Do you ever find yourself looking at a date and trying to figure out why it’s important? That was me, squinting at my phone this morning. March 12. Holy crap. Why this suffocating feeling of dread? Have I missed a writing deadline? (I’ve missed several, thanks to my unpredictable mental health). Do I have some medical appointment? An important birthday? I checked my physical and digital diaries. No entries.

Some dates are just etched into the fabric of your psyche forever. And as I sat in the shower, a jolt of electricity awakened me, and suddenly I remembered. Funny, because there was a time that I never thought I’d forget. I can’t believe it’s been fourteen years since my life changed in many ways.

It was Friday, 12 March 2010. It was just under five months to D-Day, the day when my fiancé and I were due to declare our eternal love for each other. Our fathers had both made generous contributions to the proceedings earlier that week, and JP and I had decided that, rather than trusting ourselves to save the money, we would immediately pay off the entire wedding to alleviate the financial strain. To celebrate, we’d arranged to meet in Caffe Latte in Portlaoise for lunch, a rare treat after months of careful saving. I withdrew the money from my account and he brought it to the Credit Union to be made into various cheques. 

While I waited, I beckoned the waitress and ordered. As I watched her retreat behind the counter, I noticed two men at the next table, staring at me. Now, as a disabled fascination, I’m well used to being stared at, but this felt different.  Uncomfortable. I stared back to let him know that I’d clocked him. Usually whenever I do this, the offender looks away in embarrassment, but this guy didn’t. In fact, he seemed to stare harder.

When JP arrived, he started explaining what he did with the money and I told him to shut up, something I never do. I was worried that these guys were earwigging. He sensed my discomfort and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t explain. Caffe Latte was bijou, and there wasn’t much space between tables. I just shook my head and wolfed down my lunch, mumbling “I’ll tell you later.”

After a rushed lunch, far from the relaxed affair that I’d been looking forward to, I decided that I needed to go for a cycle, to clear my head. I’d cycled from our house on Harpurs Lane to Lyster Square, the perfect distance for a quick workout. John Paul’s car was at home, so he could have easily walked beside me, but I insisted that I wanted a few minutes to myself. I darted in front of JP, calling “Hee-hee, I will be home first.” I cycled out of Bull Lane onto Main Street, stopping at Shaw’s to see if he was behind me. JP wasn’t. However, one of the men from the café was. And he was watching me. Following me.

At first I laughed at myself. What notions I had, that this lad was following me! Wasn’t I just full of myself? After all, I’d lived in Dublin for four years. Caught Luases back to Trinity on Sunday evenings. Caught 14As on summer evenings from Trinity out to Halls in Rathmines at 7, 8 o’clock. I’d never had hassle. So why would some random guy follow me home on a Friday evening, at 3pm in broad daylight? Yet, this was what appeared to be happening. The faster I cycled, the quicker he walked. At one point, I glanced down at the odometer on my tricycle. Fifteen miles an hour. That’s how anxious I was to escape. And he was still only a matter of metres behind me.

I darted under the railway bridge towards Harpurs Lane. Suddenly, I had the bright idea of cycling into the middle of the road, trying to stop someone to help. No-one did. Two cars pulled out around me, leaving me at the mercy of this stranger. By now, he was annoyed; he obviously hadn’t expected the speed. For months afterwards, I thanked God on a daily basis that I had the good sense to stay on that tricycle. If I had been walking, or even in my wheelchair, this story would’ve ended differently. I have no doubt about this. Later, when I learned who he was and what he was reportedly capable of, I no longer felt victimised. I escaped lightly. 

I stopped outside my house. My legs felt as though they would fall off. Then came the barrage of questions, with his face in mine. That’s why I will never forget what he looked like.

“Do you have money? Fags? A phone? Is this your house? Where are your keys?” He motioned towards my house.

At the time, my tricycle had a mechanism which meant I could cycle backwards. When I went to do so, a young girl who must have been following us was holding onto the basket so I couldn’t move. She wasn’t any older than twenty. I cycled into her and wriggled free, cycling back up towards the Mountmellick Road.  No sign of John Paul, and why would there be? As far as he was concerned, I was at home, tidying up so that we could take off to Tullamore and start paying off the wedding. Not wrestling with a stranger in broad daylight. I couldn’t go into my house. At least out in the open, there was a chance of someone spotting us.

I cycled up towards the Mountmellick Road again, my two would-be attackers following me closely. This time, John Paul walked around the corner to be blasted with my shrieks. The man slinked past us, not saying a word. Apparently, the girl said “I’m sorry” to John Paul as she walked past him.

It took until we were in the car to Tullamore to calm down and explain to JP what had happened. By the end of the evening, despite being shaken, I resolved not to let it define my life. I had a right to live in Portlaoise, and that was what I was going to do.

The next morning, back at home in Harpurs Lane, I heard a knock on the door. JP had already gone to work, and I was resting in bed. At the time, our house could easily be broken into, with old doors and single-pane windows, so I knew it wasn’t my would-be attacker. Still, I looked out the window before answering the door. It was a Garda who’d received no less than five calls about what had happened the day before, from people who had driven by. My attacker had been identified. He was known to the guards, a notorious heroin addict. But I was not to worry. The guards had warned him to stay away. He wouldn’t be bothering me again.

I wasn’t filled with confidence, but I was stubborn. No-one was going to dictate how I lived my life, and certainly not a stranger. So, I got onto my tricycle, and cycled into town. And I saw him. He diverted his eyes, but I know he saw me, too. And I saw him again as I cycled home. JP was with me; I’d met him after work. My legs were frozen with shock, and he pushed me home.

As I sat at home that evening, my mind went into overdrive. Was he watching the house? After all, he knew where I lived. He’d also be able to tell when I was alone, if JP took the car to work. After a full week of no sleep, we decided that the only thing we could do, to guarantee my safety, was move back to Tullamore, moving out of our cheap council house back into expensive rented accommodation. And with the wedding paid off, that’s what we did. We had family and friends here, who we could ring in an emergency. I’d never had to consider that before, and it felt so horrible and disappointing. Now, don’t get me wrong – we were going to move to Tullamore anyway, after the wedding. Our house was damp and I was constantly sick with chest infections. But it hurt that the decision was taken out of our hands.

I hadn’t thought about this incident for years, but it all came flooding back last autumn as I listened to Jozef Puska’s trial, for the murder of Ashling Murphy. Like many women across the country. I think of her often. She was only two years younger than I was when I was followed home. She, too, was planning a wedding with her soulmate. A beautiful young lady, going about her everyday routine in broad daylight. And although there was uproar after her murder, not much has changed and I doubt it will in my lifetime. At the time, there was much uproar about Jozef Puska’s nationality, but I believe that human decency – and indecency – are universal. My attacker was local, an Irish white male. He’d no reason to pursue me, just as that monster had no reason to brutally murder Ashling. And as I listened to that farce of a trial, it triggered memories of that March day. It’s not the same thing, I know. I wasn’t physically attacked. I wasn’t murdered.

That was down to nothing else but luck. And the women of Ireland deserve more than that.