Trapped.

This morning I read a blog post by an actor that made me feel sick. It made me shiver, and I’ve been unable to entirely shake that feeling for most of today.

The blog post in question deals, in surprisingly good humour given the circumstances (which I find admirable), with an experience of stalking that concluded with a court case but took in along the way details of how little Twitter values its users and how frightening it can be when you don’t know if anyone even believes you - or, hell, if you even believe yourself.

I don’t want to talk too much about Beth’s experience, largely because she speaks eloquently and intelligently about it all for herself and I don’t need to speak for her. Instead, I wanted to talk about an experience I had, about eight or nine years ago. In many ways it’s nothing like Beth’s experience - but reading her account reminded me of it so strongly I can’t exorcise it without somehow talking about it now.

It’s about some letters, and feeling trapped.

I was 21 when this happened, which means I’d only just finished university. After three years away I was moving back to my hometown - the only problem was that I had nowhere to live.

I’ve mentioned before that I moved out of home at 16, and although I was lucky enough to get a council flat for a year before I left for university, I’d had to give it up in my first term as I couldn’t afford both rents and my feckless boyfriend at the time ran home to Mama and Auntie [redacted] when he realised he might have to pay something towards the flat he treated as little more than a spare living room.

Not bitter, after so many years. Of course.

I also had very little money. I was bouncing between my dad’s sofa and the spare side of my best friend’s bed, and I’d managed to get a job at the local Spar but hadn’t been paid yet. I was waiting on hearing back from a Well-Known-High-Street-Bank about a ‘proper’ job, whatever one of those is when you’ve just finished an English Lit and Creative Writing degree and the world is recovering from a global recession.

I got in touch with a greasy letting agent from an agency I’m going to call Peeling Walls because… well, if you knew who they were you’d think this was very witty. This man drove a silver Toyota Celica convertible and I don’t know what that means but he mentioned it a fair few times. I’ve seen him much more recently; he now drives a Range Rover and his face hasn’t moved a muscle.

Anyway, in some ways I’m being very mean because this man did find me somewhere I could afford to live - a room in a shared house. No bother to me, I’d been living in shared houses for the past three years at uni and the city I’m from is beautiful, with some brilliant examples of Gothic and Mediaeval architecture and also no one from there can afford to buy a house there. Excellent prep for my recent move to London in lots of ways.

I went to view said room in shared house. The landlord’s name was Stephen, and he was really nice. He reminded me of my Uncle Pete and was, like my uncle, a builder. A builder who was still renovating the room I wanted to rent. Now, the room was going to be perfect, I could see that immediately. It would be small, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t have a lot of stuff and the reason it was unfinished it because Stephen was putting in an en-suite wet room-style bathroom and also adding a little ‘kitchenette’ area in one corner. I’m an antisocial girl; this was fantastic news. ‘I’ll take it’, I said. ‘But, er, how long until it’s ready? The thing is, I have nowhere else to go.’

Maybe Stephen was just keen to have a ‘warm’ option ready to get rent in as soon as poss, but also maybe he was a nice man, because he had an idea: another property he owned had a spare room - still in need of reno work, but at least not currently covered in sharp edges and sawdust. An attic room, he said, and I could live in it for the six weeks he expected the other room to take for cheap rent.

(I am very Yorkshire, because secretly I was like ‘if I like it enough I’ll just ask to stay there, save money’. Spoiler: I elected not to do this in the end.)

How many shit things happen because the person they’re happening to was out of better options?

There was no one in when my Dad dropped me off at the interim flat with a big bag of stuff. It was a big, Georgian or Victorian terrace at the posher end of town, so from the outside it looked impressive enough but as soon as I got in I was hit by a damp, unwashed smell. The walls in the hallway were… ahem, peeling. The kitchen, when I popped my head round the door, was fairly big and surprisingly modern but there were stacks of dirty plates and pans everywhere. Trouble with sharing spaces, nothing new to me. The only bathroom in the building was just off the kitchen, a little shower room. Annoying, since I was going to be up in the attic so whenever I needed a wee in the night I’d have a long way to go but not the end of the world.

The attic room was… barely a room. A rickety single bed was pushed as far under the eaves as possible, and a low bookcase sat against one wall. I was pleased to note I had a bedroom sink, so I could at least brush my teeth on my own schedule.

The room was one half of the attic. The stairs marked the centre of the space - on the other side, another bedroom.

About five minutes after my dad left, I heard a knock on my new bedroom door. I opened it and was greeted by my neighbour, a short lad maybe a year or two older than me, with black hair and eyes, and an accent that, all put together, suggested to me immediately he was an international student.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘My name’s Kash and I was wondering if you could do me a favour.’

Weird intro, sure, but… ‘Um… maybe?’

He’d just sent his duvet and sheets to the laundrette, he said, and they were going to be later getting them back to him. Did I have a blanket he could borrow?

Now, in hindsight this seems like a weird thing to ask a nervous young girl who has literally only just moved in across the hall from you; but I was raised to be polite and as it happens, years of sofa surfing meant that I pretty much always had spare blankets. So, sure - I gave him one of those fluffy ones, a wide beige thing. He said thanks, and left.

I finished up the night by unpacking my clothes and stacking some tins of chopped tomatoes and tuna on the empty bookshelf - I also unpacked my kettle, pleased about the sink as it meant I could stay up in my room for cups of tea as well. Then, tired and a little bit deflated I got into bed (metal creaking with every move) and sent some sulky texts to a boy I fancied who was being very evasive about his feelings, but was at least texting me back.

In the morning I woke up as a shaft of sunlight fell on the wiry grey carpet, by the door. First thing in a morning the room felt sticky and a bit uncomfortable, so I knelt up on the bed and pulled open the roof window. I had a lovely view of the rooftops.

When I got off the bed I noticed there was a folded up piece of paper in the middle of that patch of sunlight, where it had been pushed under the door. I picked it up, opened it, and -

Hi. Thank you again for lending me your blanket, it is very soft and warm. Let me take you to dinner, to say thank you. Kash.

I didn’t want to go for dinner with Kash. I can’t really explain how that first note made me feel; awkward, yes, and I’ve never handled male attention well so I immediately wanted to shut it down. I also felt a sneaking suspicion that the whole borrowing-a-blanket thing was a ruse and that made me a little bit annoyed, because if you need an excuse to talk to a girl, maybe that’s a hint then isn’t the right time to make a move? And - anyway - I’d literally been in the flat for less than 10 minutes when he made his first move. Which was weird, right?

I wrote back, on that occasion, just on the back of the original note. I tried to be gracious, there’s really no need, it’s just neighbourly. Then I made use of a judicious lie, just to be safe - unfortunately I’m not sure my boyfriend would like me going for dinner with another man.

That would be the end of that, right?

All the women reading this know the answer already: dead wrong, naive young Jess.

Later that day when I got home, I had another note. I’d like you to meet my friends - maybe you could come and watch me play football on Saturday morning. (I can’t imagine anything fucking worse than getting up for anyone on a Saturday morning to watch football, soz Kash).

My parents are coming to the UK soon, they’d like you. This was day three. I wasn’t replying anymore.

Luckily I wasn’t there much; my swanky graduate job (read: underpaid cashier in a bank) came through and I had a tonne of training to do which kept me busy, plus I was still doing Spar shifts near my dad’s house to make sure I could pay all my rent and bills. Also, since I was finally back in my hometown I went out a bit, drinking, with friends. Wherever possible I elected to stay over at someone else’s house.

Every time I did go back, I found another note. They escalated too; on one occasion I got back to find two Gu chocolate puddings and a single spoon (gross) laid out by my bedroom door with a note suggesting I knock to let him know I was back. I silently placed them back outside his door and let myself into my room as quietly as I could.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t feel threatened by Kash as such - he was a good couple of inches shorter than me and I had a suspicion even then that a swift shove down the stairs would do for him if he tried owt. But it was horrible, this feeling that there was someone with ideas about me meeting his parents for God’s sake, just on the other side of the attic, listening and waiting for me to get home so he could knock on my door.

Oh, yeah, he knocked on my door all the time. Whenever he did, I froze, my heart hammering and my skin clammy. I took to sitting on the floor instead of the too-creaky bed until the very last moment before I wanted to sleep. That lad I was texting knew about it, but his immediate plan to help was to ‘come round and jump on the bed to back up your having a boyfriend story’ and frankly I didn’t exactly trust his motives either.

And then I got the note that upset me most of all. I won’t… describe it properly here. I don’t need to, really - let’s just say it was explicit, and involved an elaborate description of what went through his mind when he was cuddling the blanket I’d lent to him.

And - quick point, in case this wasn’t clear: I’d had precisely one conversation with him, for roughly two minutes. I’d replied to one note, with a polite ‘no thank you’. And now… this. Every day. For weeks. He even hung around in the kitchen while I was showering, as if hoping I’d swan around in a towel to go back upstairs. Unfortunately for Kash I learned the art of getting dressed in swimming pool changing rooms without anything hitting the wet floor when I was in primary school, so.

And you know what? I don’t think I need to say a lot else. I’ve made my point - I knew it wouldn’t go on forever because I was moving again in six weeks and I’d never see him again. And nothing else happened beyond the notes and the unwanted gifts; it just made me act irrationally: one night, tipsy Jess didn’t want to go home alone so I befriended a small cat and let her follow me into my house and all the way upstairs. I gave her one of my tuna tins and when I woke up in the morning the sheer relief of a small purring creature on my chest made the fact there was another note under my door slightly more bearable.

I did let her go home as soon as I woke up, like. Not a monster, I was just… lonely. I couldn’t tell people, after all - who? My Dad? He was feeling guilty enough that I wasn’t living with him. My friends? How exactly would that sound? My neighbour borrowed a blanket and gave me chocolate pots, what a tool right? And - even though I knew I hadn’t led him on I was worried that somehow I was to blame. Should I have been less friendly? But I was just being polite… so what could I have done differently?

It changed when I saw Stephen again, for the first time since moving in. He asked how I was getting on, and I gave him the notes from Kash. I wasn’t sure… if they were ok, but I felt uncomfortable and… did he have an update on when the other room would be ready?

I’m going to give Stephen full credit here. He moved me the next day, and helped me bring my suitcase downstairs personally. He apologised for the delay (he’d been on holiday) and then as he gave me the keys to my new room he said:

‘If anything like that happens to you in the new place, you should tell me. I can’t have that, I want you to be happy living in one of my properties.’

And it was only then that I realised what I’d been worried about: what if no one believed me? What if I was making a big fuss over nothing? But my landlord believed me, and I found out later he’d also told Kash he was on his last warning and if anything like that happened again he’d be evicted. I wouldn’t want that, someone homeless, but the fact of being believed and supported was such a relief. It was what I needed.

Now, not to go all woe-is-me on this topic, this is not the only time I’ve experienced crappy relationship-related behaviour. I have been sexually assaulted on more than one occasion (sorry mum, dad, if you’re reading this). I’ve been followed home numerous times, and had men I’ve been on dates with behave in creepy and deeply entitled ways. I’m sure women can behave this way too, but as a straight woman this is the only perspective I’ve got - and I’m fine. I’m not especially traumatised, I’m so lucky in that regard.

But when I see accounts from other women about their experiences, it makes my skin go cold, and I freeze, and I remember what it felt like to live in that teeny-tiny attic room, trying hard not to make a sound.