Tortured on the way to work
Carley Furness
Thursday 2nd August 2007
There is a moment in my life where everything I have ever thought to be normal changed.
I guess you could call it the moment where all the clocks stopped. Let me paint you a vivid 'before and after' picture.
Before. I got off the B14 bus outside the entrance to Priory Gardens in Orpington, Kent. It was 8.40am on Saturday, 30 September 2006 as I walked into the empty park. I was happy.
After. 8.45am. A sweaty hand clamped over my mouth, my back scraped the cold concrete path, I saw his fat hands gripping the knife he was using to slice open my bra strap. My attacker's cheeks wobbled and flushed pink with excitement as he grabbed my naked breasts with one hand, and unzipped my jeans with the other.
I knew I could either lie back and let this maniac with the dark, piggy eyes rape me, or I could fight. Summoning up all my strength, I yelled: 'Take my handbag!'
He stopped. The tip of the knife quivered on the patch of naked skin below my belly button.
Smirking, he traced the blade slowly down my stomach. Then with an almighty grunt he lifted it high and plunged it down.
I can't tell you much about the pain as it sliced into my belly button, or the disgusting noise it made, or the way he smiled as he brought the knife down again into my neck. But I can describe the utter horror of what he did next.
'You're a good girl,' he smiled. 'Well done.'
Then the smell of stale sweat suffocated me, as he lunged forward and kissed me hard on the lips. Staring at me one last time, he grabbed my bag and ran.
I struggled to my feet. I'd barely taken a few steps when I fell into the arms of a small woman with short, dark hair.
'An ambulance is on its way,' she said, putting her coat around my breasts.
Oh God. I was half naked.
Two days later I came round in hospital. As I opened my eyes, every bit of me hurt. I couldn't speak because I had a tube in my throat. I had six stitches in the four-inch gash in my neck, and 32 staples in the nine-inch scar stretching from my chest to my stomach.
My mum, Teresa, 41, and dad, Gary, 49, hovering over me, tears in their eyes.
'Am I going to die?' I mouthed.
'No, love,' Dad choked.
He told me I was in intensive care in St Mary's Hospital, Sidcup. I'd had 10 hours of surgery. I'd lost seven pints of blood and had been given an emergency transfusion. My jaw was broken, I'd lost two teeth, broken nine others and had to have a mouth brace fitted to realign my jaw.
'Doctors gave you a 50/50 chance,' Dad wept.
The tube in my throat meant I couldn't speak, but when the police arrived the next day, we worked out a way.
'Put your thumb up for yes and down for no,' the officer said gently.
Using our code, I managed to get across my attacker's description. A big, jowly man with stubble and short brown hair. It was obviously good enough as the next day, the officer returned.
'We've arrested someone,' he said.
Two days later, Peter Anscombe, 28, was charged with attempted murder. The police told me he was a care worker in the same hospital I was in.
Seven days later, I had the tube removed from my throat, and nine days after that, I was discharged. Back home, I suffered constant pain and flashbacks. None of it made sense.
Why me? Why the kiss?
Then one night, there was a knock at the door. It was Richard Moore, 24. He lived down the
road, and before the attack we'd often have a chat.
'I heard what happened,' he said nervously, clutching a bunch of roses and a box of Dairy Milk. 'How are you?'
I was really touched. For the first time since the attack I smiled.
After that, Richard often popped round. I felt like I could talk to him about anything.
'I feel so ugly,' I confided one night. 'What guy would want me covered in so many scars?'
'I think you're beautiful,' he smiled. We started going out.
In June this year I went to the Old Bailey in London to see Anscombe on trial. Taking a deep breath, I took to the stand to give evidence. There was a screen up, so I couldn't see Anscombe. But it didn't make it any easier, and I shook as I described what had happened that day. I stuttered and cried as I explained how Anscombe had assaulted me. Living through it had been bad enough, but describing it to a load of strangers was beyond bad. Did they think I was stupid for walking through a park alone?
But I was determined to finish. And the more I started talking, the easier it became. I was determined that monster wasn't going to get away with doing what he'd done to me to anyone else. He'd controlled my life for eight months. I wasn't going to let him do it any more.
Because I was a witness, I wasn't allowed back in court for the rest of the trial and waited at home on tenterhooks for Mum and Dad to get home each night and fill me in. It turned out Anscombe had been stalking me for days.
After a seven-day trial I was allowed back in court for the verdict. I took a deep breath as the foreman of the jury stood up.
'We find the defendant guilty,' he said.
Anscombe was guilty of wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm and sexual assault for the attack on me, and assault for the attack on the other woman in Bromley.
Tears streamed down my face. Justice had been done. But there was still one thing I had to do. Swallowing hard, I walked up to the glass screen which separated Anscombe from the rest of the court and looked straight at him. And do you know what? He didn't even have the guts to look at me. The spineless coward. He was sentenced to life in prison.
It's been 11 months since the attack, and slowly life's getting back to normal. I'm back at work, and Richard and I are still going strong. I'm now a product of what happened that terrible morning. Scarred, angry and scared, yes. But stronger? Definitely.
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