for what he did.
On 9 January 2013, I happened to be in Penzance’s police station
reporting the theft of my son’s bicycle. After filling in the relevant
forms, shaking like a leaf and in a half-strangled whisper, I somehow
managed to get the words out to say that there was something else. I
wanted to press charges against my father.
I didn’t know I was going to spill the beans that day; hadn’t
considered the legal ramifications fully, or the very real repercussions
it would have on my life – it just came out. Since then, I have
sometimes wished I’d stayed silent, as the price I’ve paid to speak the
truth has been phenomenally high.
The trauma of having to provide numerous statements and video
evidence and re-live the nightmare shook me to the core. I became
anxious, depressed, suffered from extreme insomnia. My partner of three
and a half years eventually dumped me as he couldn’t handle me being
“emotionally needy”, which sent me right over the edge. I spiralled into
bulimia again (I was anorexic and bulimic as a teenager), had a
complete mental breakdown, and even contemplated suicide myself, ringing
the Samaritans twice. But I’m a single parent of four and couldn’t bear
to do that to my children, even if they are all grown up now.
Small wonder so many women drop the charges, as the court process is
horrific, victimises you all over again, and as with the initial abuse,
leaves you feeling utterly powerless. The author as a child.Photograph: Fi Read
The only thing that kept me going was this overriding drive to not
let him get away with it again, and my own need to try to achieve some
sense of justice and closure.
The tyranny of distance meant Devon and Cornwall Police had to liaise
with Interpol before handing the case over to the South Australian vice
squad, so it wasn’t until June 2013 that he was actually arrested and
charged with persistent sexual abuse of a child. The offences included
inappropriate touching, kissing, digital penetration, fellatio,
cunnilingus and anal rape. This happened as I was between four and eight
years old.
He was released on bail. Then during the criminal investigation proceedings, three more victims came forth.
The prosecution process dragged on and on and on, with delay after
delay, adjournment after adjournment, until finally the trial was listed
for 13 January 2015. In August of this year, The attorney general’s
department informed me that he was prepared to plead guilty to the
charges in relation to me, but there were hold-ups due to legal
arguments concerning the other victims, as we were all part of a joint
case.
For me, my father’s guilt was crystal clear. I’d confronted him when I
was 16, and he’d admitted it. But being anorexic and depressed at the
time, I was not in a position to do anything with that knowledge. Sent
to see a shrink, I disclosed to this psychiatrist who did nothing, but
wrote me a script for heavy duty anti-depressants.
As a 12 year-old, I read virtually the entire collection of Agatha
Christie’s murder mystery novels (there are 66) in the hope of finding
the perfect way to kill him without getting caught. As an adult, I’d
kept waiting for the phone call saying he’d died, so I could pop the
champagne and shout “hurrah!” Since his arrest, however, I’d wanted him
to stay very much alive. To be found guilty in the eyes of the law,
incarcerated, and most importantly, named and shamed. As victims, the
very nature of our abuse silences us. This was my opportunity to finally
have a voice, to be heard, and for the truth to be told at long last.
But I was robbed. Just two months before having to face the music, he
took the cowardly route out. This was so not the outcome I’d
anticipated or hoped for. Had I gone through all this for him to be
marked by an insipid few lines in an obituary about how he “sadly passed
away aged 74”? I don’t think so. The author with her dad, aged 10.Photograph: Fi Read
My life has been a car crash. Ditto the other victims. It didn’t
seem fair. If this was justice, it was rough. And the others abused by
this man whom we don’t know about (I don’t doubt there are others as he
was a predatory paedophile) didn’t deserve it either.
So I went public. I contacted the press in Australia to ensure the
truth was told, and that the former dean of dentistry at Adelaide
University, professor Roger Joseph Smales, had taken his own life to
avoid facing multiple charges of persistent child sexual abuse. The
tragedy wasn’t this man’s suicide; the tragedy was the many lives he’d
wreaked havoc upon. Nobody should feel sorry for this man.
And if just one person who sees that article – either someone
assaulted by him or by another abuser – is able to gain some sense of
closure from this and that he didn’t, after all, get away with it, then I
have done the right thing. And if it prompts others to come forward
with their own injustices, then maybe there’s hope for us all.
Just because my dad wasn’t Rolf Harris doesn’t mean my story doesn’t
matter. Wherever and whenever child abuse occurs, it is wrong. The
reason why abuse continues to happen is because it’s a taboo subject
that no-one is prepared to talk about.
Coming forward as a victim is no picnic, believe me. It’s not
necessarily the path for everyone, and I wouldn’t recommend it unless
you have lots of support systems and networks in place, as it damn near
broke me. And clearly, the outcome isn’t always the outcome you’d
expect. Too often abusers are acquitted on technicalities, or because
the jury can’t come to a unanimous decision.
But if you or someone you know has been affected by similar issues,
then rape and sexual abuse centres might be a place to turn for help. My
local one, the Cornwall Rape and Sexual Abuse Centre, was a lifeline at
the time: they offered me free counselling sessions when I needed them
most, and I was also part of a self-help group that they run
specifically for survivors of sexual abuse.
But mostly, it has been my amazing friends who have been there for me
through all this who kept me from going under, and I can never thank
them enough. And as one of them said to me, “now you are free”.
Due to the sensitive nature of this piece, the comments are being pre-moderated
A version of this article first appeared in The Cornishman
If you are a victim of sexual violence, you can contact 1800 737 732 (RESPECT) in Australia, RAINN in the US, Rape crisis in the UK. In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 08457 90 90 90. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. Hotlines in other countries can be found here.
08457 90 90 90. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. Hotlines in other countries can be found here.
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