Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

This is so hard, forcing myself to write about what happened to me. It’s only reading the pages of stories on this brilliant website and seeing how brave other women are willing to be that makes me want to try to do the same. I was raped three weeks ago, and the monster who did it told me that if I ever told anyone or went to the police, he would find me again and kill me.

I believed him then, and I still do. I know a lot of men who rape are inadequate or mentally ill, but this man seemed confident, not one of life’s losers. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding a girlfriend. He did not need to do what he did to me; he wanted to do it.

I was in Bristol city centre when he approached me. I had just come out of a meeting and had another one that evening, so I decided to look for something to eat. I am not from Bristol, so do not know its restaurants very well. I found a café that I liked the look of, called the One Stop Thali Shop. I was standing outside, looking through the window, on the point of going in, when the man approached me.

He called out my name as he walked over, and I thought I must know him. He came and stood beside me, and it was only then that I saw the knife. I was petrified. He made me walk to his car at knifepoint, telling me he’d cut my insides up if I screamed or alerted anyone. Once I was in the car, he put an eye mask over my eyes so that I couldn’t see.

I’m not going to be able to write about everything that happened—it’s too painful, and still too raw. He drove me somewhere—I don’t know where—and only removed the mask once we were inside. It was a little theatre with a stage. He said to me, ‘Do you want to warm up before the show?’ but he wouldn’t tell me what the show was going to be.

I knew I would find out soon, and I did. An audience arrived, all together in a group. Four men and three women. The women being there was one of the worst things about it. How can women enjoy seeing those things done to another woman? If that’s their idea of a fun night out, I feel sorrier for them than I do for myself.

All seven of them were middle-aged verging on old. Two of the men had moustaches and beards. I hate men with facial hair. One had a proper bushy ‘Santa’ beard, but brown, and the other was one of those stupid beards that’s like a circular plucked eyebrow around the mouth.

The chairs were not in rows like in normal theatres. They sat around a table, and while I was being attacked on stage, they ate dinner. Before he got started on me, the man served them their starters: small plates of Parma ham with rocket and Parmesan. I know this because he told them what it was.

This is so hard. I thought my suffering was over at one point, because I was taken off the stage, and I thought the man might be finished with me. He’d promised me that if I cooperated he wouldn’t kill me, and I had cooperated. Even though he was a monster, I believed him about this. He didn’t want to kill me. All he wanted was for me to help him put on his ‘show’.

But it wasn’t over. I can’t write about what happened next, but it was worse than what happened on the stage. When the rapist had finally finished, he tried to persuade the man with the bushy beard—who was called Des—to rape me as well. Des climbed on top of me but, thank God, couldn’t get an erection.

After they’d got as much entertainment out of me as they could, the mask was put over my eyes again and I was driven back to Bristol and pushed out on to the pavement outside the One Stop Thali Shop. My car keys and handbag were thrown on the pavement next to me. No one was around. I found my car, and although I was in no fit state, I drove all the way home. By the time I got back it was mid-morning. My neighbours were in their garden, and watched me walk from my car to the front door. That afternoon, one of them, the woman, rang my bell and asked if there was anything she could do. She asked me if I’d been to the police. I told her to mind her own business, and slammed the door on her. I knew I’d be killed if I said anything. The creature that attacked me knew my name and address and lots of other things about me.

I’ve hardly been out of the house since. I can’t face my neighbours—I’m selling my house. I spend all my time having elaborate revenge fantasies, which is pathetic because that’s all they will ever be—fantasies. Even if I mustered the courage to go to the police, it’s probably too late by now. I’ve already done everything wrong—I had a bath as soon as I got home.

It would have been better if he hadn’t known my name. As it is, I feel as if I’ve been singled out and I don’t know why. Is it something I’ve done? I know the attack was not my fault, and I don’t blame myself, but I would like to know what it was about me that made him choose me. I feel so alone now, so separate from the rest of the world. I just want to get back in somehow.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Name and email address withheld

SRISA (Survivors of Rape, Incest and Sexual Abuse)

MY STORY Story no. 12 (posted February 16, 2001)

i can’t believe there are so many of us, i was raped last year in the indian restarant where i worked, this is the first time ive told anyone, i stayed late that night because the two men hadn’t finished there curry and beers, i told the boss id lock up, that was the biggest mistake of my life. They were both drunk, drunk pigs, they wouldn’t pay there bill, one pushed me down on the table and said my friends just the warm up im the main attraction. He called me the star of the show, he wanted to go last. They took turns, the first one couldnt get hard, the one who said he was the main attraction said use a beer bottle instead, the other man did, then the one who called himself main attraction turned me over so I was face down he forced himself on me that way, it hurt so much, the one who couldnt get hard had a camera and took photos of what the other one did, they made me tell them my name and where I live and where my family live. They said they would send the photos to my family if I went to the police, i have not been to the police yet but one day i will because I cant live with this if those pigs don’t pay for what they did, and i am not going to let them ruin the rest of my life, i want to say to everyone whos been thru what I have, keep fighting.

Tanya, Cardiff

Email address withheld

12

4/6/06

SIMON DIDN’T LIKE the way Juliet Haworth was looking at him. As if she was waiting for him to do something, and the longer he didn’t do it, the more amusing she thought it was. Colin Sellers was asking the questions, but she wasn’t interested in him. She addressed all her answers and her asides—of which there were plenty—to Simon. He couldn’t work out why. Was it because he was the one she’d met first?

‘It’s unusual for a person in your situation not to want a lawyer present,’ said Sellers conversationally.

‘Is this interview going to be identical to the last one?’ asked Juliet. ‘How boring.’ She was doing something with her hair as she spoke, hands behind her head.

‘Did you get bored of your husband? Is that why you struck him repeatedly with a rock?’

‘Robert’s not talkative enough to bore anyone. He’s quiet, but not in a dull way. He’s very deep. I know it sounds corny.’ Juliet’s tone was chatty and conspiratorial. She sounded like a member of an in-crowd complimenting another person belonging to the same set. Simon thought of those ‘100 Greatest’ programmes on Channel 4, the ones in which celebrities were always full of matey praise for one another.

‘Robert’s behaviour might be predictable, but his thoughts aren’t. I’m sure Naomi’s already told you all this. I’m sure she’s being much more helpful than I could ever be. Look.’ Juliet turned round to show him that her hair was in a tight plait, sort of woven into the back of her head. ‘A perfect braid, and I did it without mirrors or anything. Pretty impressive, no?’