Historical Abuse Is a Lie

How Police Use Time to Excuse Inaction and Abandon Survivors

Content Warning: This article contains detailed descriptions of child sexual abuse, institutional neglect, and ongoing trauma. Please prioritize your wellbeing while reading.

They called it "historical." But I'm living it every day, every memory, every silence. This is not the past. It's the crime scene they abandoned.

They Call It "Historical"

They call it "historical."

Like it's a dusty record in some forgotten archive. Not a child drugged, abused, and abandoned. Not a life shattered and left to piece itself back together in silence.

This is what happens when police treat trauma like paperwork and perpetrators like ghosts who've conveniently vanished into the past.

"Historical." That word. That clinical, bloodless word the Met Police deploy like a rubber stamp. Because apparently, my abuse crossed some invisible expiration date. So they don't want to investigate. They don't want to act.

I keep wondering: how long does something have to sit in silence before it qualifies for the archives? Five years? Ten? Twenty? Who decides when pain becomes too old to matter?

The police, with their cold categorisation, become unwitting accomplices to the very crimes they're meant to solve. If you're not bleeding fresh, not young enough, not recent enough, you lose their interest. They escort your trauma to the door, closing it firmly behind them. Because the moment abuse crosses their imaginary line from immediate to "historical," they actively discourage you from seeking justice.

But here's what they don't understand: trauma doesn't age out. Pain doesn't become historical. And neither should justice.

"Trauma doesn't age out. Pain doesn't become historical. And neither should justice."

The Holiday That Wasn't

You can take a child and tell him he's going on holiday. Let him get so excited he makes a scrapbook, spending the entire summer walking up and down Kettering high street, collecting brochures from every travel agent he can find. Watch him cut them up and stick them into an old photo album—there weren't many photos of him in there to begin with, so he turns the whole thing sideways, transforms it into a book of dreams. A future in pictures.

And then you can take that child on that holiday—the one he'd call "the weird holiday" for years afterward, never quite understanding why the word "weird" felt so inadequate, so small for something so devastating.

You can hand him over to people who were already arranged, already waiting. Take him to a café and make everything look normal. Take him to a shop, give him a drink, and watch as awareness dissolves. Then another shop. Another drink. Another erasure.

Ten days. Drugged. Assaulted. Forgotten. Brought home like lost luggage, damaged and silent.

And apparently, that's acceptable. As long as enough time passes. As long as it becomes "historical."

"Ten days. Drugged. Assaulted. Forgotten. Brought home like lost luggage, damaged and silent."

When Memory Becomes Reality

The moment I understood what had been done to me—the instant my denial shattered and reality flooded in—that was when my abuse truly began its second, more devastating phase.

For years, I had numbed myself with alcohol, drugs, sex, and distraction, refusing to see the truth. But when clarity finally came, it brought with it pain so vivid, so relentless, I would have done anything to escape it. Were it not for Roxy, I wouldn't have survived. The agony was overwhelming—an unnatural intensity of suffering that seemed designed to break me completely.

Every unanswered question suddenly found its terrible answer. Every odd moment I'd swept under the rug came crashing back with sickening clarity. Every "adults are talking, this isn't for you" conversation. The arguments. The screaming. The words I didn't understand then but understand now. The strange places I was taken. The secretive meetings held about my future. The way certain people looked at me—not with love or protection, but with something else entirely.

Each memory cascaded into the next, a relentless flood of revelation that shattered everything I thought I knew about my childhood, my family, my life.

One of the most devastating realisations was this: my parents never loved me. Every hug, every kiss, every bedtime story—performance, not affection.

Because how do you love a child and allow these things to happen? How do you love a child and actively facilitate their abuse?

"How do you love a child and allow these things to happen? How do you love a child and actively facilitate their abuse?"

The Drives Home

How do you love a child and repeatedly expose them to sexually transmitted infections? How do you love a child and gamble with their chance of contracting HIV?

I used to get infections. Bleeding. Pain that no child should endure. No one took me to a doctor—not for sixteen years. Not unless I was unconscious in Turkey or bloodied from being attacked in a pub. That's when I was allowed medical care. Not before. Never for the injuries that mattered most.

At the end of each term at Malsis, I'd be collected by a Freemason—someone connected to my Masonic scholarship. Never the same man twice, or rarely the same. Just awkward men, barely speaking, fulfilling what was clearly an assigned duty. A four-and-a-half-hour drive home that always, inexplicably, took much longer.

We had sweets at school, technically, but they barely gave us any. The tuck shop was perpetually empty. So when I climbed into those cars and was offered a Coca-Cola and chocolate, I felt like the luckiest boy in the world. That's how it started. The drugs would take effect shortly after—sleeping pills initially, then GHB.

I'd sit quietly in the back seat, pull a blanket over my lap, and then begin touching myself. I was a child. I didn't understand why my body was responding this way, why these urges felt so overwhelming. The drugs created sensations and compulsions that felt inevitable rather than frightening. And then—nothing. Blackness. Lost time.

I always arrived back in Northamptonshire groggy and disoriented, walking straight up to bed without question.

There was one occasion when I was too chatty—too aware, perhaps. Something I said must have frightened the driver because he pulled over and abandoned me on the side of the motorway. I waited there for hours until someone driving home from work spotted me and called the police. I hadn't moved. I didn't know what else to do.

Whatever excuse my mother provided to the authorities then, I believed completely. Of course I did—I had blind faith in her. But now I understand exactly what that roadside abandonment was about. Just as I now recognise the meaning behind those men's lingering looks, their too-deliberate touches, the strange silences that filled those cars, the palpable tension I couldn't name as a child.

Earlier Fragments

Sometimes—before the school drives began—I would wake up in the boot of a car. Wrapped in a blanket, wearing corduroy shorts, knees pressed against my lips. I would rub my face against the fabric because it soothed me. Outside, there was shouting and screaming. Inside that boot, illuminated by a warm yellow light, I felt safer than I did in most other places.

That's how distorted everything had become. That's how far my normal had shifted from what any child should experience.

The System That Abandoned Me

The authorities have known about this for some time now. Of everything I've reported, they've investigated exactly one incident: a late-night visit to a service station with my mother. I used to tell people about these strange midnight trips, thinking they demonstrated something quirky and special about our relationship. Until I started remembering waking up in car boots and collapsing on walkways. Suddenly, those "adventures" made horrible sense.

The police supposedly investigated this location. Yet they returned with "No further action. No address"—despite two officers having previously shown me photographs of a distinctive walkway, asking if I recognised it. I did. They had the address. The Met Police made it glaringly obvious they had no intention of pursuing justice.

The other matter they briefly examined involved a man known as "Big Roy"—a Mason who used to visit our house. After speaking to my mother, they concluded he was "probably dead." Case closed.

My mother. The witness. The woman who arranged everything.

They claimed not to understand the fundamental conflict of interest in this approach. Either way, it was sufficient justification for them to abandon the investigation entirely.

The Turkey holiday? "Not in their jurisdiction." Another dead end by design.

"If I had stolen millions from a bank twenty years ago, would they dismiss it as 'historical'? But what about a child? What about a life destroyed?"

What About Justice?

If I had stolen millions from a bank twenty years ago, would they dismiss it as "historical"? Would they shrug and say, "Well, that was a long time ago"?

No. They would investigate relentlessly. They would follow every lead, interview every witness, examine every piece of evidence. Because money missing from a spreadsheet is worth pursuing.

But what about a child? What about a life destroyed? What about ongoing trauma that compounds daily?

From the moment my memories began returning, my case became urgently live again—real, ongoing, devastating. This isn't just about processing old trauma; it's about confronting new revelations daily. Every recovered memory, every fresh realisation multiplies the damage exponentially.

I'm in my forties, and I'm only just learning that "spiky poos" aren't normal. For decades, I believed my chronic rectal bleeding and pain were caused by poor diet—because that's what I was told. The shame of discovering how naive I was, how thoroughly I was deceived about my own body's trauma responses, cuts deeper than I can express. These aren't just childhood memories surfacing; they're ongoing realisations that shatter my understanding of reality.

As I've reached out to family members who were there, who witnessed what happened, I've encountered a wall of silence and obstruction. They actively prevent my access to my late father's storage unit—a location that might contain crucial evidence. Not a single relative has asked about my wellbeing or supported this investigation.

Most devastating of all: recent discoveries suggest the man I buried might not even be my biological father. The implications are staggering, and my family's terrified silence only confirms that they're hiding something massive.

I am ignored by police who refuse to investigate. Ignored by therapists with two-year waiting lists. Ignored by friends who fall silent when abuse is mentioned. Ignored by family members who knew and chose silence.

A wall of institutional and personal indifference surrounds me while pain, crimes, and revelations continue their relentless assault.

But here's what they don't understand: I'm not giving up. I have more fire, more determination than I've ever had in my life. I'm closer than I've ever been to uncovering everything, and I'm going to scream and shout and make as much noise as possible to destroy the silence my family is desperately trying to maintain.

They're hoping I'll give up or simply disappear. They won't get their wish.

I'm going to break that wall of silence and get answers. Not just for me but for every survivor who's been told their pain is "historical." I'm building a website, writing articles, creating art, doing whatever it takes to force change. Because this silence isn't just neglect. It's active complicity. It's abuse itself.

"I'm not giving up. I have more fire, more determination than I've ever had in my life. The silence ends now."

What Must Change

This isn't historical. This is an active wound hemorrhaging into every moment of my present, and the police's refusal to recognise this reality is fundamentally, disgracefully wrong.

We must radically shift our perspective on historical abuse. These crimes need to be treated with the urgency of ongoing abuse, with the immediacy of domestic violence happening right now. Because for survivors, that's exactly what it is—immediate, present, devastating.

We're not historians studying ancient events. We're human beings trying desperately to survive the ongoing impact of crimes that were committed against us as children. Every moment spent minimising our pain, dismissing our testimony, or bureaucratically categorising our trauma only deepens the damage and risks our lives.

The system must change. The law must evolve. Training must improve. Because trauma doesn't respect artificial timelines, and neither should justice.

This isn't historical. It's happening now. And now demands action.

If you're reading these words... If somehow this message has reached you, please know that means it is working. It means the silence is breaking. It means change is possible.

And if you're a survivor reading this, know that your voice matters. Your pain is real. Your truth deserves to be heard. Don't let anyone convince you that time makes injustice acceptable.

The silence ends now.

About the Author:

Fenn Jester is a London-based artist and writer exploring the aftermath of abuse with unflinching honesty. Through theshadow.works and their creative platform fennj.com, Fenn harnesses a mix of personal history, visual storytelling, and technology to transform trauma into something arresting, sometimes uncomfortable, often beautiful, always real. Their work doesn’t aim to soothe. It aims to confront, provoke, and carve meaning out of what was never meant to be survivable.

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