Tim Vicary: A Game of Proof

She turned it over furiously in her mind. If the judge had ruled unfairly there would be grounds for appeal. On the other hand, she might gain a possible benefit. If the judge allowed the prosecution to attack Gary’s character by mentioning his criminal past in court, then perhaps she could attack Sharon’s character too; and she was no angel either. Sarah sat very still, thinking hard. What would a more experienced barrister do? Was that a hint of smugness on the judge’s face? Two up to him for the moment — pompous sod.

Lloyd-Davies resumed. ‘So on 23rd April last year Gary Harker left your home because of this quarrel, and so far as you were concerned he didn’t live there any more. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ Sharon tossed her hair defiantly. ‘I told him I never wanted to see him again.’

‘And did you see him again?’

‘No. Well, not for months. I met him at a party at the Royal Station Hotel in October. I wasn’t expecting him, he was just there.’

‘I see. What day was this exactly?’

‘Saturday the 14th. The same day I was attacked in my house.’

‘I see. Would you tell us in your own words, please, exactly what happened that night.’

So here we go, Sarah thought. She sat quite still, quite focussed — a slim dark figure with her elbows on the leather covered table and her fingers folded delicately under her chin, staring intently at the witness. She has noticed me now, Sarah thought coolly; twice she’s met my eyes, looked away, and back again. She knows I’m here; listening; waiting.

‘Well, it was a big party, and there was a lot of people in the hotel, drinking and singing and carrying on. I was having a good time, and then suddenly there was Gary in front of me.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Well, at first it was OK; I even had a dance with him. But then he got nasty. He said I’d kept his watch when he left, and he wanted it back. When I said I hadn’t got it, he called me a thieving slag and said he’d get it back himself. So I told him to piss off and he did.’

‘All right. Did you see him again that night?’

‘No. Not until he came to my house and raped me.’

There was a stir of interest in the public gallery above Sarah’s head. This was what they came for, she thought. Ghouls. She glanced at the jury — eight women, four men; Lloyd-Davies had been lucky there — and saw a look of pity on the face of a motherly woman in the front row.

‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Take your time, and in your own words tell the court exactly what happened when you got home that night.’

At first Sharon did not speak. She glanced down and fiddled with a bracelet as though uncertain, now the moment had come, what to say. But then she lifted her head, stared straight at Lloyd-Davies, and began the story she had, no doubt, rehearsed many times before.

‘Right. Well, I got a taxi home at eleven — I couldn’t be any later, because I had a sitter in for the kids, my friend Mary. When I got home they were tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly. My youngest, Katie, had an ear infection so Mary’d brought both of ‘em downstairs. After Mary left I made the kids a hot drink and settled them down in bed. It took a while because Katie was still grizzling so I had to give her a cuddle and play one of her tapes.’

‘What tape was that?’ Lloyd-Davies prompted.

‘Postman Pat, I think. I’ve bought all those stories for her — she loves ‘em.’

Oh wonderful, Sarah thought. She raised an eyebrow in cynical admiration of the point of Lloyd-Davies’ question. Hot drinks, Postman Pat — the perfect loving home.

‘So how long was it before you managed to get Katie off to sleep?’

‘About half an hour, probably — perhaps a bit more. I don’t know exactly — I was dropping off myself in the chair by the bed. Then I heard this noise downstairs.’

‘What sort of noise?’

‘A crash — like a window breaking. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it at first, so I just sat quiet, listening to see if there was anything else. Then after a couple of minutes I heard someone moving around downstairs, so I thought Oh my God and went out onto the landing and then I saw him, coming up the stairs …’

Sharon paused, and Sarah watched intently. This was the crucial part of the story — was there any possibility that she was making it up, or was it all true? Sarah’s gloom deepened. It seemed to her that a genuine memory was flooding back to Sharon as she spoke, as if the events she was describing were clearer in her mind than the courtroom she stood in.

‘Who did you see?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.

‘A man in a hood coming up the stairs. One of them balaclava hoods that terrorists wear.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Nothing. Screamed, I think. But then he grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth and shoved me back into Katie’s room. I tried to stop him but he was too strong. And he had a knife.’

‘Did you see this knife?’

‘No. I just felt it. He stuck it into my throat, here.’ She touched the left side of her neck. ‘Just a little, so I’d know it was there. I felt it go into my skin.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Not then, no. He just laughed, and started pulling at my clothes. I was terrified. He pulled my skirt and knickers down and then he …’ Sharon took a deep breath and plunged on, determined to get it over with. ‘… he turned me round and pushed me face down over the side of the armchair and then he … he shoved my legs apart and raped me from behind.’

She stopped and looked at Lloyd-Davies, knowing probably what was to come, but unable to phrase it for herself. The precise, necessary legal language.

‘When you say he raped you, you felt his erect penis enter your vagina?’

‘Yes. Oh yes, he got it in all right. It hurt, too, it hurt a lot. The doctor saw that after.’

‘Yes. And while all this was happening, where was your four-year-old daughter Katie?’

‘In her bed, of course, by the armchair. That was the worst part of it. She thought he was killing me, poor kid. I can see her now, in that bed with her mouth wide open screaming her head off. It was like all her nightmares come true — she still dreams about it now, almost every night she wakes up and wets the bed, screaming. Then little Wayne came in and started hitting him to get him off me.’

Lloyd-Davies held up a hand for her to pause. Then he repeated her point slowly and clearly, to make quite sure the jury had taken it in.

‘You’re saying that your seven-year-old son, Wayne, came into the room and started hitting the rapist in order to rescue his mother. Is that right?’

‘That’s right.’ For the first time Sharon had tears in her eyes. ‘I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Sticks up for his mother no matter what.’

‘So how did the man respond to this attack by a seven-year-old boy?’

‘Well, he shoved him off, didn’t he? But Wayne wouldn’t stop, so he said “Get off me, Wayne, you little bugger,” something like that. That was when I guessed who he was.’

Lloyd-Davies held up his hand again, to emphasise the point. ‘He said “Get off me, Wayne, ” did he? He used your son’s name?’

‘Yes, he did, definitely. I remember that.’

‘And was it that, the use of Wayne’s name, that made you realise who this man was?’

‘Well, yes — that and his voice. I recognised that too. It was him — Gary bloody Harker.’ Again she glared at Gary in the dock, and Sarah wished she could see his reaction.

‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, Gary pulled out of me and stuck the knife in my throat. He said he’d kill me if Wayne didn’t piss off. Then he grabbed my hair and dragged me into another room. My own bedroom.’