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How could I sit there with colleagues, trying to be objective about someone else's rape if they were saying "Are you OK?" the whole time? Of course everyone would be sympathetic but they'd treat me differently. I knew that anonymity at work would be impossible. I knew they would do a wonderful job investigating but I was thinking ahead to the trial, with me in court as the victim. By the time I got though my front door, I had decided I didn't want to report what had happened to the police. I've spent decades telling victims not to blame themselves, but now I truly understand what it means to torture yourself with "Why did I? / How could I?" thoughts. I told myself what I know victims say all the time: that it was my fault for putting myself in that position. I was very angry, disgusted, a bit scared. My phone had died during the evening so I couldn't call anyone. I roughly knew the area, so I jumped on a bus heading home and started the longest journey of my life. It did not even cross my mind that I was a detective. My first thought was: "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The second thought was fear, channelled into self-preservation: I jumped out of bed and grabbed my clothes from the floor. I woke up in a bed and that guy was raping me. My next memory is at about six or seven the following morning. I'll never know if I was drugged or not but I didn't have any of the after-effects you would expect. It developed into a conversation about poetry and what we would want read at our funerals. I remember standing in the kitchen, talking about Christina Rossetti's poem The Convent Threshold. I do have some memories from the rest of the evening, though. I've racked my brain but I don't know if we walked there, or got a bus or a cab. I have no recollection of leaving the pub, travelling or arriving. I was still in the pub at about midnight, then the next thing I remember is being in a house with the same group of about six people. But he didn't do or say anything that made me feel uncomfortable – or that gave the slightest suggestion of what he would be capable of doing a few hours later.
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I can't remember when I first noticed the guy who ended up assaulting me, but he stood out from the rest of the group – he was more extrovert, a bit larger than life. I was never particularly drunk, I don't think, but my memory becomes increasingly misty when I try to think back. It was the chat that goes on every night, in hundreds of pubs across the country when new people start getting to know each other.Īs the night wore on, the accumulation of a day's steady drinking began to back up. We talked about football, music, the state of the country. I got the impression that they knew each other and they were a friendly lot. I'd never been in that pub before but I felt comfortable alone there.Īfter a while, I got chatting to a group around the bar. By 9.30pm, the last of my friends headed home. We had a couple of beers, shared a bottle of wine over the meal, then sat around in the pub chatting and reading the papers.Īs the afternoon turned into evening, people began peeling off from the group. We were a small group of settled, sorted, middle-aged men, some single, some in relationships, but none of us looking to do anything other than spend some quiet leisure time together. I had gone out with friends for a Saturday brunch. It's hard to accept that a couple of weeks ago everything was normal. To be on the other side of the table has been a shock – if I investigated a sexual crime now, there are things I would do differently. I've always been the one asking the questions. I also never anticipated using the service the police provide to rape victims.