Raped by my Babysitter

Almost 50 years of hell, but I’ve finally got justice.

- Lianne La Borde

I froze in terror as David Suttie, 20, leered over me.

His cold, unblinking eyes were piercing through glasses as thick as milk-bottle bottoms.

‘Please don’t,’ I sobbed as he shoved his rough hands up my dress, inside my knickers.

But he ignored my quiet sobs as he molested me.

I was about 5 when it started – my earliest memories are of David Suttie dragging me upstairs.

Stripping me naked, prodding, poking me.

It was the late 1960s, and my parents were mates with Suttie’s sister.

They lived close by, so during school holidays Mum and Dad would send me over while they were working.

Usually, his sister looked after me, but sometimes Suttie babysat alone. 

That’s when he’d pounce. Terrified, I’d be taken upstairs, into a bedroom, abused.

Suttie would make me touch him, too.

‘Don’t you dare tell anyone,’ he’d spit after. ‘Or I’ll kill the dog.’

I loved animals and Suttie’s family had a pet dog I adored.

Terrified that he’d hurt it, I kept my mouth shut.

Plus, I’d no idea who to tell or what I’d say. I didn’t know anything about sex, or abuse, and didn’t know what Suttie was doing was wrong.

Still, I knew I hated it and that he petrified me.

‘I don’t want to go!’ I’d scream and cry whenever my parents dropped me off there. But Mum and Dad thought I was being difficult, and I didn’t know how to tell them the truth. 

Then, one day Suttie grabbed my hand, dragged me upstairs. 

Only, this time, he stripped me, pulled out a tub of cream, and rubbed it on my private parts. 

I lay on the bed, frozen in horror, confused and scared.