Invisible (21 page)

More craning round and I spotted a group of people
sitting separate from the public gallery where I was. Who were they? I only
worked it out when they brought out notepads and pens; of course, even here
there was no escape from the press.

Still I couldn’t stop
looking for that woman. I only stopped rubbernecking the minute Daryl was
brought up to the dock. He took his seat behind his brief, and his eyes
searched round the room. I leaned forward, wanting to wave but feeling stupid.
Luckily, the movement caught his attention, and he smiled gratefully at me, the
custody officer beside him seemingly oblivious.

A court usher sonorously
pronounced: ‘All rise’. It felt so odd and scarily formal having to stand,
reducing me to a little girl waiting to be scolded. The judge walked in from a
side door, took his seat beneath a coat of arms and with a nod he let us all be
seated.

The prosecution then outlined
how they’d make their case. It sounded…horrific. Whoever did these things is
evil. I looked over at Daryl and we stared fiercely at each other as those
awful words washed over us. We were one person then, both fighting the urge to
stand up and shout that it was all lies, both knowing the only realistic
alternative was to shut the horror out. Somehow in that gaze we escaped to
miles away, were free and holding each other. ‘Soon,’ I tried to tell him with
my gaze, ‘soon this will be over and we’ll be together again. It will all be
fine in the end.’

Even when the defence summarised
their case, we barely looked away. Right then nothing mattered but us – because
when this is over, that’s what will be left.
Stronger, better
than ever, thanks to this mess.

The prosecution then called
their first witness, introduced as Miss A. This was the supposed Port Pervert’s
first victim. I expected her to walk in, and was confused when it was explained
she’d be giving evidence via video link.

As the TV screen opposite
the jury was fired up and she appeared I felt totally disconnected from what
was happening. This wasn’t real; it was a programme I was watching, like a soap
opera or crime drama or something. The woman on the screen had a strawberry
blonde bob that accentuated her chubby cheeks, and the kind of button nose that
automatically made her look even more baby-faced. If she’d have smiled she’d
have looked so pretty.

But her eyes…her eyes were
so sad that she looked like she’d never smile again.

‘Can you describe the events
of the night of 18 December please?’ asked the QC. When he said the location of
the attack I was stunned – it had happened in our town! I don’t even remember
hearing anything about it. Oh, actually, I do recollect seeing some of those
‘Did you see this crime’ appeal posters up around New Year but I didn’t bother
reading them because I never see anything interesting happen…

‘It was a works night out,
our Christmas do,’ said Miss A, voice ringing out strong and steady, as though
she’d practised this moment in her head. To be honest, it just added to my
sense of detachment, as though she were an actress.

‘Everyone was just starting
to get really drunken, and so I thought if I left then no one would really
notice. I’d had fun, it’s just I wanted to get home because my boyfriend and me
had just moved in together and I loved being in our new home. So I made my
excuses at about 10.30pm and text my boyfriend that I was on my way. He offered
to
come
pick me up, but I told him not to bother
because it was only a five minute walk to our flat. So he said he’d start
walking from ours and meet me halfway.

‘I’d only been walking about
a minute when I noticed a man coming towards me. I didn’t take much notice of
him because, well, the street was brightly-lit and this bloke was wearing what
looked like a suit so I assumed he was either a security guard or businessman
who’d been out straight after work himself and was now on his way home. Stupid,
if he’d been wearing a hoodie and jeans I’d have been more suspicious, but
someone in a suit…they just look more trustworthy somehow. We were just passing
each other when…’

She took a deep breath to
steady herself. All eyes were glued to the screen. I glanced at Daryl just as
he looked at me, and I gave him the tiniest hint of a smile, so he knew I was
with him, willing him to stay strong. I knew that what we were about to hear
would be upsetting.

‘We were just passing each
other,’ Miss
A
repeated, ‘when suddenly he punched me.
I didn’t see it coming, just felt the pain and I think I fell to my knees. I
was so dazed it was confusing what was happening, but I felt myself being half
dragged, half carried. The light disappeared, it was dark – I didn’t know then
but I’d been taken down a small alleyway and put on the ground behind some big
wheelie bins. I tried to kick out, was with it enough to know I needed to
fight, but my feet didn’t connect with anything and I couldn’t see properly.
But I did manage to scratch him; that earned me another punch and I was knocked
out.

‘I-I don’t remember anything
after that until I heard my boyfriend’s voice calling me. Everything
hurt,
the lower part of my body… I shouted out and my
boyfriend found me, called an ambulance and the police…’

The poor woman had been
raped, punched, and strangled. She was lucky to be alive. The whole attack can
only have taken minutes because her boyfriend had found her just 15 minutes
after she’d set off from the bar she’d been in. It’s incredible to think that
she was so close to the man she loved, so close to colleagues and friends, and
just seconds from a busy main road, while some beast had almost killed her. Even
that felt like a plot from a programme though, rather than real life.

‘It was the smell of him,’
she continued as if someone had asked her, mouth curling in disgust. ‘That’s
what stayed with me more than anything. A mix of fuel fumes and strong cheap
aftershave… Then one day I walked past a bloke in Superdrug testing out some
Links Africa; you know spraying it into the cap and sniffing it to see if he
liked it. It took me right back…the terror…I was back there for an instant,
thought he was coming for me… I knew then that that was what my attacker had
been wearing. I curled up in the foetal position and yelped like a wounded
puppy, too scared to even scream properly. That’s what he’s done to me. I’ll
never be the same person again, she was stolen by that man and I wish I knew
how to get her back… But I never will.’

Tears dripped from her chin,
but she didn’t let it show in her expression or her voice at all. Her baby face
belied her strength. The Crown Prosecutor thanked her for her testimony, adding
to the jury: ‘
Please
note that you will hear from all
the victims that they noted the same smell from their attacker: that of fuel,
or diesel, and Links Africa. The relevance of this will become clear later.’

What did he mean by that?
From Daryl’s expression he was as confused as me.

‘Please, tell us a little
more about the impact the rape has had on your life,’ the barrister added
gently.

‘Well, I can’t stand to be
alone. I’m afraid of the dark and have to sleep with a light on. I’ve split up
with my boyfriend because the thought of being…’ For the first time her voice
faded away, but then it punched back as strong as ever. ‘…Of being sexual with
him was too much. One day we were messing about, actually having a laugh for
once, and he tickled me; I freaked out because I felt like I was being held
down, confined, even though I wasn’t. That was the final straw. And I’ve moved
back in with my parents; like I said, I can’t stand to be alone and they help
me deal with my nightmares.’

Then it was the defence’s
turn to question her. I almost cheered. Yes, she’s been through a terrible
ordeal, but nothing she’s said has made me think that it was my husband who did
it.

‘Did you get a good look at
your attacker?’ asked Daryl’s lawyer – good to see him finally earning his
money.

‘No, I said, I didn’t take much
notice of him. He was wearing a suit or some sort of smart outfit, and I wasn’t
really looking at him. I think he was bald or balding…’

‘Balding? Well, that
describes half the men in this room,’ said our QC, moving his arm expansively
to illustrate. I looked round and nodded, and was pleased to see the jurors
doing the same. ‘But surely when you were up close you managed to see his
features properly.’

She looked flustered. ‘No,
no, he’d hit me, I’d almost passed out, and everything happened so quickly.’

‘So you couldn’t, for
example, pick your attacker out if he were in this room?’ asked the barrister.
‘Can you see him in this room? Can you say with absolute certainty that he is
here?’

‘I…the police said…’

‘Could you recognise your
attacker?’

‘No. No, I can’t.’ She
looked defiantly from the screen.

‘Thank
you,
that
will be all.’

One nil to us, I believe.

It was only when the judge
closed the session and I had to watch Daryl being led away by his guards that I
realised that hours had passed. He twisted his head, craning over his shoulder
to keep looking at me. Tears poured down my cheeks as he mouthed a simple
message: ‘I love you.’ All I could do was nod back as despair washed over me
and he disappeared from sight.

Stiff and exhausted, I
stretched my legs one by one, knees cracking as they changed position for the
first time all day.
Rolled my neck, pushed my shoulders back.
Stood with a groan.
A moment’s pause to pull my
brittle façade around me, then I stepped out of court and back into the crowd
again…

Back at home, wiped out, I
put the telly on to try and find something to block out my thoughts, to stop me
going over and over what had been said today. The news flashed on. There I was,
in glorious Technicolor, being pushed through the crowd, head down, face white,
mouth
grim. It felt like a lifetime ago.

In the sea of people I
spotted several brandishing placards that I hadn’t noticed at the time: Die
Port Pervert, Rot in Hell,
Justice
for Julie. It was
the last one that made my throat catch. Selfish, selfish cow that I am, I tend
to concentrate so heavily on the miscarriage of justice going on, and how mine
and Daryl’s lives have been ruined, and…well, I don’t think about those poor
women much, especially Julie, the one who was murdered. Maybe I don’t want to,
my mind dancing away from that because thinking about them makes them real and
a part of my life and I don’t want that. Even hearing
that
victim today give
her evidence made me feel very little. This is nothing
to do with Daryl or me.

Although it does make me
furious for me, Daryl and the victims that the police have made such a
monumental cock up of this investigation, because the monster who raped and
killed is still out there somewhere.

Tuesday 5

The white noise of the crowd
screaming hadn’t lessened because a day had passed; if anything it seemed fuller
of fury than yesterday. It’s terrifying. I forced myself to take deep breaths
to keep the panic at bay, and tried to let myself go with the surges of the mob
as they pushed this way and that, rather than fight my way through, but it made
no difference. I was grabbed, pinched, shoved as I stumbled across the pavement
towards the court entrance,
blinded
by camera flashes,
my police officer bodyguards almost as helpless as I.

I only realised once I was
in the building that someone had spat on me, the gobbet of saliva showing
clearly against my black jacket lapel. I had to hurry to the loo to get rid of
it before entering the courtroom, and dabbing at it made me feel sick. How
could someone do that? I’ve done nothing wrong. Standing by your husband does
not warrant that kind of response. You don’t see me spitting on police - and
they’ve actually done something terrible to me!

Once in the courtroom I sat
in the same spot as yesterday – and had another look round for that woman who I
thought looked like me and now I can’t decide. But there was no sign, so that’s
that. Then the judge came in again, and it felt like I was reliving yesterday. Most
of the women will apparently be giving evidence via television link like
yesterday, too. Funny to think of them in a room just down the corridor, all
alone, answering questions via a link when they’re almost within shouting
distance.

Anyway,
another day, another poor woman describing being raped.
This one happened in a district of Manchester….why this bloke is called the
Port Pervert is beyond me, so far he’s been nowhere near a flipping port.
Typical over-excited media making up silly names – the M25 rapist did attacks
elsewhere too.

This incident happened on 14
January; I certainly don’t remember anything particularly exciting about that
date in all honesty, and although I feel for the women, I just want this bloody
trial to be over and done so Daryl can come home and we can finally get our
lives on track again.

But once again the
television screen came on, and Miss B appeared. She seemed more nervous than
the previous witness, and as she talked she kept looking down into her lap as
though it held some kind of escape.