Having my name and a distorted version of the story continually in the papers condemned me to a living hell. I knew that everyone knew, or thought they did, and that I would never be able to escape the rumours. One night I heard, on a local radio station, a caller expressing the opinion that I had ‘probably deserved it’, that ‘women should keep their hands off other women’s property’. Then came the next blow: the police told me I would have to appear in court and give evidence against her. I collapsed—actually physically collapsed—when they told me. Of course I didn’t want her to get away with it, but I also didn’t want to be anywhere near her ever again, no matter what protection I had. I didn’t want to have to sit in court and listen to PC James Escritt describe the state I was in when he found me in the garden of Cherub Cottage.

My medical records were needed to secure a conviction, and I had to authorise the hospital to make a statement about my condition when I arrived. I begged to be spared a court appearance in exchange for agreeing to the medical statement, but that wasn’t possible. I was told that without me as a witness, the CPS would drop the case, because the chance of getting a guilty verdict would be less than fifty-one per cent. James Escritt, who had been my main point of contact throughout, even after CID got involved, did his best to arrange for me to deliver my testimony from behind a screen, or from another room in the building by video-link, but the judge refused. I’d had bad luck, apparently—more bad luck—in being assigned a judge who was known for his inflexibility.

I was a mess in court: shaking, dribbling, unable to move my limbs in the way I wanted to, feeling as if the various bits of my body weren’t properly fitted together and might fall apart at any moment. I held up proceedings by fainting twice during cross-examination. My parents had wanted to come to court with me, but I’d managed to persuade them not to. Ever since I was a child, their presence has made me feel worse in times of trouble, not better. Fortunately, I was able to put them off without saying anything so tactless or honest. I distrusted those of my friends who claimed to want to come and give me ‘moral support’, suspecting them of wanting nothing more than proximity to a juicy story that they’d be able to dine out on for years.