WHAT TO DO WHEN A GUN IS POINTED AT YOUR HEAD

How many bottles of red wine does it take to get over an armed robbery? I’ll let you know when I’ve finished drinking them.

On a September morning six years ago, I was at work in my antique shop on Dominion Road when a well-spoken young man entered the store, lifted the corner of his T-shirt, and took out a black pistol from the waistband of his trousers. He pointed it at my head, and ordered me to the ground. I was holding a handful of wristwatches in various states of repair. A customer was looking around down the back of the shop.

I said to the gunman, “You’ve got to be joking.”

He wasn’t joking.

When the police asked me how long the gunman and his accomplice were in the shop, I estimated four to five minutes. CCTV told a different story: 50 seconds. I’d had a gun pointed at my head for 50 seconds while another man helped himself to our antique jewellery, stuffing trays of gold rings into a bubblegum pink sports bag. I recall screaming at him not to take the men’s rings. Men’s rings were always so hard to get.

The last words the gunman spoke to me were, “You’re okay now.” Then he ran out of the shop. I ran out behind him, calling the police, the wristwatches still in one hand.

My memory is a little hazy after that. The neighbouring shopkeepers, undoubtedly alerted by my screaming, came out to help. It’d be interesting to hear the recording of my 111 call. I remember asking the woman from the Vodafone shop to check that the customer I’d left in the shop wasn’t stealing anything.

Hours later – after I’d relived the robbery second by second with the police – I was delivered home into the waiting arms of my first bottle of red wine. Victim Support rang to offer their assistance, but I had my mother, my husband, and my wine. I was fine.

Fine apart from the fact that after the robbery I never – and I mean never – sat down at work anymore. I was constantly on edge every time a customer entered the shop. I was always up and about, hovering by the newly installed panic button, calculating the intentions of everyone entering the shop.

I never watched the CCTV footage of the robbery. I didn’t need to. It played in technicolor glory over and over in my mind.

After my youngest daughter started school, I decided to write a book. They say write what you know, so I did. I wrote Fifteen Postcards, a novel about a girl who works in an antique shop. You could almost describe it as the back story behind the antiques in the shop – the journey those antiques had been on before languishing on the shelves. Before I knew it, without planning it, my protagonist was looking up the barrel of a gun.

I knew guns. I’d had a fair bit to do with rifles through the Air Training Corps – the Lee Enfield No 8 to be precise – and then the much lesser quality Norincos. I’d even passed my range safety officers course through the New Zealand Defence Force, and I’d qualified for my marksman badge. I used to seize the things when I worked for the New Zealand Customs Service. When I looked at the end of the gun pointing at me, I wondered whether it was real or a replica. But regardless of how familiar you are with weapons, when your whole world shrinks to the size of the barrel of a gun, you’re simply not in any position to make a rational judgement.

Writing about a traumatic experience can go two ways. It can act as a trigger to something similar to post-traumatic stress disorder. Or – and this was my experience – it can be cathartic. By writing about the robbery, it’s mostly ceased to be the big scary bogeyman that I’d allowed it to become since it happened. I allowed my protagonist to escape from the hold-up when I wrote about it in Fifteen Postcards, and it was as if I’d escaped too.

Trust me, though, when I say I much prefer my fictional ending. It remains the single most traumatic experience I’ve ever had.

As a tribute to my Welsh father, who started Antique Alley in 1971, Fifteen Postcards was published by Accent Press, based in Wales. Having the book published has done more for my recovery than the New Zealand Pinot Noir industry – although credit where credit’s due, their grape also helped immensely.

Note: This post first appeared on The Spinoff : http://thespinoff.co.nz/

29 September 2015

WHAT'S THE FIRST QUESTION A POLICEMAN ASKS?

A single comment from Pretenders singer Chrissie Hynde has overshadowed everything about her memoir. In an interview with the Times, she said that she took the blame for being the victim of a sexual assault.

She describes the incident in her book. Hynde was 21, on Quaaludes, and alone with a biker gang in “a dark and noticeably empty house… it was a white slum that had ‘Jeffrey Dahmer’ written all over it”.

Hynde quite bluntly states that her story is a story of drug abuse. A series of unfortunate decisions put her in that room that night. Drugs make you do stupid things.

The response to her Times interview has been loud and angry and intensely critical. But the one thing no victim of sexual assault needs is for anyone to judge them for the assault – nor for how they handle it. Hynde simply stated that she went willingly. She was out of it. She knew them. She took the blame entirely. That was her personal choice.

Am I in a position to comment? Having been sexually assaulted walking home from work one sunny January afternoon along Auckland’s Sandringham Road, I can empathise.

The first question the policeman asked me was what I’d been wearing.

In other words: did I bring it upon myself? Absolutely not. I was wearing cargo shorts and a singlet, with a small backpack on my back and a bottle of water in one hand at five in the afternoon on a busy road. Is the question still valid if a girl is wearing a miniskirt, a boob tube, and is high on drugs in the city centre in the small hours of a Saturday morning?

If, like Hynde, a woman knowingly consumes illicit drugs, and then something bad happens to them, and they take responsibility for the outcome, let’s not then tar that victim with our own outrage that they’ve failed to tow the party line of it never being the victim’s fault. Let’s not victimise her all over again for not behaving the way we expect victims to behave. Victims all behave differently.

I was rescued by two strangers during my experience of sexual assault. I didn’t call the police until I got home, and after I’d showered. Having watched dozens of episodes of CSI. and SVU since, I now know that’s the last thing you should do, but washing away his touch was my first instinct. Will you judge me, too?

As for Hynde’s book – the first 40 pages are so exquisitely written that it’s like reading a weighty Man Booker prize-winning novel. Her description of growing up in Ohio evokes an Americana we all wished actually existed. She depicts it as a kind of utopia, but Hynde walked away from it because of her drug use, and into a nightmare that will never leave her.

And then she got famous. Sid Vicious, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Lemmy, and Joan Jett feature in the book, as does Vivienne Westwood, who fired a young Chrissie Hynde back in the day. She took so many drugs that it’s a miracle she survived to tell her tale, let alone remember it. Reckless is the story of Hynde’s hard roads. There’s tragedy, rock’n’roll, and an earth shattering revelation on page 240. It’s simply a damn good read on either side of that page.

Note: This post first appeared on The Spinoff : http://thespinoff.co.nz/

 

20 October 2015