by Gemma Rogers
Sunday 24 September 2017
I tried to stand, but my knees gave way and I hit the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Pulling myself up on the handle of the back door of the café, I gingerly edged my jeans up my legs, repositioning my knickers that were almost torn in two. Legs damp with urine but not obvious on the dark denim. My striped shirt, dirty and torn at the shoulder. A couple of buttons had come undone and my fingers fumbled to do them up, covering my bra. I felt bruised and sore, the denim crotch grating my skin with each step. Everything moved in slow motion as I made my way around the side of the café to find my bag on the ground untouched. I gathered my purse, phone and other items, stuffing them inside before stumbling back across the field, the way I’d come no more than ten minutes before. My attacker nowhere to be seen. The park empty, the only noise the squawking of the crows still devouring their breakfast.
It was surreal, like I’d had too much to drink. In my head I wanted to run as fast as I could, get away, but my limbs wouldn’t respond. They moved sluggishly across the field and back to the road. I drifted out onto the residential street. A couple of cars drove past and a woman across the road trotted along, she looked as though she’d been to the petrol station for milk. Her blue carrier bag swinging at her side. I stopped and stared at her. Hoping she would notice me, see the tears streaming down my cheeks, blurring my vision but she didn’t even turn. Over my left shoulder, I caught a man with springer spaniel slipping into the park. He passed without so much as a second glance. I wanted to scream ‘where the fuck were you when I needed you?’ The injustice of it burned in the pit of my stomach. It was all so normal out here. I’d been violated, just feet away, and the world hadn’t stopped. Everyone just carried on.
Clinging to a lamp post, I vomited bile on the kerb. I couldn’t think straight. Where could I go? What should I do?
I stumbled towards home in a daze. The ten minute journey seemed to take forever, and no one stopped to ask if I was all right. I unlocked the door to my flat and fell across the threshold. The relief overwhelming. Pulling myself up to double-lock the door, I was finally safe. Across the hall was the bedroom of my lodger, Ben. I knocked on it. When he didn’t answer straight away, I banged until the door flew open. He stood there in tattered football shorts, yawning.
‘What the fuck, Eve?’ Rubbing his eyes, he hitched up his waistband, sitting precariously low on his hips, before focusing on my face. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you? Are you hurt? Your face!’
I couldn’t speak of it. Not yet.
He looked me up and down, the front of my shirt blackened from the bin, a gaping hole at the shoulder. Face tear-stained and bloody; I must have looked a fright.
‘Can I have a joint?’ I mumbled.
Ben smoked pot occasionally – medicinally, according to him. He’d dislocated his knee a couple of years ago playing football and every now and then it would get inflamed. Apparently, it was better than any ibuprofen you could buy over the counter, for soothing the flare-ups.
He disappeared into his dark room, a musty smell emanated from within and I stepped back. My stomach threatened to heave, but then he was back at the door handing me a perfectly rolled joint. I was relieved, I wouldn’t have had the first clue how to roll one.
‘Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call someone?’ he asked.
‘I just need to be alone,’ I mumbled, unable to look him in the eyes.
Ben nodded, his face full of concern as he watched me head into the bathroom.
I had to remove every trace of him from me. I filled the bath and double-checked the door was locked before peeling away my clothes, discarding the pile in the corner behind the washing basket. They weren’t to be washed, they were to be burnt, forever tainted. Blood spotted the crotch of my jeans, and I sobbed, unable to tear my eyes away.
The water was as hot as I could stand it. Lowering into the heat, the stinging from below making me wince, I scrubbed until my skin was raw. Erasing every trace of him. But no matter how hard I scoured, the soiled feeling remained.
I flinched as water splashed my face. I’d forgotten about my cheek. Grabbing Ben’s shaving mirror from the sink, I inspected the damage. My cheek was crusted with dried blood and dirt. Tinged yellow from the painted bricks. It hurt like hell but was only a graze. I dabbed at the wound with a flannel until it appeared cleaner and lay submerged as the water grew tepid. I could hear my phone ringing inside my bag; for the fourth time. It had to be Jane, wondering where I was, she would be waiting at the station for me, confused as to why I hadn’t arrived. I needed to answer her.
I climbed out of the bath and took my bag into my bedroom. Leaving my towel on the floor, I shuffled into my pyjamas. The familiar smell of washing powder comforting. Unable to stop shivering, I wrapped my duvet around myself. Digging my phone out of my bag and brushing off the debris, I saw I had eight missed calls and two texts. All from Jane. I sent her a message.
Have to cancel. Attacked on the way to the station. Can’t talk now. Will ring later. x
Twenty seconds later, my phone was ringing persistently again. Jane would have read that and be in a panic, but I couldn’t talk about it, not yet.
I lit the joint Ben had given me and inhaled, coughing it out. I never smoked pot, but I wanted to be out of it. I couldn’t deal with what had happened. I held the smoke in, so the buzz came fast, and let myself drift into oblivion. I needed to feel numb. I smoked half, staring at my book collection in a jumble on the floor. Colours and titles blurred into each other. I must get some shelves. Who was I kidding? I barely knew one end of a drill from the other.
I lay down and switched off my phone. I wanted to drift away and forget it all. I knew I had to call the police, report there was a sexual predator on the loose, but it would have to wait.
The balaclava crept into my dream. His soulless eyes penetrated me, lip curled into a smirk, mocking my terror…
When I woke, there were a few blissful seconds of ignorance until my cheek throbbed and the memory of this morning crashed in. The room was dim. What time was it? Had I slept all day? My stomach groaned; I’d not eaten since yesterday. All was quiet, Ben must have already left for work. His job as a Security Manager involved working twelve hour shifts on rotation, often at the weekend.
I went into the kitchen, surprised to see the time on the oven, it was seven in the evening. I prayed there would be milk in the fridge. I badly needed a cup of tea; my lips were beginning to crack.
The smell of food hung in the air, making me salivate. Ben had cooked. I peeked in the microwave and saw he had left me a bowl inside with a note – ‘Call me’. He was the best. Pesto pasta, a little congealed, but I was so hungry I’d eat anything. I wolfed it down and the hunger pains subsided. Normally I was the tidy one out of the two of us, but I left my plate in the sink. Ben wouldn’t mind, not today. I scribbled ‘THANKS’ in large capital letters on the note before making tea and returning to the sanctuary of my room. Safe and warm in there, cocooned in my duvet, I smoked the rest of the joint, knowing it would help me sleep some more.
What would I do tomorrow? There was no way I was going into the office. I worked as an assistant in a small marketing department of a distribution company called Drive. It was my job to organise photo shoots and write press releases. I enjoyed it, especially the creativity it allowed, but the thought of going into work filled me with dread. I could ask Ben to ring in for me in the morning, but it would mean I’d have to tell him what had happened, and I wasn’t sure I could. I knew I had to tell the police. If he attacked someone else, I’d never forgive myself.
4
Sunday 28 January 2018
When they come to take me to interview I’ve lost all sense of time. How long has it been since I was cautioned? A portly sergeant had stood at the front desk and held my forearm as he spoke. He had a lisp and spittle flew from his mouth as he struggled to enunciate each word. I averted my eyes to the clock behind the desk which read 1.05 a.
m.
‘Rose Harding, I am arresting you on suspicion of grievous bodily harm. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He looked me over, his mouth pulled into a grimace. My slight frame, my eye, the bruises. I know I look weak. It’s going to be my advantage.
Before I was taken to the custody suite, I was offered legal representation and within twenty minutes a skinny man with wire-rimmed glasses and a bald head knocks on the heavy door. He’s let in, introduces himself as Terry Deacon and asks me to run through the events of last night. As I tell him, he barely glances in my direction, there’s no flicker of emotion as I explain what I’ve been through. No doubt he’s heard it all before; I’m just another legal-aid case, a tick in the box. He flicks through a file of papers and advises me to respond ‘no comment’ to all questions.
We sit in the interview room and the detective switches the recorder on. He is heavy-set, I would guess in his late fifties, with unkempt ash blond hair, and looks like he has just rolled out of bed. Shirt crumpled, with a tie sat clumsily to the left. Someone should tell him; I’m surprised his colleague hasn’t. A female detective sits beside him, she looks to be in her late thirties and in stark contrast is immaculately presented. Her crisp blouse collar, ice white and starched, is standing to attention. Chestnut hair pulled back into a tight bun, stiff with hairspray. I sense she has something to prove. She smiles at me and when she does her face softens as she slides the coffee I was offered across the table. I need it to stay awake now the adrenaline has left my system.
‘Right, Rose, I think we’re ready to start.’ The male detective clears his throat and announces the date and time, occupants of the room – he is Detective Gary Hicks and she is Detective Sarah Becker – as well as stating the recording is taking place at Sutton police station.
‘Call me Eve,’ I say. No one calls me Rose now, not since my father died.
Hicks nods his head. ‘Eve, I’m afraid there have been some developments since you were brought to the station. Unfortunately, Mr Shaw has died as a result of his injuries, so we have to re-arrest you on a different charge. Do you understand?’
I hang my head. I don’t want my eyes to betray me, so I nod.
‘For the purpose of the recording, Eve has nodded her head,’ Becker says. She lays a cold hand upon my wrist, I flinch but meet her gaze. Her eyes flash a glimpse of compassion and mine brim with tears on cue.
I’m read my rights for the second time.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder…’ And so, it begins.
Monday 25 September 2017
The police tapped so lightly on the front door, I didn’t hear them at first. Floorboards creaking on the landing outside caught my attention, and my skin prickled. Opening the door a crack, I saw the uniform and my shoulders relaxed. It was early in the morning, around seven. I’d tossed and turned all night, images of him invading my thoughts. Was he getting ready to go out and find another victim? My conscience berated me for not reporting it yesterday. Eventually, I gave in and made the call to the police. They arrived within the hour and two female officers sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. One of the officers, a redhead with freckles, wore the uniform. The other, with blonde shoulder length hair, was higher ranking and wore a smart navy trouser suit. I sat opposite them, smoking one of Ben’s cigarettes from a packet left on the kitchen table. Trembling hands betrayed my composure. I didn’t want to relive it all over again but made sure my voice remained steady as I recalled the events of yesterday morning, explaining I had been raped on my way to the train station.
They both took notes, showing concern but maintaining their professionalism. The uniformed officer looked like she was trying to capture my words in their entirety. Her hand flew across the page like lightning, seizing every detail.
‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’
I shook my head. I didn’t want my mother to know. She wouldn’t be any help, over a hundred miles away, and there was no point in upsetting her. She was in a fragile state most of the time when she was sober anyway. She and my father had moved to Norfolk to retire five years ago. Giving me the deposit for the flat and helping to arrange the mortgage before they left. I think they felt guilty, leaving me behind on my own, no siblings to rely on, but I didn’t want to go with them. Leave my job and my friends to move to a new town and start all over again. They’d barely been there a year when my dad had a heart attack and died. Mum turned to alcohol to cope. I tried to get her to come back, to move in with me, but she didn’t want to leave the home she shared with Dad, however briefly.
‘Would you be able to give us the clothes you were wearing yesterday?’ the uniformed officer asked; slipping on latex gloves and placing a clear plastic bag on the table.
I retrieved the clothes from the bathroom, where they remained untouched, and placed them inside the bag she held open.
‘You’ve not washed them?’
I shook my head. It sickened me to touch them. The sight repulsed me, which was infuriating as they were my favourite pair of jeans. I could never wear them again.
‘Great. Thank you. Now, would you be able to come into the station? We have an examination suite there. I can get a doctor to look you over, collect any evidence the perpetrator may have left behind. It can be vital when securing a conviction.’
‘I’ve had a bath,’ I admitted.
The blonde’s face betrayed a flicker of disappointment.
‘Well, it’s worth a try. Do you think you would be able to show us where it took place?’
My chest tightened. I never wanted to go back there again.
The front door opened, and seconds later Ben walked into the kitchen. No doubt hearing unusual voices and wanting to investigate. He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway when he saw the uniform and blood drained from his face.
‘My flatmate, Ben,’ I said by way of an introduction.
They stood from the table and I followed.
‘Eve, do you want to get your bag and coat?’ the detective asked, and I obediently collected them from my room.
‘She won’t be long, just going to pop to the station.’
‘Do you want me to pick you up?’ Ben asked.
I looked first at him and then the detective.
‘No, it’s fine, we’ll drop her back.’
‘You look after her, Ben,’ the uniformed officer continued, sizing him up. It was more of a command than a request.
‘Of course,’ Ben stammered and stood aside to let them pass, pulling on his ear.
They ushered me out of the door and down to the car.
I sat in the back, listening to the women discuss where to go first. It was decided the park and my stomach churned the closer we got.
Walking through the entrance and across the field made me feel sick, my entire body shook, the jacket I’d brought doing little to keep me warm. Every muscle tensed as I neared the spot; I wanted to run away. When we reached the café, it was business as usual. A group of children came bouncing out of the door, each clutching a Mr Whippy ice cream. Too innocent for this place. I looked around, searching every face. Was he here? Enjoying watching me relive the nightmare? I pointed to the rear of the building, not willing to go around the back and see where it had happened. It was already burnt into my memory. Images I would never erase.
Detective Sergeant Emmerson, who gave me her card whilst we were in the car, took notes on a pocket-sized pad and indicated for the uniformed officer to radio for the scenes of crime officers. Then she left me outside whilst she talked to the café owners about closing for the day. The look of horror on the face of the plump woman in an apron made my eyes well up and I had to turn away.
Within minutes, more officers arrived and were cordoning off the area. I was taken back to the car. The police station wasn’t far. Inside the entrance was a short corridor with a thick metal do
or at the end. The front desk was to the right, cased in protective glass. It smelt stale and musty. As soon as we arrived, I was escorted into the ‘rape suite’. A female doctor who looked too young to be practising explained that she would take samples of my saliva, urine, blood and pubic hair to keep as evidence and in the hope any DNA could be found. Her voice apologetic as she told me vaginal and rectal swabs would also need to be taken. As she moved through the process, I felt numb, only wincing when she got to the internal examination and collection.
‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s uncomfortable. I’ll try and be as quick as I can,’ she said gently as all my muscles tensed and I fought the urge to snap my legs shut. Unable to conceal the tears streaming down my cheeks, I looked away at the wall and bit the inside of my cheek until it bled. Once I was fully dressed, I sat at her desk as she wrote up my notes. The doctor gave me emergency contraception to take and advised me to get tested for STDs as soon as possible.
‘I’m sure he wore a condom,’ I mumbled.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ she replied. as she wrote up my notes.
Exhausted, I wanted to go home, but I had to give my statement first. I was escorted to an interview room where Detective Emmerson waited.
‘Thank you for your time this morning, Eve. I imagine it’s not been easy. Can I get you anything to drink before we start?’
‘No, thank you.’ I wrapped my arms around myself.
‘Okay. Ready to start?’ I nodded.
‘How would you describe your attacker?’
‘He was taller than me, around five seven, I think. I didn’t see his face.’
