by Gemma Rogers
‘Eve, are you all right in there?’ Ian was the other side of the door.
‘I’m okay, I just feel a bit sick. I’ll be out in a minute. I think it was the blood,’ I added, listening for sounds as the room spun. I grabbed the towel rail to steady myself.
‘Do you want to get some air?’
Yes, air was exactly what I needed. The outside. Where I could run.
The balaclava had made it real. This was not a game. I was in serious danger.
‘Good idea. Just a second.’ The panic attack passed as air forced its way into my lungs and blood returned to my head. I needed to get rid of what was in my bag. I turned on the tap, hoping the noise would cover me. Pins and needles in my fingers hindered me as I put the contents of Ian’s box in the black carrier bag I’d brought with me. I moved as fast as I could. It was a complete rape kit. As well as the balaclava, there were cable ties, duct tape, a rag, and a small vial of liquid. The label read gamma hydroxybutrate. It meant nothing to me, but I had an idea of what it was. Perhaps I could use it. Tucking it into my back pocket, I tied the bag, trying to be as quiet as possible. Ian’s bathroom window squeaked as the metal bar lifted out of its resting place. I winced and froze, listening for sounds from the other side of the door. Nothing. I couldn’t hear Ian at all.
Beneath the window, at the base of the building grew dense bushes. I leant out and dropped the bag into the darkness. The wind carried it left, where it disappeared from view. I crushed the camera under my boot, the plastic casing splintering into pieces. The tap had already been running for too long, so I turned it off. Wrapping the shards in tissue, I flushed them down the toilet along with the tiny memory card.
I had to get rid of anything that tied me to Ian. Or rather, anything that gave me a motive to harm him. If they realised he was behind my rape in September, I’d no longer be a credible victim. Not one without a motive anyway. If it went badly, I’d have evidence to give to the police. I’d concoct a story that I’d found it and got out of there, fearing for my life.
I wiped where I’d touched the window, ledge and sink with toilet wipes and spent a few seconds checking my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, like porcelain, emphasised by the black eyeliner which didn’t look as crisp as it did earlier. Steeling myself, I relaxed my shoulders, stretching my neck from side to side. I had a job to do.
58
Monday 29 January 2018
This is the longest night of my life. The wing is so quiet, you can hear a pin drop. I feel totally alone. I have no nails left, having bitten them down to the quick. Sleep will not come. It’s dark, probably around three or four in the morning by now. My limbs ache and my eyelids are heavy but I’m too scared to close them.
On arriving at HMP Downview there was more paperwork to go through, so I could be processed. Followed by a short interview to determine whether I am suicidal. Not quite. Then I had to sit in a special chair which by some magic indicated whether I had anything hidden in a bodily cavity. As I sat, waiting to be examined, the officer snapped on some blue gloves and told me I wouldn’t believe what people managed to shove inside them. It was gross and humiliating and that was even after the strip search.
I’ve been given an identity card with my own prisoner number and a breakfast pack. Apparently, I’m ‘lucky’, as I have my own cell. For the time being anyway. Right now, I wouldn’t mind someone to talk to. Anything to stop my mind whirring.
I perch on the thin mattress that’s stretched across my bunk, it smells musty and I don’t want to touch it, let alone sleep on it. I’m terrified to move or make a sound. Every prison drama I’ve ever seen flashes before me. All the violence I’ve heard goes on. How safe am I in here? I’ve never felt so vulnerable. I’m going to be easy pickings. Or maybe not? When they find out what I’m charged with.
I can do this. One day at a time, small steps. I’ll cope, I must. What choice do I have? This might not be it for me. Terry might be able to get me out. It’s so hard knowing your fate is in another’s hands. It’s just a waiting game now. I’ll talk to him later, see what my options are.
I know I did the right thing. Ian got everything he deserved. The streets of Sutton are a safer place and the world could do with one less misogynist. If I could go back, I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. My only regret is getting caught.
59
Saturday 27 January 2018
‘There you are,’ Ian said, patting the sofa next to him. Had I been too long? Was he suspicious?
I put my bag down and sat next to him. He looked drunk, his eyes were glazed, and he was leering at me. The drinks were already mixed, and I took a sip of mine. It was refreshing after the intensity of the red wine.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asked.
‘A little light-headed. Can we get some air?’ I said, standing and grabbing my handbag.
He looked first at me, then at the bag. ‘You won’t need that.’
‘Cigarettes.’ I shook the bag by way of explanation. Ian ignored me. I reached inside to pull out the pack. No matter, I could leave everything here. I could just run? Because I wasn’t sure that, when push came to shove, even with how much I hated him, I’d be able to do it. Bravado aside, could I really kill a man?
‘Where are you going?’ he asked as I headed towards the front door.
I turned back to face him, frowning.
The corners of his mouth were turned up into a smirk.
‘I’ve got a balcony.’
My heart plummeted. I wasn’t getting out of here.
On the balcony, the wind whipped around us. The space was empty except for a pitiful solitary pot plant. Ian leaned over the railing to look below, his head disappearing from view.
I shuffled forward and reached out my hand. I could just about touch him. His shirt flapped in the wind, tickling my fingertips. Could I push him over the wrought-iron bars? I stared out into the blackness, watching the twinkling lights of the surrounding houses. A train chugged past, slowing down for the station. Ian pulled himself upright, turning to take the cigarette I’d lit for him. Unfortunately, he didn’t live high enough for a fall to do any serious damage.
‘Better?’ he asked, pulling me close and nuzzling my neck. He smelt of red wine, smoke and a hint of citrus. The scent rooted me to the spot. I’d recognise it anywhere.
‘Yes. Tired. I feel wiped out.’ I’d made such a stupid mistake. I blinked back tears, grateful for the darkness. My insides squirmed.
‘The night is still young,’ he said matter-of-factly and steered me back inside. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he got what he wanted. I knew that now. What had I got myself into? I was out of my depth.
Ian turned the television on, flicking through the films on offer until he chose an old thriller, Donnie Brasco. I’d not seen it for years.
‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ he said suddenly, leaning forward to kiss me.
‘No. I don’t think so.’ I managed a giggle but inside I was squirming.
His lips moved around to my neck and his hand to my breast. A voice whispered; play the part, Eve, pretend it’s Ben. You need him this close.
I closed my eyes to shut in the tears and reached for Ian’s face. Pulling it towards mine until our lips met. We shuffled down on the sofa, which creaked under our weight. His body, pinning me down, pushing his groin into mine. It was a mistake. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give myself to him. Not willingly, I just couldn’t. He’d have to kill me first.
‘Hold that thought,’ he said, jumping up and heading to a door off the lounge. His bedroom. Did I have time to escape?
I sat up, my mind raced. No, I wasn’t going to run. If I did then he wouldn’t get what he deserved. I wrestled the small vial of liquid out of my back pocket and put the tiniest drop into my drink. Wiping the bottle with my camisole to remove my prints, I pushed it under the sofa. I stirred my drink and took a mouthful. Hopeful it would be enough to hit my bloodstream but not so much that I passed out.
> Ian was taking a while and I stood, ready for his return.
He strolled back into the lounge. I worried he was going to be carrying handcuffs, but he was empty handed. What had he gone out for?
‘Making a run for it?’ he laughed, but it was more like a sneer.
I sank back into the sofa. The way he was acting chilled me to the bone. Alarm bells sounded in my head like Big Ben at midnight. I had no time to act, a second later we were in the same position as before. He ran his hands over me and I squeezed my lids shut, pretending to be into it as I ran through what I needed to do. My body trembled, legs quivering uncontrollably.
‘Cold?’ he asked. The beginnings of a smile on his lips.
I nodded and closed my eyes. A tug at my waistband made them fly open. He was staring right at me, an odd expression on his face as he unbuttoned my jeans.
‘I think I’ve seen you out running, or maybe walking.’
I didn’t like where the conversation was going. Was he trying to provoke me?
‘I would remember you,’ I said, lifting my backside as he roughly pulled my jeans from under me. There was no turning back now. Exposed on his sofa in my camisole and underwear, I considered whether the bedroom would be better. No, we had to stay here. Near the front door. Close to my escape route.
I watched as he moved to his shirt, unbuttoning and sliding it off. Dread washing over me at what was to come. How far would I have to go before the perfect moment presented itself? His chest was hard and smooth, a vein in his neck bulging. In other circumstances he may have been attractive, but all I wanted to do was end his reign of terror. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t make any sound come out. Fear had me frozen.
‘You do,’ he whispered in my ear, opening his fly and sliding his hand inside my knickers, pulling on the hair there.
My forehead wrinkled as I tried to connect his words. To understand what they meant.
His lip curled back into a sneer.
‘You do remember me,’ he said. Cold, flat eyes flashed to life like a shark mid-kill, and a hand gripped my neck.
I made to scream, a choking noise erupting from my lips. In an instant he reached into his back pocket and stuffed a sock in my open mouth. His hand squeezed my throat, and I struggled to breathe. I clawed at his fingers and he jeered, enjoying the power he held over me. My vision began to blur, eyes rolling in their sockets. Choking on the wet fabric of his sock in my mouth, I thrashed underneath him. Seeing I was losing consciousness, he loosened his grip, eyes alive with excitement, face twisted in pleasure. This was a game to him. I coughed, precious air flooding into my lungs bringing me round.
‘I remember you too,’ he whispered in my ear. He’d had me from the start. Always knowing who I was. I’d been played.
Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I tried to struggle, but he held me fast. I gave up trying to weaken his grip on my throat and lashed out at his face. If I could get to his eyes. If I could hurt him; I might stand a chance. My plan seemed ridiculous now, like a child’s. How could I have even thought I could do it? He must have seen me coming a mile off.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you… my father says hello,’ he grinned, baring his teeth.
I bucked underneath him, and we slid, legs entwined, onto the floor with a thud. I could see he was enjoying the fight I was putting up. Laughing at my flailing arms, until I caught his eye and he snarled; a speck of blood appeared. His arm swung back, and my eye socket exploded. Searing pain ripped through my cheek and a metallic taste pooled on my lips. I turned my face to the side and spat out the bloody sock. He wasn’t done. A cracking sound stung my ears as my head bounced off the floor. For a second there was nothing but darkness until I was choking again. His hands enveloped me, thrusting me back into consciousness.
He was going to kill me. I had no doubt in my mind. I was going to die. To think I’d orchestrated this; that I hoped he’d invite me back. I should have known.
He loomed above me, wild eyes sparkling, and lips pulled back, revealing his gums, teeth clenched tightly together. I clawed at his fingers to loosen his grip.
‘Ian, please,’ I gasped.
‘I’ve been waiting for this.’ He leaned forward and took in a long breath, drinking me in. Releasing my throat, he pinned my wrists to the floor with one hand, whilst trying to push down his jeans and boxers with the other. He was going to rape me again.
Air flooded into my lungs, bringing my senses back to life. I wrenched an arm out of his grasp, whirling it madly and knocking the tray from the table, covering us in gin. Ian snarled and tried to catch my hand. I dragged it across the floor, searching for the knife, or glass, something, anything I could use as a weapon. There, something, a blade. The lemon knife! Thoughts ran through my head at speed as I wrapped my fingers around the handle. You have to do it. He’ll rape you again if you don’t. Then he’s going to kill you. You’re not going to walk out of this.
‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ he snarled.
Closing my eyes, I drove the knife upwards into Ian’s armpit. Twisting once as far I could get it and thrusting it forward. Just like I’d read online. His grip on my wrist went limp and blood showered from above, dousing me before he collapsed. The cream rug turning crimson beneath him. He lay on his side, trying to stem the blood flow streaming through his fingers. A deep guttural sound came from him. I rolled over, panting and coughing. I didn’t want to miss this. My throat burned and waves of exhaustion washed over me, but I had to remain conscious. I was no longer afraid. We faced each other as though we were lovers in bed. Basking in the afterglow. My eye already swelling and pain radiating through my body. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Everything hurt. But I was alive. I’d won.
I leant forward, my face inches from him. His pale face glistened damp with sweat. He was fading, but his stare remained hard.
‘You will remember me,’ I whispered.
His hand reached for me, searching, clutching nothing but air. I pushed it away. Using the last bit of energy I had left; I rolled onto my knees. Dragging myself up the sofa to my feet. Vaguely aware I was naked from the waist down, I pulled on my jeans, not bothering to do them up, and staggered to the door. I waited, catching my breath as I watched his pallor turn a greyish-white and his body became still. Leaving everything behind, my bag, my shoes and all my hatred for Ian Shaw, I made my way down the stairs and out onto the street. I didn’t look back.
Tuesday 30 January 2018
The bright sunlight makes me squint as the guard draws back the heavy metal door. It groans as it’s dragged through the gravel, as though it isn’t opened often. I shield my eyes with the palm of my hand, gazing up at the morning sky and drinking it in. I’ve only been incarcerated for around sixty hours, but I will never again take for granted the sun on my skin or a breeze through my hair.
‘You look like shit!’ A voice comes from my left and Ben stands grinning, illuminated in the light. A halo surrounds him.
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling up at him. There’s a moment of awkward silence where neither of us knows what to do or say next. In the end, Ben steps forward with open arms and hooks them around my waist.
‘Come here.’
I throw my arms around his shoulders. It feels so good to hold him, I’m reluctant to let go. In return, he squeezes me tight, face buried in my neck even though I am less than fragrant.
‘So, they’ve dropped the charges?’ he asks, finally pulling away from me.
My hair catches on his stubble. I nod, letting out a sigh I feel like I’ve been holding for a long time. It doesn’t feel real. Am I really free?
‘Terry, my solicitor, thinks the CPS were pressured to drop the case. Not in the public interest to proceed, apparently.’ It seems he wasn’t only good at Candy Crush after all.
‘I’m not surprised. You won’t believe what’s been going on. There’s been loads of press coverage. Jane’s been amazing. She launched a campaign on Facebook, Twitter, and in the newspapers. Everyone was outraged
they were going to prosecute. She got a few local MPs on board too. I think you were even mentioned in the House of Commons yesterday!’
‘Fuck!’ I say, eyes wide, trying to take it all in. I can’t begin to tell Ben, and Jane, how grateful I am. ‘Did she not go travelling?’
‘No, she’s at home waiting for you, your mum’s there too.’
My eyes widen.
‘Can we walk?’ I ask, desperate to stretch my legs and move away from the high walls and razor wire. There’s so much to digest. Walking away from prison feels like shedding my skin, even though I am still wearing the grey issue sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms. The locals will think I’ve escaped. ‘How’s Amy?’ I ask tentatively, bracing myself for the answer.
Ben pauses and gives me a sideways glance.
‘She’s going to put in for a transfer.’
I nod, trying to conceal my relief.
‘How did Jane know I was arrested? Did you tell her?’
‘No, she saw it on the news first. I’ve got no idea how the press got hold of it.’
I didn’t want to tell Ben that I was the one who leaked it to the press. My one phone call wasn’t to my mother or a solicitor. It had been to the national tip line to report a miscarriage of justice. A woman going to prison for killing her attacker in self-defence. A nice juicy story on what I’d hoped would be a slow news day. I’d lucked out. Ben doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to know any of it.
We walk for half a mile or so, Ben updating me on what I’ve missed in the days I’ve been away. He shows me the articles written about me on his phone and the Twitter followers he and Jane amassed overnight. I blink back tears as a warm glow spreads throughout my body. I feel my shoulders ease down; I can finally relax.