Ten years ago, I finished yet another late shift at my summer retail job. 

At 18 years old, I loved working at my favourite high-street fashion store, but after the 11pm finishes, I just wanted to get home.  

I hopped on my usual bus in Birmingham; I didn’t think much of a man in a green parka sitting one seat away from me in the back row. It was a busy night, so his choice of seat felt harmless. 

But after a while, his fingers started to creep towards my thigh. I felt uncomfortable, stiffening and edging closer to the passenger on my right. Too scared to look, I kept my eyes ahead. 

For the next 20 minutes, I grew more and more panicked, as his hand got ever closer and he started to make movements under the overnight bag on his lap. Back then I was too afraid to understand what was happening. Now, I’m sure he was masturbating. 

As I got off the bus, this man was right behind me. At this point, I was terrified.

I’d been leered at in the street before, propositioned while in my school uniform or waiting for a bus. I’d also been groped without consent at an open-air gig, where I stood silent and still until the man moved on.

I felt dirty, but had no concerns I wouldn’t make it home that night. 

This incident on the bus was the first time I’d been scared for my life. I was frightened about being raped, robbed or murdered – but I also wondered if it was arrogant of me to believe this man was targeting me.

I’m sure I’m not alone in second-guessing if I’m too ugly to be assaulted – a familiar insult hurled at many sexual harassment victims. 

I had never felt scared walking home alone before that bus journey

Once I was off the bus I pretended to look for something in my bag, hoping he’d walk in the opposite direction to my house. When he did, I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling silly for thinking he was following me.

After all, what would this man want with me? Did I think that the world revolved around me?

But after heading home, I noticed that the man had turned around and was still following me. I went cold, my heart racing.

I picked up my pace but was careful not to break into a run, and subtly tried to call my dad to make him aware that I was in possible danger. I told him to come to the bus stop now and hung up without any further explanation so as to not arouse suspicion from the stranger. 

As I sped across the pavement, I saw my dad standing a few metres ahead. He let me pass him to see if the man would follow. The second it became clear the man planned to, my dad let rip, screaming at him and asking what we thought he was planning to do to his daughter until the man rapidly walked down an adjacent road into the night.

I kept walking until I was at my house, the front door wide open with my mom waiting.

At home, I was shaken from the ordeal. My mom called the police and I made a statement the next morning to a sympathetic pair of officers. Despite them checking the CCTV footage, no suspect was ever apprehended. 

It scarred me for life. I had never felt scared walking home alone before that bus journey, but I now walk with my keys between my fingers, text friends where I am, I’ve installed a tracking app, and keep a personal alarm on me. I still avoid that bus route out of fear of the same thing happening again.

As women, it feels like many of us have a similar story. You’re even at risk of Hollywood celebrities like Jamie Dornan stalking you to prepare for their next role.

That’s why the murders of Sarah Everard and Sabina Nessa have struck such a chord with me. While they are by no means the only women to have been murdered by men (in the UK, a woman is killed by a man every three days on average), being of a similar age to these women, and a similar ethnicity to Sabina feels too close for comfort.

I now feel more scared and vulnerable than I have in a long time, particularly as I start going out more after lockdown and the nights get darker.

The fact that Sarah Everard was abducted by a serving police officer makes me wonder who I can actually trust to keep me safe at night, while the frequency of missing people alerts on my social media feeds makes me feel anxious at the thought that my picture could be next – a fear sparked by this bus journey over a decade ago. 

In the UK, a woman is killed by a man every three days on average

It is not a woman’s individual responsibility to feel safe, but like many I know, I’ve been distinctly unimpressed and even insulted by the solutions proposed by the government.

Flagging down a bus? There’s no chance of drivers opening the doors for you even if they see you running to the stop. A new 888 number to text? Not so helpful if an attacker takes your phone – and forgive me for not trusting that the police tracking my walk home will keep me alive, considering the circumstances of Sarah Everard’s murder.

These arbitrary methods mark an ineffective system poorly designed to keep women ‘safe’.

Women must feel that any reports of assault will be taken seriously, no matter their race, sexuality or gender identity. In a culture where just 1.6% of rape cases result in someone being charged, it’s perhaps not surprising that only around 15% of all sexual violence assaults are reported to the police. If Sarah Everard’s murderer had been investigated for his prior accusations, I question if she’d still be alive today. 

When Justice Secretary Dominic Raab doesn’t even understand the definition of misogyny, what hope is there of this government putting in place tangible changes that will keep women safe? Training on how a patriarchal and misogynistic culture fuels violence against women would be a bare minimum first step, in my opinion.

As well as enforcing legislation and introducing new measures to make misogyny a hate crime, street lighting, affordable late-night transport and education in schools are just a few other ways the government can help to protect women.

These changes must be a priority, and soon, but until then, I only feel safe when I’m keeping my keys between my fingers as a makeshift solution to a national problem.

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