by Gemma Rogers
He slipped inside a betting shop and I paused, not knowing what to do. I’d never been in a betting shop before. I couldn’t follow him in. Instead, I hung around outside, a safe distance across the way. Staring into an estate agent’s window opposite, not looking at the properties but rather the reflection of the betting shop across the street. When he came out, he stood pushing a wodge of money or slips into his wallet. I turned to face him, and our eyes met briefly before he turned and walked away. I thought I might be sick and sucked in air to avoid bringing up my lunch. It wasn’t him, even from this distance I could see his eyes were wrong. They weren’t flat and lifeless, and the wrong colour too. My blood fizzed, rushing around my body, heart pumping at speed. I’d never felt so terrified.
20
Tuesday 24 October 2017
A week later I was still struggling with mistaking the man in the street. Now unsure of my plan to find him; the idea scared me. Despite being terrified of the moment we would come face to face, I continued to wait out in the park at various times during the daylight hours, wrapped up on the same bench, pretending to read. Even on Sunday morning too. It was eerie being there the same time it happened, but he didn’t appear. Searching for him gave me a purpose. I was clinging on to the fact I would find him, and things could go back to the way they were. I would feel safer once he was off the streets.
Jessica and I had finished our handover on Friday and I was now officially free. She was a smart cookie and Stuart, if he stayed, would be lucky to have her. I was going to look into getting some temp work lined up once my notice period finished to keep the money coming in. I’d had a last look around the Drive offices before sneaking out. I hated goodbyes and was happy to slip away anonymously. Stuart offered to take me out for lunch, but I’d declined. No one was in a celebratory mood with the redundancy process still ongoing for some. I did meet Debbie for a final cigarette before I left. We would keep in touch. I needed all the friends I had.
I could tell Ben was avoiding me. We weren’t often in the flat at the same time and days had passed without us holding a conversation that consisted of more than a few words. He wasn’t spending much time at home either. The fridge was too full, the steaks I’d bought, just in case, were running towards their use-by date. Now relegated to the confines of the freezer. There were no cereal bowls left on the side, no sugar spilt over the worktop near the kettle and the teabag cannister was still full. I must have upset him, but he was never around long enough for me to clear the air. Yesterday I’d sent him a text asking if he was all right, and did he want to go for a drink? He took an hour to respond, apologising, he’d been busy with work and maybe we could next week. He didn’t sound like his normal self, the text seemed stiff and unnatural.
I desperately missed him being around, the flat was lifeless and empty, mirroring my hollow insides. Maybe he thought I was a lost cause, or I wasn’t interested in helping myself? Perhaps me pulling away from him ruined any chance of friendship between us?
I continued to go to the boxing club for self-imposed training and jogged there and back without the need to slow down and walk. The trainers had made a real difference and I bought some chocolate flavoured protein powder from the health food shop. The intention was to have one for breakfast every morning. My fitness levels had improved and for fun I’d screwed a chin-up bar in the door frame of the lounge. Chuffed I’d manage to fit it myself. Lifting your own body weight was difficult to do, but so far, I’d managed five in a row.
Jason hadn’t been around for a while. I trained in the afternoons and I think he did the mornings and evenings. He didn’t ask me out, which saved an awkward conversation. Was Ben telling the truth about that? Instead, we’d chatted about the exercises I was doing, and he commented on the definition already showing in my shoulders and arms. He offered to dig me out the books he’d studied whilst he completed his personal training qualification. He was cagey when it came to talking about Ben, which gave me the feeling he’d confided in his mate about what went on between us.
The psychiatrist’s appointment was at three in the afternoon. Initially I had been determined to cancel, stewing over it all week. I couldn’t see how it was going to benefit me. Ben had been the one to change my mind about going, although not by anything he’d said. If I went to the appointment it would show him I was trying.
I sat in a bright orange comfy chair across from the doctor, who was a tall dark-haired Mediterranean looking woman wearing a tight fitting shift dress. She perched, what looked like uncomfortably, on the edge of her chair. Her legs angled, knees pressed together with a notepad resting on her lap. My first impression was that she looked high maintenance.
The room was small but welcoming, decorated in warm autumnal colours. In between us was a coffee table, a glass dish of yellow boiled sweets and the obligatory box of tissues on top. I was determined not to use them.
‘Eve, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Doctor Almara.’ She leant forward and offered me her hand to shake. I grudgingly obliged.
‘How can I help?’
I shrugged like a sulky teenager and crossed my arms. She didn’t react, her smile remained fixed, waiting for me to answer until the silence became uncomfortable.
‘I don’t know,’ I said eventually.
‘Why don’t we start with why you visited the doctors? What preceded the referral to me?’ She must have known why. Doctors exchanged information, didn’t they?
‘I was struggling with anxiety, having trouble sleeping,’ I said, unable to meet her gaze.
‘Why do you think you were experiencing anxiety and problems sleeping?’ Maybe she didn’t know?
‘I was raped.’ It came out like a whisper and my eyes welled. I concentrated on my nails, picking at the skin surrounding them. Determined not to cry.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Eve. When did this happen?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘Okay, do you feel able to talk about the attack itself?’
I sniffed, blinking away my tears as the image of being forced over the bin flashed into my mind.
‘No.’ I coughed.
‘I understand. How have you been feeling since the attack?’ Did she really ask me that?
‘Terrified, revolted, unclean, I feel sick to my stomach when I think about what he did to me,’ I snapped. This was a waste of time.
‘It’s completely normal to have all of those feelings after such a violation. I see Doctor Sola prescribed you a low dose of diazepam, has that helped?’
‘Not really. I have mood swings. One day I think I’m fine, but then I feel so fucking angry all the time,’ I blurted.
‘Angry at whom?’
‘At him, at the police, at myself.’
‘Why at yourself?’
I could feel the flush creep up from my chest, my neck turning blotchy. Unable to hide my emotion.
‘Because I didn’t fight back. I was too scared, because he had a knife.’
‘It sounds like you were in self-preservation mode, Eve. You were assessing the situation and doing what you could to save your own life.’ I hadn’t thought of it like that. ‘Are you experiencing any other emotions?’
I didn’t want to talk about it, but I had to try. I needed to try for Ben.
‘Shame. Guilt. Disgust,’ I sobbed. She’d broken me with a few words and a gentle push. It had all spilled out. I reached for a tissue.
‘Tell me where the shame comes from?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps shame is the wrong word, but I feel tainted. I don’t know how I’ll manage, I mean, when someone touches me.’
‘Someone you want to touch you?’ she clarified.
Yes. Ben, when Ben touches me I want to be okay with it.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘I think that will take time and when you choose to let it happen you must feel ready. It must be your decision. It would help if this person knew why intimacy could be an issue.’
I blew my nose. The sound echoe
d around the room. Her face was a mask and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
‘Is there a partner at home?’ she probed.
I shook my head.
‘Okay, tell me about the guilt,’ she continued.
I sighed, not wanting to get into it.
‘There’s elements of the case I feel guilty about. Things I could have done to help the police.’
‘It’s their job to catch him. The responsibility doesn’t lie with you.’
I nodded. Still the weight of it remained upon my shoulders.
‘Has anyone spoken to you about Victim Support, they run groups and workshops in the area where you can meet with people who have been through similar experiences.’
‘The detective on my case mentioned it.’
She slid a red leaflet out of her notebook and handed it to me. I held it in my lap. I had no intention of joining any kind of support group. Sitting around in a circle, telling complete strangers what I’d been through? It wasn’t for me. I was not going to allow myself to be his victim.
‘Who have you got at home? Do you live with your parents or on your own?’
‘No, I have a flatmate, Ben.’
‘Are you close?’
‘Close-ish.’
‘Have you told him what happened to you?’
‘Yes, he knows.’
‘What about other friends. Do you have a support network you can turn to when you need it?’
‘My best friend, Jane, isn’t too far away, but my mum lives in Norfolk.’
Dr Almara stood and turned to a cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘Would you like some water?’
‘Please.’
She poured two glasses and brought them back to the coffee table.
‘How would you like me to try and help you, Eve?’
‘I want to get rid of the rage,’ I admitted.
‘Okay, let’s focus on that for this session. We could work on some relaxation techniques? Tell me, are you exercising at the moment?’
‘Yes, I run and box most days.’
‘That’s good. How about keeping a diary or journal? I think it would be beneficial to have a creative outlet. Music, writing, painting, these enable you to focus your energy in a positive way and allow the expression of anger without harming yourself or others.’
‘I could try, I used to draw a lot when I was younger.’
Maybe Ben was right. At the end of my session, I was lighter and couldn’t wait to tell him the news. I had another appointment with Dr Almara in two weeks and she hoped I may be able to talk more about the event. Talking about trauma was the first step in helping to heal, she said.
I floated home, feeling positive, until I passed the park and saw my sign had been removed. Did this mean my case had been closed? It seemed like it’d been ages since I heard from Detective Emmerson. Had they just given up? Become reliant on him striking again, hoping he’d leave something behind? I couldn’t wait for that.
As I put my key in the front door, I heard noises in the hallway. I shoved it open, locking eyes with Ben, who was coming out of his room. I smiled, wanting to tell him where I’d been; how I was taking my first steps in the healing process. His eyes widened and then he looked away.
‘Hi Ben,’ I said, suddenly unsure of myself. Then I saw what he was holding in his hand. He was pulling along a suitcase.
21
Tuesday 24 October 2017
‘Where are you going?’ My voice was more of a whimper and I hated myself for it. I sounded weak and needy.
‘I’ve got a training course at work. It’s to renew my SIA card. It’s a security thing, a licence. It’s only five days in Manchester. I’ll be back on Sunday,’ Ben grimaced.
‘Okay. When you get back can we talk?’ I sighed inwardly, grateful he wasn’t leaving for good.
‘Sure.’ He walked past me, dragging his case, head bowed.
‘I’ll miss you. It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages. Not properly.’
He whipped around, irritation flashing across his face. I took a step back, my body reacting on instinct.
‘My head is all over the place, Eve. I don’t know what you want from me?’ His annoyance dissipated, features softened.
‘I’m sorry. I went to see the shrink today,’ I blurted, as if that was going to make it all better.
‘That’s great, Eve, it’ll do you good. We’ll talk when I get back. I’ve got to go, I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Okay.’ I watched Ben walk past me and out of the door, heard the key turn in the lock before crumpling in a heap on the floor.
This had to stop. My life had been messed with enough, I had to take back control. I was going to find him. Now.
I spent eight hours over the course of the next three days sat in in the same spot, in the park, waiting for him to appear. No one that resembled his height, build or swagger came past. The weather had taken a turn for the worst and I rarely saw anyone other than dog walkers. No one else wanted to come out in the rain. I took to running laps of the park to relieve the frustration and at the club I punched the bag until one of my knuckles split, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
I’d hoped to spend the weekend with Jane for her birthday. I called her on Friday wishing her happy birthday. Thinking that perhaps I’d be brave enough to make the trip to Balham. To get away and go out for drinks to celebrate. When I caught her, she’d just finished work and was on her way home to pack. Apprehensive to tell me her doctor friend had booked a weekend away to Bath and she was leaving in a couple of hours. Could we postpone birthday drinks until next weekend? I was happy for her, it was about time someone treated her well. But I couldn’t help feeling disappointed not to see her.
Saturday 28 October 2017
On Saturday morning, I decided attempting a three mile run would make more difference to my mental health than being sat on a park bench, freezing cold, for another pointless stake-out. As I pounded the pavement, every time my feet made contact, my shoulders loosened a little more. I would run until my legs stopped working. Some of the houses I passed already had Halloween decorations in their windows or carved pumpkins outside. I loved their ghoulish designs.
Without paying much attention to my route, I jogged down the road which ran parallel to the park; intending to do a loop of the town. My muscles ached, but the pain was addictive. It made me push harder and run faster. I was thrilled with the level of fitness I’d achieved in such a short space of time. Running was addictive. I sucked in air like fuel, panting hard, focusing on the horizon. I was in the zone, my arms pumping to a steady rhythm.
A hundred yards ahead, in the distance, a man was walking along the same stretch of pavement. I slowed as I watched him. A stitch stabbing at my side. There was something about the way he moved that seemed vaguely familiar. He kept stopping and starting, like he was waiting to run a race and had gone before the gun fired.
The back of my neck prickled, and my legs came to such an abrupt stop, but momentum carried me forward and I smacked onto the pavement. My chin hit the concrete, but my hands saved the rest of my face from the same fate. Despite my collision with the ground, I kept the man in view. He glanced around, not appearing to notice me flat on the pavement.
I stood up, looking into the horizon, he was walking again. Who was that ahead of him? Was he following someone? I shuddered and shook my head, my vision blurring. Was I really seeing this? He stopped, and I flattened myself to the side of a Range Rover, watching him look up and down the street numerous times. What was he searching for? He raised his arms and slipped on a hat before stepping into the road, out of sight.
My breathing quickened. I had to move. Was it him? Palpitations rippled through my chest. Scrambling to my feet, I strained my eyes and stood on tiptoes, searching for him above the line of parked cars in the distance, sparks shooting around my legs. He’d disappeared. I ran, making strides to catch up to where I saw him cross the road. A couple of cars passed as I approached, and I sl
owed to a walk, creeping along the side of parked cars.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes with trembling fingers. I could see him again. He was standing in front of something crouched on the ground. Or was it someone? Cornered against a fence? Brown timber ran along the side of a driveway, a vehicle sized gap in between the houses, the grassy trail leading to the garages of the properties on the right-hand side. A perfect spot not to be noticed. I stood, frozen, yards away. He had his back to me. Not as tall as I remembered, five foot six, maybe seven, but he was stocky. Was it him? His head turned slightly. It wasn’t a hat at all, but the balaclava. Fuck! It was him. I’d found him. Who else was there?
I fought the urge to run and crouched down on the ground. I had no way to disguise myself. What if he recognised me? Another car went past. Oblivious to what was going on just out of sight of the road. I didn’t have my cap, but I was wearing a hoody. I pulled it over my head, tucking in my hair.
Peeking around the car, I saw a flash of blonde hair as he pulled someone up to stand, bright against his dark clothes. Holy shit, there was a girl. He was going to do it again. Adrenaline charged around my system, nerves firing. I had to do something, but I couldn’t move, my head swimming. If I called the police, they wouldn’t get here in time. I had to stop him now. I had to stop him doing to her what he did to me.
Cold sweat trickled down my back, pooling at the waistband of my leggings. The waistband. I always ran with my rape alarm. Ducking behind the car, shielding myself from view, I pulled the compact alarm out from my trousers and pushed the button as hard as I could. Nothing happened. My hands were slippery with sweat and it was stiff, not wanting to give. After a few failed attempts, I felt it go. An intense shrill siren filled the air. The sound was deafening, and I dropped the alarm under the car to cover my ears.
