HAUNTED
Abuser: Mark Stonelake
He tried to seem innocent but I knew the sick truth
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‘JANE ROWE’ IS NOT HER REAL NAME. WORDS: MISHAAL KHAN, JANE COHEN. PHOTOS: ALAMY, WALES NEWS SERVICE
Jane Rowe, 31, Mountain Ash
shering us close, I’d grimace at the through the front dirty smell from his clothes. door, my dad ‘Peel this off,’ he’d laugh handed me a after smothering PVA glue bag of toys and on his hands. I did as he waved goodbye. said, fascinated by it. It was summer 1993, I Mark seemed to enjoy was 4 – and this house, this spending time with me. routine, had become familiar. ‘I’ve got a piano in my Every day, Dad dropped room. Do you want to have me and my brother, 3, with a go?’ he asked. a local babysitter, while he Of course, I said yes. By went to work. It’d become the norm since my parents split up a few months earlier. At first, we loved our time there. Then someone else began looking after us. ‘This is my brother Mark,’ our usual babysitter said, introducing us. While she went to tend to her horse, she’d leave us with him. Mark was around 17, but to me, he was a grown-up. Always dressed in dark clothes, he had I finally found the strength black, greasy hair. to speak up When he came
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now, I was 5, a curious kid. Soon, I was following Mark upstairs into his bedroom, while my brother played downstairs. But once we were inside, Mark locked the door. Looking up at him, I felt my curiosity shift to fear. Then, he pulled down his trousers, made me touch him, put his privates between my hands and feet. He touched me, abused me. Afterwards, he played a film that showed naked bodies writhing against each other. ‘Watch it,’ he barked as I squeezed my eyes tight. ‘This is our secret. No one can know,’ Mark told me. Unlocking the door, Mark ushered me downstairs, acted like nothing had happened. I felt strange, disgusting. But I hoped that would be the last time he took me to his bedroom. I was wrong. ‘Let’s play the piano,’ he said again, soon after. I began to dread him suggesting it,
knowing just what was coming next. Mark told me to keep quiet about what he did, and I never told a soul. He was a grown-up and I did what I was told. Then one day, a couple of years later, Mark stopped inviting me upstairs. Maybe he’d lost interest. But it didn’t matter. The relief was monumental. Before long, Dad didn’t need us to have a babysitter any more. We didn’t ever go back to that house. But what had happened there had changed me. Once a happy, carefree child, I became withdrawn and depressed. I just couldn’t stop going over and over the abuse in my mind, reliving it daily. When I was 9, I found a bottle of tablets at home. I took them all, desperate for the pain to go away. That day, I collapsed at school, ended up in hospital, but was OK. During my first years of secondary school, I was a recluse, too afraid to make friends. But growing into a teenager, I discovered different methods to numb my pain. Turning to drink and
