Little hope

They treated me like a little glass ornament at the police station, where I was escorted quickly into a private room upon arrival by an overweight, friendly-looking woman, and sat across from her on a chaise. It looked more psychiatrist’s office than a police station, and I sighed internally in weary anticipation of the conversation I knew would follow.

“Okay, darlin’. Don’t you worry: we’re here to help you.”

I raised my eyebrows slightly but remained silent.

“I know this is hard, but we’re going to have to ask you some questions about what happened.”

She looked at me expectantly. I think she was waiting for tears or some flood of emotion. I’d already cried all the tears away the previous three weeks, and by now had almost disassociated myself from the incident itself, entirely accidentally. I suppose not actually remembering it helps, but now I’m stuck with the result of it in my womb. I just needed to deal with it. The less thought about the rape, the better. There was nothing I can do to change the events of that evening, and although my life would have been so much easier, or at least just normal, had it not happened, moping about it was not going to change anything. I had more pressing matters to deal with, like the growing baby inside me, whose fate I knew would have to be decided very soon.

“Yes, I know.”

She was taken aback by my calmness, but I suppose she just thought it was a defensive mechanism of some sort.

“Now, take me back to the very beginning of that evening. Try and remember every detail you can, however painful it may be – I can assure you it is crucial in the police case.”

I told her the address and date of the incident (she didn’t refer to it as rape, I guess she thought I couldn’t deal with the truth,) but really, there wasn’t a lot more I could say.

“I’m sorry, I know I was stupid, and in retrospect, of course I would never have done it, but you don’t think something bad is going to happen to you when you’re in a room with a hundred other people. I remember being in the hallway at one point, and I went into the kitchen a few times to cool down, but there’s no clarity to any of these memories and I don’t know where I was last. I don’t even know if I was raped in the bed, or is they moved me there afterwards. Maybe I fell unconscious and they took advantage of me, or perhaps I was drugged. When I woke up, I was fully clothed, but buttons were done up wrong and my belt was undone. There was blood on the bed, and I knew I’d been raped.”

“You know you should have come straight to us so we could have taken DNA samples from your clothing?”

“I was too ashamed of myself. I didn’t even tell anyone until yesterday, and only my mum knows.”

“You should never be ashamed. Nothing is your fault.”

“I do know that, but knowing it could have do easily been avoided had I not been so stupid makes it harder to believe.”

“Every other person in that house made the same decision as you. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, but it’s what teenagers do, and no-one would condemn you for wanting a little fun.”

I nodded, but I thought ‘My mother would.’

When the interview was over, I was taken back out into the foyer where my mum was waiting.

“Your daughter did her best, and she gave me everything she knew, but I’m afraid, without any sort of description, witness accounts or DNA samples, it is almost impossible to build a case. I have noted the address of the incident, and I will be speaking to the owners of that property to let them know what happened and ask if they can give us any further insight into why things were allowed to get so out-of-control. We will also take DNA samples from the room Isabel has described to us, but I wouldn’t get your hopes us; the chances are the whole place has been cleaned.

Even if we do succeed in finding evidence, it would be very hard to prove, as it will most likely boil down to his word against your daughter’s. While our aim is always to get a conviction, in cases such as these it is almost impossible to do so as there are so many loopholes the defendant can escape through and it would cause a lot of undue worry for your daughter as the case would not be taken to court for at least 18 months.

I get the feeling she just wants this over with, and personally, I don’t think pressing charges in the unlikely event we could even do so would be recommendable, in the interests of your daughter.”

As much as I hated to admit it, I agreed with her. Of course I felt angry towards the rapist, and the thought that he is still out there, possibly doing the same to other girls, made me feel so guilty, but I did just want to forget about it. I didn’t want to stand up in front of a jury and explain my ignorance and naivety, knowing they would all judge me for it, if the probability was he wouldn’t even get convicted.

My head was a mash of conflicting ideas and ceaseless guilt, but now I needed to focus on one thing only – the future of this tiny child inside me, oblivious to the fact its life was in my hands.