Danger's Edge

6 Hours

I’m determined to stay dispassionate. When I remove my shoes and my dress, the technician places them in evidence bags. I unclip my bra and hand it over, too, but I stop, frozen, as I go to remove my briefs. This isn’t right.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

I stare at her and then back at my underwear and my jaw drops, initially lost for words.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“These undies, they aren’t mine,” I say.

Her look is quizzical.

“I never buy this type. I always either wear designer underwear or else Marks and Spencer’s. When I dressed last Friday, the last day I remember, I’m sure I was wearing a Victoria’s Secret thong. These are plain white briefs.” I tug the elastic waistband at the back to look at the label. It confirms my suspicions. The briefs are labelled George; they’re from Asda. I’ve never bought my underwear from Asda.

GeorgeI feel a wave of panic. I don’t know why it should make such big a difference to me when I’m already contemplating that I’ve probably been drugged and r***d. However, the thought of a person unknown removing my undergarments and dressing me in different ones, ones I wouldn’t ever normally wear, feels an intrusion too far. I try to think why. Could my thong have been ripped off? Or perhaps it became soiled in some way. Then again, it might have been kept as a trophy. Try as I might, I find no conceivable innocent explanation. My hands are shaking as I carefully remove the briefs and hand them to the technician. I’m completely unclothed. She gives me one of the health board’s disposable paper gowns to wear. The room isn’t cold – if anything, it’s warm and stuffy – but I’m standing there shivering.

Despite the gown, I feel naked. I feel even more vulnerable and exposed as the examination is carried out. Although the nurse is friendly and chatty, I can’t absorb anything she’s saying. I try to numb my brain as the examination progresses. I imagine I’m detached, someone else, somewhere else, watching what’s going on. She starts by taking me to a booth to give a blood sample, one prick in my arm, then she attaches a tube. Afterwards, she guides me back to the main room where I’m asked to lie on an examination table and to twist and turn on request, to enable the study to proceed effectively. The doctor makes a detailed appraisal of my body and every so often she takes photographs. If only I could have been watching this as an observer and not as the victim, I’d find it fascinating; the professionalism and attention to detail.

She’s narrating a commentary on what she’s doing, together with her findings, onto a recorder. It’s like I’ve seen on thrillers or documentaries on TV when a medical examiner is carrying out a post-mortem. The two key differences are, one, it’s happening to me, not some random corpse and two, I’m still alive. She checks for bruises, abrasions and scratches and for any traces of DNA or fabric traces left by an abductor, or from clothing or furnishings. I hear her record seeing marks on my wrists which may suggest a ligature. There’s some bruising to my neck and thighs but apparently nothing significant.

She asks me to lean my head over a table and brushes my hair to collect any particles that fall out onto a piece of sterile paper. Then she apologises about causing any pain before pulling a few hairs complete with follicles from my head and then some pubic hairs. She takes a skin sample from me and then scrapes the underside of each of my fingernails and toenails, as well as taking clippings, looking for skin fragments left by someone I may have held onto or scratched. On frequent occasions, she places items in evidence bags and scribbles notes against them. She takes my fingerprints and I’m asked to provide a sample each of urine and saliva. I hear from her narration that she’s looking for evidence of restraints or puncture marks from needles. She takes swabs to detect any evidence or DNA residue in the form of hair, skin, sperm or saliva from an assailant. I’m asked to stand while I’m meticulously sponged over. I have to stifle my screams and my desire to run as there’s an all too familiar feeling of unknown hands touching and stroking me everywhere. I pretend it’s not real, not me, trying to avoid the feeling of violation as I’m examined inside and out, but it isn’t working. Tears are streaming down my face.

It’s an ordeal, but once it’s complete, I’m told I can shower and change into the fresh clothing Jenny brought me. I doubt there’s enough water in Scotland to enable me to feel clean and fresh again. I gladly accept the offer and I immerse myself under the flowing jets, but it helps little. I’m not comfortable knowing where I am and that others are waiting for me on the other side of a door. I want to be home to have a long, leisurely shower. I quickly wash, a superficial cleaning to remove any evidence of this most recent intrusion, then I dress, desperate to get away from this place.