Chapter 21: THEN - The Safe Room

The weeks between Dad’s arrest and his trial for common assault were some of the worst of my life. After the police gathered witness statements, they found out that Honey had brandished a knife and threatened Peter. She was given a youth caution a few days later. Dad almost lost his administrative job at the college. Luckily, his boss was sympathetic after he explained the background with Peter. Honey barely left her room, embarrassed that her fit of anger had resulted in Dad’s arrest and her own caution.

I don’t remember any happy moments during those weeks. There were silent dinners and Mum had a short fuse. Honey spent less time with her friends because of all the rumours circulating around school about her. Mum came home from work every day scowling and sighing. There was one day I called round at Tesco after school and caught her and Mary arguing in the car park.

“Whatever Peter’s done, he didn’t deserve being assaulted,” Mary shouted. “Your Dean’s a violent man!”

Mum snapped back. “And your son’s deranged! Hanging around a child’s bedroom window at one in the morning. He’s lucky to be alive!”

“I know! Peter told me all about your oldest coming at him with a knife. And you call my family deranged!”

Mum ushered me into the car and slammed the door. I watched Mary walk away with her nose in the air. She’d always been so mild-mannered. I hated all this conflict and how it brought the worst out of everyone.

I felt like I was at the centre, like the sun, and my family, Peter Harlow, his mother, and even the police, orbited around me. I didn’t want to be the centre of anything. I felt unbalanced. One wrong move could have them falling into a pit below my feet.

Peter kept quiet. It was the only positive at that time. Even still I couldn’t relax. I checked my exits wherever I went. On every walk home from school my pulse skyrocketed. I constantly checked over my shoulder. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, open the curtains and check the street.

Nothing.

After two weeks, I started to believe that PC Thomas was right. He’d moved on.

After three weeks, Honey gradually came out of her funk.

A month passed. Then two. I still checked over my shoulder. It was like muscle memory.

Ten weeks passed and then I saw it, the blue BMW parked three streets away from home. I saw it on the hill coming up from the park after meeting Hannah and Becca from after school. The air froze in my lungs and I started to hyperventilate. I doubled over, sucking in oxygen, trying to breathe. Sweat broke out all over my body. I felt like I was going to die right there on the pavement, like fear itself would claim me.

A stranger rushed to my side. “Are you all right, love?”

I was scared to look up at them, scared it was him, but then I finally did, I saw a woman in her fifties. She must have been a nurse because she told me exactly what to do to calm my breathing.

“Let’s get you down on the ground. That’s right. Breathe with me.” She inhaled, and her chest expanded.

The world tilted. I thought I might pass out. But I followed her breathing, slowly working through the panic.

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I’m okay. I just skipped lunch. I… was lightheaded but I’m okay now.”

She seemed reluctant to leave me, but I persisted, keen to get another glimpse of the car. Perhaps even a quick photo. Once she’d left, I checked again but the car was gone.

Did I even see it in the first place?

It kept happening. I saw the back of Peter’s head halfway down the street as I was walking home. But then whoever it was crossed the road and disappeared between two houses. He had the same haircut, the same jacket, the same gait. But was it him?

I carried my digital camera wherever I went, trying to capture what I was seeing, but I was never quick enough. If I saw his car ahead of the bus, it would turn off before I managed to take a picture. If I thought I saw him near the school gates, by the time I reached the road, he was gone. Part of me thought I was going mad. Maybe it was all my imagination. I couldn’t tell anyone because I felt so stupid. There was no proof anyway, so what was the point?

During this time, he did not send me a single text or Facebook message. He did not call. Not at any point could I log him following me.

Either I really was losing my marbles, or he was adapting as a stalker, acting smarter, more strategic. All the while I was falling apart and feeling stupider. My grades dropped from As to Bs and Cs. I fell asleep during a French lesson. Sometimes I would go to the toilets and cry my eyes out for the entire lunch break. My friends no longer spent much time with me, choosing to sit and eat with another group instead. Sometimes there were still whispers about my older boyfriend and how I was a total slut.

He’d won.

The trial loomed. A depressing deadline, an X on the calendar for when I would have to stand as a witness.

I’d been given an option to appear via video link, but I decided to go. I wanted to see Dad while I was there. I knew it would also mean seeing Peter, and in a way that was good too. Maybe if I could show him I wasn’t afraid, he’d start to leave me alone. I’d been researching stalking on the internet, and some people thought it was all about control. Stalkers get off on making their victim scared. If I could show him that I wasn’t scared, he might lose interest.

I had to take a day off school. Dad drove us to Leeds Magistrates’ Court, parking in a multi-storey car park. Mum held my hand as we walked through the city to the red-brick, blocky building. It’s hard to explain how I felt. There was almost a relief washing through me. After peering over my shoulder and seeing Peter’s silhouette in the shadows, at least now I knew I’d see him.

I had to wait outside the courtroom for my turn. Witnesses couldn’t sit and watch the trial which meant an agonising wait outside the door on an uncomfortable chair. It smelled like old wood and leather in that place, a little like the sports hall at school. Mum stayed with me while Honey went into the public gallery to show support for Dad, but I could tell she’d rather be inside. I balled my hands up into fists, relaying the facts in my head, still organising that traumatic night, determined to help Dad.

“You should go in, Mum,” I said after a couple of minutes. “Dad needs you in there.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“I’m fine. Peter’s inside there remember. I’m safe out here.”

I knew she wanted to be in the courtroom. And I wanted to be alone, because while Peter was inside that room, I knew I could be alone for a change. My worst fear couldn’t get to me.

About thirty minutes into the trial, an usher came to get me. I rubbed my sweaty palms against my jeans and followed him through the large wooden door into a room full of people.

Of course, my eyes found Peter right away. He kept his head down, not even glancing my way. It was almost an anti-climax, so I turned to Dad sitting next to his solicitor, and then Mum and Honey sitting in the public gallery. I was taken to a small stand located next to a long desk where the three magistrates sat. Two women and one man. I hoped they would listen to my story.

My knees trembled. I thought I might puke up on the brown carpet, but I didn’t. I swore to tell the truth and then waited for my questions.

Dad’s solicitor, Mr Kapoor, stood and smiled. I’d met him a few times before as he’d advised Dad before the trial. He was young and had a round face with black curly hair cropped close to his skull. They were hoping for a result of self-defence considering that Peter had been stalking me. He introduced me to the magistrates and then turned to face me.

“Amber, can you tell the court what woke you that night?”

I clasped my hands together, entwining my fingers, trying to stop them from trembling. My eyes wanted to trail over to Peter, but I stopped them.

“I don’t know, exactly. I think I heard something outside.”

“And what happened then?”

“I went to the window and opened the curtains. And I saw P… Peter standing across the road under a streetlight.”

“What time was that, Amber?”

“Just after one a.m.”

Mr Kapoor nodded, telling me I was doing a good job. “Could you talk us through everything that happened after that?”

It was as I recounted the events of that night that Peter’s gaze slowly panned over to me. I felt the blood rush into my face, then shame, then anger and lastly fear. He saw it all, I could tell, and I stumbled over my words.

One of the magistrates, a woman with greying hair in a bob, turned to me. “Would you like to take a break, Amber?”

I shook my head, scared that if I left the room, I’d never have the strength to return.

Mr Kapoor brought my attention back to him. “Amber, could you tell the court how you met Mr Harlow.”

“My mum used to visit his mum sometimes. Me and my sister, Honey, would play with him.”

“How old were you?”

“About eight. But we hadn’t been for years. About five months ago I went swimming, with Honey. We saw Peter at the baths. He asked us if we wanted a lift home in his car.”

“And what happened after that?”

I cleared my throat. To my right, I was vaguely aware of Peter folding his arms. Then I saw Honey and she nodded to me to keep going.

I told them everything. I described the way Peter had made me a mix CD, and how he drove around talking about me being a good girl. I told them he tried to kiss me and how Honey had helped me compose a message to say I wasn’t interested. Then I talked about the text messages, the calls, the way he’d appear at my bus stop.

“This log has been sent to the police, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Amber, tell me how this has made you feel.”

“Scared,” I said. “I never feel like I’m alone, I think he’s behind me, watching me. It’s like he’s waiting for the right time.”

“The right time for what?” Mr Kapoor asked.

“To hurt me.”

Mr Kapoor sat down then, and a different solicitor stood to ask me questions. He was tall and wiry with a mop of greying hair. He cleared his throat and somehow even that had a gravitas to it.

“Hello, Amber, my name is Mr Mathis, and I am also going to ask you some questions. Please take your time. Now, you say my client, Mr Harlow, tried to kiss you while you were on a date with him. What happened after you rejected the kiss?”

“He took me home, but⁠—”

“Correct. He drove you home. Has Mr Harlow ever hurt you in any way?”

“No.”

“Has he ever touched you?”

“He… he touched my face a few times, but⁠—”

“He never grabbed or pushed you?”

“No.”

“Has he ever hit you?”

“No.”

“Could you describe the way your father hit my client, Mr Harlow?”

I clasped my hands together even tighter. I hated this. I hated Mr Mathis’s pale blue eyes and jowly face. I hated all the eyeballs staring at me, especially Peter Harlow’s.

“He just lashed out. It happened quickly.”

“Were you still close to the streetlight at this time?”

“Yes.”

“You could see well enough?”

“Yes.”

“Where did Mr Ellis hit Mr Harlow?”

I paused. “On the back of his head.”

“The back of his head?”

“Yes.”

“What was Mr Harlow doing during this time?”

“He was… um…” I glanced at Dad, wishing the ground would swallow me home. But I had to tell the truth. “Peter was leaving, but⁠—”

“Thank you, Amber.”

“But you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know Peter. It’s… We’ve all had enough, we’ve⁠—”

The same magistrate turned to me. “Thank you, Amber. You’ve answered the question.”