Earlier this year, I wrote about a pair of houndstooth patterned trousers, and how I ended up handing them over to the police.
As I typed out that column, I was struck by how neatly the metaphor fell into place. I was assaulted in the street, woken up to my own mortality, and I lost something that I was sure I’d never get back, both literally and symbolically.
But, here’s the truth: I got my houndstooth trousers back.
Police Scotland sent a letter inviting me to stop by and reclaim my property. I made a compulsory appointment in advance, waited in a hushed reception area, signed a solitary slip of paper and was reunited with my trousers after a seven-month separation.
The whole process was quick and easy. Everyone I spoke to was polite and smiled with their eyes, mandatory face masks on. Everything ran smoothly. All above board.
In March I lost a pair of houndstooth trousers and the part of me that had, until then, truly believed I was different and special and wouldn't get groped or attacked or killed by a man on the street.
I'll never get either of those things back.https://t.co/l2w2d1678H
— Alex Watson (@justthemedicine) July 9, 2021
My black and white trousers, turned inside out, were in a large, sealed brown paper bag, with a clear plastic window. They’re still in it now, weeks later, stuffed in a corner of my bedroom.
“Wash them and wear them,” a friend encouraged me last week.
“I will,” I assured him, “I want to.”
And I really do. But a niggling thought in the back of my mind that keeps getting louder is stopping me.
Chasing an answer
I feel uneasy every time I look at that evidence bag, not because of lingering fear or trauma, but because the Police Scotland letter was the only communication I’d had from them since the day I was grabbed. Six months of silence, broken only by a businesslike: collect your crap, or we’ll destroy it.
Here’s another truth: I know what happened to the man who cornered and groped me in broad daylight, minutes from my home – but only because it’s in my nature to keep digging.
After a couple of months of nothing, I summoned my inner journalist and phoned to ask for an update. I was passed to the procurator fiscal, with what turned out to be the wrong reference number.
The woman at the other end of the line and I tried to piece together enough relevant information. She kept referring to me as a witness, as though I had watched from the sidelines. A complainant, too, I wanted to point out. A victim. A disorientated human. But, when it came to technical lingo, I supposed she was right.
I became acutely aware that I was seeing a tiny snapshot of a huge operation – clinical out of necessity. She had to field phone calls like this every day. I felt guilty for taking up her time.
Lost in limbo
She couldn’t tell me much in the end, just that a trial hadn’t taken place yet.
Over the next few days, I found myself stuck thinking about how someone who had taken more damage than me might have felt after such a matter of fact call.
I stopped chasing for a while after that. It was more draining than I’d expected. I decided I’d wait patiently for official news that would surely come soon.
I’d had no idea the Victim Information and Advice service existed. I probably would have started there
More months passed. No phone call, no email, but I got my houndstooth trousers back. I spent two weeks staring at them through their little plastic window. They were in limbo, like me. I realised I couldn’t wait any longer. I called the procurator fiscal again.
Just like when I picked up my trousers, the staff I dealt with were polite and understanding; prompt and kind in their responses. Victim Information and Advice apologised that I hadn’t received any contact about my case. I’d had no idea the Victim Information and Advice service existed. I probably would have started there.
Case closed
On the face of things, the case of the houndstooth trousers is closed. I’m not going to be called to appear in a witness box out of the blue. Legal proceedings against the accused won’t be taken any further. From what I’m told, he’s receiving the psychiatric help it was clear he desperately needed.
I’m OK now. I hope the other people he ran into on that horrible morning are, too.
I’ll probably chuck the houndstooth trousers in the washer after I’ve finished writing this. But I can’t say it doesn’t bother me that my friends and colleagues and even strangers who have read my first column on this subject could see me wearing them and think that it signifies the best possible ending to the situation.
I can’t say it doesn’t bother me that I closed my front door after identifying my attacker from photographs, feeling seen and supported, then heard nothing more.
I can’t say it doesn’t bother me that I was handed my belongings and sent on my way.
Don’t keep us in the dark
When it came to the trousers, you couldn’t fault the process. Protocol followed to a T. When it came to the other stuff, though – the communication and the duty of care – things fell short.
I see now how people could and undoubtedly do slip straight through the cracks in our justice system, even while boxes signifying a job well done still get ticked.
Wow, Finnieston residents currently on the north side of the street who live on the south side of the street being told to walk through Kelvingrove, down Byres Road to Patrick and then back to Finnieston to get to their flat 100yards away. It’s dark. #COP26
— KayIeigh Quinn (@kayleighmqu) November 1, 2021
Police and politicians all across the UK are especially concerned with optics at the moment, but there’s no value in keeping up appearances for the sake of it.
When I heard about officers in Glasgow sending residents through Kelvingrove Park in the pitch black during COP26, I knew there would be a public apology soon after. Of course, shining some light on the situation as it unfolded would have worked out infinitely better for everyone involved.
Apologies don’t mean much after the fact – just, please, don’t keep us in the dark.
Alex Watson is the Head of Comment for The Press & Journal and hopes it’s finally time for change
