She was hunched over, facing the wall, as I paused for the automatic glass doors to open at Intermarche supermarket. She turned her head and said “sorry”.
I knew she was English from her pronunciation of that single word. I raised my hand and entered the store. I stopped inside to watch as she emptied the filthy cigarette tray into an empty plastic fruit container.
She walked unsteadily on the outside of the glass and I followed her from the inside. She collapsed on a railing, scattering the contents of her handbag on the ground and sobbed pitifully. I exited the store. “Do you need help? Can I get a doctor for you?” I asked. “No, no, I’ve been raped,” she said. I helped her gather, passport, purse and a collection of soiled papers. I was careful to look behind, fearing I might be mugged. “Who raped you?” She looked at me, “A sixty-year-old Romanian, he works in a cafe over there. He raped me anally, in his flat, I smashed his head with a bedside lamp.”
She showed me a police report which confirmed she was 42 years old and her name was Rebecca.
“Is there anyone who can help you, in the UK?” I said. “No, nobody cares,” she said. “Have you a difficulty with a substance, Rebecca?” “Do I look like a drug addict?” She asked me.
She stared into the dark reflective glass of the shop front. “Jesus, I look like a junkie,” and she sat cross-legged on the ground, took out a cheap makeup bag and spent 10 minutes trying to improve her looks. Passers-by gave us inquisitive looks.
I have rarely felt as helpless as that moment when I watched Rebecca try to put a cover over a tragic life. She hugged me, thanked me and I walked away, testing whether she would ask for money. She didn’t, so I turned back and gave her a Euro note. “Buy a hot meal,” I said.
A fortnight later, I saw Rebecca at an outside cafe table at Intermarche. “You’re looking better,” I told her. “Have a coffee with me,” she said, and I bought two to share. “I’m pregnant,” she announced. “Who is the father?”
“An ex-boyfriend, who abuses me,” she said. “I’m living in a tent in a field, the cops are good, they check on me during the night.”
“Rebecca,” I said, “I don’t know how to help you. I have to consider my own health and age, I am afraid of what the future might do to you. All I can say is find a friend and ask them to please help you.”
I avoided Intermarche for two months. The next time I saw her, from a distance, sitting by the ATM outside the store. I could see the deterioration. She saw me, jumped up, and ran towards me. “Des, Des, Des, where have you been? I was worried about you,” she said. She threw her arms around me and clung fiercely.
An unpleasant acrid odour rose from Rebecca’s body. Her right eye socket was yellow and blue, she had cuts to her forehead and cheek, her hands were discoloured and she had weeping sores across her knuckles. No one cared anymore, not even her. “I was attacked,” she said, parting her hair on the back of her head,
“The baby?” I asked. “I pooed it out on the ground,” she said, “dead.”
“Rebecca,” I said, “you are a beautiful young woman. I don’t want to see your body on a beach or by the roadside.” “I know,” she said, “come and have coffee with me.” “Not today, Rebecca.”
I gave her a Euro note, and saw her hurrying up the main street as I drove home, certain of where she was heading.
I haven’t seen Rebecca in two months.
Beautiful young lives destroyed
Wonderful to read your writing again – poignant, with powerful photos too. Moving and fabulous at the same time.