Enough is enough

As women across the country hear the news of the tragic death of Sarah Everard, they are absolutely heartbroken. Not because she was a personal friend, but because she was one of them. And because what happened to her was so cruel, so unfair, and should never have happened. And those women know that, for the sake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, it could have happened to any one of them. But it didn’t. It happened to Sarah. And she was just trying to get home.

We all know Sarah did the right things, the same things she would have done a thousand times before. The things she did every single time she walked home alone. We know because we do those things too. Every single woman. Every time we walk home alone. Every. Single. Time. The text message to say ‘I’m leaving. I should be home in 10 minutes’, the keys held firmly between knuckles as a potential weapon, the long hair tucked in so it can’t be grabbed, wearing the shoes we know we can run in if we have to, the fake phone call to the fake boyfriend, the real phone call to the real parent, the hand on the bottle of spray perfume in our pocket, the deliberate leaving of a hair on the taxi seat as potential DNA evidence, the constant scanning, the exhausting, exhausting hypervigilance. We’ve all done them. And we’ve mostly got home safe. And we so desperately wish Sarah had too.

Over the last few days, social media has been filled with women’s experiences of feeling unsafe on their own at night, or even during the day. There are thousands of stories. Thousands. And all so eerily similar. We all have at least one. And here’s mine.

I was 16. I’d been out with a friend, just having some innocent fun in the arcades in the seaside town I grew up in. Trying to get a high score on Asteroids, singing along to Spandau Ballet playing on the loudspeaker, chatting to friends who worked in the seafront cafes. But it was late. We should be getting home. My friend lived in a different part of town from me, so we couldn’t go home together. But I only lived 10 minutes away. If I walked quickly, I’d be safely home in no time.

So which way should I go? It was late and it was dark. I suddenly felt nervous. And there I was, at 16 years old, standing on a dark street corner, weighing up which route I should take that would give me the best chance of getting home alive. Sixteen. The direct route was quicker, but I’d have to go past the railway line and under two dark bridges. The second choice was to go past the graveyard. My third option was to take the more circuitous route along the high street. It would take slightly longer, but it was lit up most of the way and, although the shops were shut, McDonalds would still be open so there would hopefully be people around. It seemed the safest choice, so I decided to go that way.

It was lit, there were a few people. But I still walked quickly. I just wanted to get home. As I got towards the end of the high street, there were fewer street lights and it became slightly darker. On the path some way head of me, in the half-light I could see a man leaning on some railings, as if they were holding him up. And suddenly I felt it. The same feeling every woman has felt at some point. The inner alarm goes off. You go into fight or flight mode. You must protect yourself at all costs and the innate self-preservation kicks in.

I walked into the empty road to make sure I gave him a very wide berth. He looked incapacitated. If I just kept walking quickly and didn’t make eye contact, maybe I’d be okay. I got past him, but I still felt uneasy. Then I heard them. The footsteps behind me. It was him. I didn’t feel safe. I kept walking. The footsteps got closer. Don’t acknowledge him. Keep walking. But he’d caught up with me. There he was, walking beside me, shoulder to shoulder, at the same pace as me. I kept walking and hoped he’d go away. He didn’t. He was silent at first, just walking next to me, making his presence felt. Then he spoke. He asked me an inane question. I didn’t answer. He asked it again, and again, how many times, I don’t remember. He wasn’t going to go away. I had to do something.

By now I was out of the high street and the people had gone. It was just me and him. Instinct took over and I shouted at him to leave me alone. Next thing I know he’d got his hands round my throat. He was strangling me. He pushed me down a short alleyway between two buildings. At the end was a wall. The force of him pushing me was so great that I hit my head on the wall. His hands were still round my throat and I was struggling to get away. I don’t remember how long this went on for or exactly what happened. I do remember thinking about my family, sitting at home, a home that was just a few minutes’ walk from there, but at this moment felt a lifetime away. I didn’t know if I’d ever see them again.

Instinct is funny. You fight for your life. You have to survive. You scream. What’s funnier is that I had laryngitis that day. I’d lost my voice and could barely speak. But instinct is a powerful thing. I don’t know where that voice came from, but in that moment I found it from somewhere deep inside of me, and I screamed. ‘Help me! Somebody help me!’ I remember the words clearly. They’re the words that came out. They sound like something from a cheesy film. Who really shouts out those words in real life? Me. I shouted them. I had to. During the struggle I remember looking up and seeing a man in the distance who’d stopped across the other side of the road. But he wasn’t doing anything. Could he see me? Scream again. ‘Help me! Somebody help me!’

A window opened in the building next to the alley. A woman in a nightie called down. I don’t remember what she said. My attacker let go of my throat. He ran away. The coward ran away. Just gone. Into the darkness. For ever.

The woman came down. All I could say to her was that my shoes had come off. I had to find my shoes. They were my school shoes and I’d be in trouble if I lost them. I was in shock. I found my shoes. The woman took me up to her flat. I remember I sat on her sofa and she gave me a glass of water. That’s all I remember. I chatted to her for a bit, then she put a coat on over her nightie and she walked me home. She knew he was still out there, but she walked me home. I remember chatting to her on the way. I think I even laughed. I was in shock. The woman told me I had to wake my mum up when I got in. I had to tell her what had happened. I had to phone the police. I had to. This woman was kind. She saved me. She was my angel. She still is today, because I don’t know if I’d still be here if she hadn’t opened that window. I hope she got home okay. I hope she knows how grateful I am to her, because I’ve never had a chance to say thank you. Thank you.

She took me safely to my front door. I closed the door behind me, leaned against it and cried. And cried and cried. I went straight to the house phone. I dialled 999, asked for the police, gave my name and said ‘I’d like to report someone being attacked.’ I remember the female voice on the other end of the line asking ‘Rachel, was it you who got attacked?’ I said yes. I cried again. I felt so stupid.

The police came round. I sat with a nice female officer and told her what happened. I told her about him. I gave a description of him. I left my story in the capable hands of the police. I hoped I’d hear from them. It’s more than 30 years later. I still haven’t heard.

Then there’s my coat. I took my clothes off. As I took my coat off I saw a hair on it. My hair was long and dark. This hair was short. It was blonde, but had a dark root, as if the bleach was growing out. The man who attacked me had blonde hair with dark roots. It was his hair. A piece of him was on my coat. A piece of him was inside my house. I was finally home in my safe haven and I still couldn’t get away from him. I remember shrieking at my mum that she had to wash my coat. He was on my coat. She had to wash him off. I loved my coat. And he had ruined it. I didn’t know if I could ever wear it again.

And so it began. Contamination OCD. My now constant companion. My fear of being contaminated by others. By their hair, their sweat, their germs, their dirt or their evil. Particularly their evil. I carry my OCD with me every day, avoiding contamination, washing my hands, not touching anything that belongs to people I don’t like. He was bad. He contaminated me. I can’t let that happen again. And all over one small hair. The tiniest of things. I sometimes think about it. Short. Yellow at one end, brown at the other. He wouldn’t have missed it. He didn’t know he went home without it that night or that it was on my coat. It wouldn’t have affected him. But it’s affected me for more than 30 years.

Equally, he might not even have remembered attacking me when he woke up the next morning. Or even half an hour after he’d done it. He might have been so intoxicated with whatever substance he’d taken that it was all a vague blur. Maybe he woke up next to his lovely wife and stroked her face with the same hands he’d had around my throat the night before. Maybe he genuinely didn’t remember what he’d done when he happily made breakfast for his children the next morning. Maybe he was a nice bloke who’d never do the sort of thing that happened to me that night. Maybe.

Maybe he’s thought about it every day since. Maybe it haunts him. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he did it again to another young girl the next night. Maybe he’s now in prison for doing the same or worse to someone else. Maybe, as the therapist I spoke to only recently about what he did to me 30 years ago said, he’s not even around any more. Who knows?

All I know is that it happened. And I was lucky. I got home. I’m still here now to tell the tale. Sarah Everard isn’t.

So I’ll continue to hold my keys between my knuckles, text my female friends to see if they’ve got home yet and leave a light outside my front door in memory of Sarah and of all the women who weren’t as lucky as me. Until change happens, what more can we do?