Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
All the time below Miss B’s
on-screen
face
the stenographer sat at her desk,
fingers moved constantly, taking everything down. At first as Miss B talked I
didn’t look at her, instead I found myself fascinated by those flying fingers
that were recording the horror for posterity. Try as I might, I couldn’t block
out the testimony though.
Again, her attacker was
wearing a suit. He’d come over to her and asked for directions as she’d walked
home, past a nearby park, at 8pm-ish having just finished her shift in the
supermarket she worked in.
‘It was freezing cold and I
just wanted to get home, that’s all that was on my mind really,’ she
said,
her long blonde hair a curtain she hid behind as she
gazed down. ‘I turned to point in the direction he needed to go, and suddenly
his…his arm was around my neck…squeezing. He’d had his hands in his pockets
before, but now I realised he was wearing those thin latex gloves, like doctors
wear - I can’t be examined by doctors
any more
because their gloves are exactly like the ones he wore.
‘H-he was very calm as he
wh
-whispered in my ear to do exactly as he said and walk
with him. He was sort of behind me, had me in a choke hold, I could feel my
windpipe being crushed, could only take tiny little breaths. I was so scared,
so scared.’
As she grimaced I noticed
her skin twisting oddly and realised she had a nasty scar across her right
cheek that make up failed to hide.
‘We-we went into the park,
and he pushed me to the ground behind some bushes. I begged him to take my
mobile, my purse, anything he wanted. He just
sh
-shook
his head and told me to look at him. I didn’t want to, thought if I got a good
look at his face he might kill me. But he said it again so I looked up,
straight into his cold blue eyes, as he told me: “If I wanted your stuff I’d
have taken them by now. This is about me taking something else from whores like
you.” Then he…then he…’
Her shoulder shook with the
tears that choked off her speech. The judge cleared his throat. ‘Would you like
to take a break?’ he asked.
She shook her head, wiping
at her nose with the backs of her hands until she remembered the tissues she
already clutched. Still talking to her lap, she managed to continue, voice
quavering with the effort.
‘He told me to…’ Her hand
made a gesture, trying to get us all to guess what her attacker’s orders had
been because she couldn’t face saying the words. But the prosecution lawyer
gently encouraged her to speak. ‘…He told me to give him oral sex, said if I
did he might let me off.’ The last word was a choked squeak of despair as she
disintegrated into sobs.
A break was ordered and it
was twenty minutes before we reconvened. I did feel for the poor woman, she was
clearly traumatised. Despite more tears she managed to hold it together enough
to finish her testimony – because, of course, her attacker hadn’t kept his word
and ‘let her off’ once she’d done as he’d ordered. Instead he’d pinned her down
and raped her, telling her he had a knife in his pocket and would kill her if
she screamed.
‘He said it in such a reasonable
voice, calm, like, cold,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t have any doubt that he meant
what he said. So I l-let him rape me. I just wanted to live. I kept thinking
about my kids, wondering if I’d ever see them again, while he was… But when he
was done and took his condom off, instead of feeling better he seemed angry. He
c-called me a whore and a…a cunt, and suddenly he started kicking me as I lay
on the ground.
‘I tried to curl up in a
ball to protect myself, put my arms round my head, and begged him to stop but
he kept kicking me and kicking me. I felt something in my face crack, and my
lungs hurt, I couldn’t breathe properly – I found out after that he’d fractured
my skull and jaw, broken my cheekbone, and several of my ribs were snapped, my
spleen had ruptured, and my bladder was damaged; I have to use a colostomy bag
now.
‘He got on top of me again,
I think he wanted to rape me again, but h-he couldn’t seem to. I could see it
in his eyes
then, that
he was going to kill me. He was
pulling something out of his briefcase or laptop carrier or whatever it was… I
didn’t want to die there, like that; I didn’t want my kids to grow up without a
mum. I-I kicked, screaming and screaming and just ran. I didn’t know what
direction I ran, where I was going, how I did it, but I ran and ran and all the
time expected to feel his hands on me again. Only I didn’t.’ She shook her head
amazed.
‘I found myself on the
street again, and literally ran into a couple. I only realised the state I must
look when I saw their horrified faces. They called the emergency services, held
me until help arrived. I was convinced my attacker was going to appear again,
and even in hospital I was terrified. Doctors couldn’t believe I was still
standing, let alone able to run from that man, not with the injuries I’d
sustained. No one knows how I got away. I don’t. Someone up there was looking
out for me that night.’
I admit it; I wiped a tear
from my own eye then. What she’d been through…I hadn’t been able to stop myself
from imagining it as she’d spoken, wondering if I’d have had the strength to
fight back and run for it.
But then the prosecution
asked her a question, and her answer made me hate her. ‘Do you see your
attacker here today?’
‘Yes. He’s in the dock,’ she
said.
Wednesday 6
I’m still reeling from that
woman’s lie yesterday. I know, I
know,
it’s not really
a lie as such; she’s said it because she’s confused, and after what she’s been
through who can blame her. She’s just imagining that Daryl is her attacker
because he happens to be right there in front of her, and because people are
telling her that he is. Can’t she see that by saying that though she’s actually
allowing the real criminal to get away? Poor Daryl had looked absolutely
poleaxed when Miss B said she recognised him as her rapist; it was the last
thing he’d expected to happen.
Obviously Daryl’s lawyer
made mincemeat of her this morning during cross-examination, pointing out that
when you’re in a high-adrenaline situation such as she was that it’s hard to
recall exact details. I thought it was particularly clever when he asked her
what colour her rescuer’s coat was and she said blue but actually it was green.
He even implied that she’d made up the bit where she’d seen her rapist
properly,
because why would he let her see his face yet wear
gloves and a condom to protect against leaving fingerprints and DNA evidence?
So ultimately I don’t think
the jury were swayed by her pointing out Daryl – she’s clearly unreliable, and
now I’ve calmed down I do feel sorry for her.
Once she left the stand,
victim number three was called: the imaginatively-named Mrs C. Finally an
attack that happened in a port; although is Tilbury Docks technically a port? I
don’t know…and I can’t believe that even during all this drama random thoughts
like that still pop into my head. I’m tired though. I don’t want to listen to
any more horrifying testimony; I’ve heard more disturbing things in the last
few days than most people hear in a lifetime.
This isn’t me, I don’t know
how I got here; one day I woke up in someone else’s life, and I’m sick of the
drama, sick of being pushed around and spat on and jeered at and glared at and
screeched at and people setting fire to me or sending me threats and poo – I’m
really sick of the poo - and I feel like I’ve held it together, just about, by
the skin of my teeth for so long, but I’m not sure I can go on another second
longer. I want my life back!
Sadly, falling apart isn’t a
viable option though. I’ve just got to keep going for a little bit longer. Just
a little bit longer. Then everything will be okay again. But today, in court, I
just wanted to sit with my eyes screwed shut and my fingers in my ears, singing
‘la
la
la
, not
listening!’
Actually, I didn’t even want
to go to court, but knew that would look terrible, so I dragged myself there
and tried to look like I was listening while actually desperately trying to
block everything out. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at Daryl in case my
despair leeched through to him. I have to stay strong for him.
Can you think of anything
more depressing than hearing a woman talk about her 30-minute rape ordeal at
the docks at 12.30am on 3 February though? This bloke didn’t even just rape, he
bound her with duct tape first so that she was helpless to stop him as he…well,
he…you know what, I don’t need to write that down, it’s seared in my memory
already.
He was clever enough to make
sure he wore the latex gloves and condom again though, bastard. Dressed in his
smart suit, he must have looked trustworthy, but he sounds like an utter
monster, and seems to have totally got off on the power trip, telling her: ‘Listen,
whore, I’m not going to lie, this is going to be very bad. But if you behave,
you’ll be fine. If you’re a stupid cunt and don’t behave…well, you know what
the consequences will be, don’t you?’
I don’t want to know any of
this stuff. I want to wipe my brain clean.
I’m going to bed. I’ll think
about that night, 3 February, when Daryl called me in the small hours and was
in such a lovely, jolly mood, and really wanted to talk to me, bless him. I’m
going to pretend that I’m back there, at that moment, and we’re both happy and
carefree. And I’m going to eat half a ton of chocolate, have a large whiskey,
then, please God, go to sleep.
Thursday 7
The thought of going back to
that courtroom again makes me feel physically ill. Since finally getting home
tonight, I’ve spent most of my time kneeling on the floor, virtually hugging
the toilet bowl. That’s where I’m writing, right now, in a bid to sort out my
utterly messed up head.
The day started (and ended)
with the usual vitriol pointed at me; screaming, pushing, photograph-taking fun.
Then the television was once more put on and Mrs D, yet another blonde (this
time the kind of dirty blonde that
occurs
when natural
blondes get a bit older and the brightness of their hair fades away) gave her
evidence about her 2 March attack in Tilbury.
As she described her rape in
eye-watering detail that made me wince, I glanced over to Daryl. Having been so
utterly rubbish yesterday, I wanted to let him know I was there for him one
hundred per cent, and I was worried that he’d be as upset as me at hearing what
this woman had been through, at what he was accused of doing.
What I saw made my stomach
curdle.
He was smirking. Leaning
forward intently and drinking in the lurid descriptions. Something lit up his
face: enjoyment.
Daryl must have spotted me
frozen to the spot and gawping at him in horror, and realised what was going on
because he suddenly rearranged his features into a look of sympathy. Sighed and
shook his head sadly and even pretended to wipe a tear away.
Maybe he did wipe away a tear.
Maybe I imagined this scene? I’ve a horrible feeling I didn’t…
Right at that moment though,
I was convinced by what I’d seen – and it sickened me, my stomach doing a
rollercoaster drop. I remember that day, March 2 last year. Daryl and I had a
row and he told me to eff off and slammed the phone down on me. I was
repeat
dialling him for hours but it just rang out. What
exactly had he been doing for all that time?
See, I hate myself for even
asking questions like that, even in the privacy of my own head, but the
expression in my husband’s face had made me doubt him for one horrible second.
Until I talked myself down, reminding myself of the irrefutable evidence of his
innocence: his cast iron aeroplane alibi on the night of the murder.
All these thoughts flashed
through me in the blink of an eye. Still I couldn’t take my eyes off Daryl.
Then I wondered: had the jury noticed his slip up? I stared keenly at the twelve
members of the public whose job it would be to decide Daryl’s fate, but if
they’d spotted anything they gave nothing away. All were rapt by the evidence
still being given.
‘When it was over, as he
stood over me and pulled his suit trousers up, all I could do was
lie
there. The pain…’ The woman’s voice caught, but she
gathered herself enough to continue. ‘Then he looked straight at me. His eyes,
they were a very cold blue; I’ll always remember that, I’m haunted by them.
That,
and the smell of him. Sorry.’
Tears flowed down her face,
and she wiped constantly at her nose, desperately trying to hold it together.
‘He...he said: “I hope you
realise that was your fault, you fucking whore. Never forget you’re just a
cunt, nothing more,” and: “I’m going now, but if you scream, if you move, if you
try and get help, I’ll know. I’ll come back, and then things will go very badly
for you.
Very badly indeed.”
Then he picked up his
briefcase and walked away. I, umm, I didn’t dare move.
‘I don’t know how long I lay
curled up on the pavement, but I-I-I think it was about, umm, ten…ten minutes
or so. I only found the strength to move because I suddenly thought he might
come back anyway. Don’t know how I did it, it’s a bit of a blur, but I forced
myself to sit up. There was…God, there was so much blood…between my legs…and…
My hands were still taped together in front of me… I remember putting my hands
to my face and it feeling really sticky. When I looked at my hands in the half-
light they looked black with the sticky stuff – I didn’t…didn’t realise it was
blood too, couldn’t figure it out.’