I decided to go to the police on a bit of a whim to be honest. I’d been to my local Tesco and I thought I had seen my abuser. I remember a tearful conversation to my boyfriend (we were long distance at the time) from the car park, but we didn’t discuss any further steps. I went home and about an hour later I asked my mum for a lift to the police station.
The police station was just across the road from numerous places where the abuse took place. I had tried to stay in the area, defiantly not wanting to give up my home town, but no matter how hard I tried it was tainted with fear and bad memories.
I headed to the main desk and waited behind a man reporting a bike that had been stolen from his front garden. After he was given a crime number and a card with contact details the lady behind the desk beckoned me to me to come forwards. The words I had been practicing over and over in my head were now stuck in my throat. Eventually, I quietly managed, “what happens if I want to report a rape that happened 6 years ago?”. My mum and I were then quickly ushered into a side room where the lady took some preliminary details and then sent me home to await a sexual abuse specialist.
It wasn’t long before I was picked up by two officers and taken to a secret house fitted with video cameras so I could give a video statement. They asked me to wait in a side room whilst they set everything up. It was clinical though you could tell an effort had been made to make it not so. There was a large sofa covered in plump cushions. On the table beside it there was a box of tissues and underneath the table was a crate filled with children’s toys. My heart broke for those children who had been there before me and who would be here after me.
I was offered a drink I refused and then ushered into the video room. This was similar to the rest of the house. You’d be forgiven for thinking it was a normal house had it not been for the fire escape plans on the back of the doors and the small blinking lights on the cameras in the corners of the room.
I then gave my statement. The officers were kind and gave me time to answer. They did push to ask about clothing but I felt this was for evidence rather than suggesting blame. There was also some slight guidance where specific words were required so as my statement was explicit for use later on (such as needing to use the words penis and vagina). It was hard and draining. I was abused for 9 months and trying to recall this and finally speak it all out loud was exhausting. As tears fell onto the head of my favourite teddy I had brought with me for comfort, I realised then that I was one of the children I had felt so sorry for just a moment ago.
Officers stayed behind at my house to interview my parents simultaneously. When I returned home they were still talking. I remember not being able to fathom how my parents had more to talk about than I did.
A few days later and a large van pulled up outside my house. A team of men emerged and one of the men offered to me that his team could change into their protective clothing in the hallway so as not to draw the eyes of nosy neighbours. I accepted. I was so exhausted I couldn’t even point out how ironic this was given that the van they arrived in was clearly marked “Crime Scene Investigation”. They swept my room and the lounge for any traces of evidence and took my school uniform and PE kit away with them.
They didn’t find anything. All physical evidence was gone. A few years earlier I had gotten rid of love letters from him, valentines cards and gifts. I feel sick knowing that I threw away hard evidence that our relationship was more than just platonic – which was his defence.
The following days, weeks, months, even now sometimes I feel plagued by worry that I missed telling the police something. Every now and then I rack my brain trying to find even one tiny piece of evidence, I’ll log into old social media accounts, look through old school books in the hope that I forgot to get rid of something. Maybe one small thing would have made all the difference.