The police were indeed very pleased with the video; so much so, they were willing to call Michael’s injuries a result of the scuffle in the alleyway, without looking too deeply into how a slight girl like Sherry could disable a hulking behemoth like Michael. Oddly enough, no one who was in the gym when Michael and I had our go-round in the ring remembered seeing him in there at all, no-one remembered a fight between him and anyone else on the date in question. In fact, the gym records showed a catalogue of sparring bouts taking place all through that evening, so no fight could possibly have happened then; the ring was constantly in use that entire evening.
The video did show “someone” wearing a head protector, a white singlet and boxing trunks and what looked like knee-length boots (my shin armour) wading into the gang who were clearly assaulting Sherry, but no-one could positively identify him, so Michael’s claim was dismissed because the police had no inclination to search our home for the ‘boots’ his alleged assailant had been wearing (besides, they were safely hidden in the bottom of Sam’s closet back in Bailey Street Student Halls, just in case… )
Sherry’s statement to the police and the video evidence from the gym’s camera system was enough to have Michael arrested, charged, and finally sent to trial. His cronies all turned Queen’s Evidence to avoid more serious charges when another eleven girls came forward to report a catalogue of serious sexual assaults perpetrated by Michael and his band of buddies over the previous three years. The case made the national newspapers, and the university showed up in a pretty piss-poor light because of it, either ignoring the complaints or sweeping them under the mat and hoping they’d go away; some pretty serious reorganisation went on at the top over this whole thing.
Michael eventually went to trial at Southampton Crown Court. Predictably enough, he pleaded not guilty, so the trial proceeded. Many of the witnesses were still too traumatised to appear in court, so the judge allowed testimony over sealed video link, but Sherry wasn’t afraid to testify in person. Her lucid testimony, about how he’d repeatedly pestered and intimidated her, and eventually attempted to violently abduct and rape her only put more meat on the prosecution’s already solid case. The evidence from his cronies put the final nails in his coffin.
Michael was found guilty of all charges, and sentenced to a 27-year minimum tariff on eleven counts of rape, eleven counts of aggravated sexual assault, twelve counts of indecent assault, and twelve counts of aggravated assault. He was classified as a Category A sex-offender, and sent to a prison especially set aside for dangerous and violent sex offenders, a grim place a long way from Southampton and his victims. He’d also be placed on the Sex Offender Register for an indefinite period once he’d served his full sentence. Sherry had no arguments with that; in her book he was a dangerous animal, one to be kept caged-up, and the fact he’d be a middle-aged man when he got out, if he ever got out, pleased her no end: you do the crime, you do the time.
We were in court for his sentencing, but he refused to even look at her, even though her gaze never left his features once all through the sentencing hearing; when his sentence was pronounced he started crying, but it was too late for that; any remorse he may have felt was too little, too late and didn’t sway the judge noticeably.
Outside the courthouse, Sherry was interviewed by a BBC News reporter as one of the few victims willing to disclose her identity in order to strengthen the prosecution’s case and she told them what had happened to her, who she was, and how glad she was that such a prolific and dangerous predator had finally been caught, and that she was proud of her part in it, and how bad she felt for the other girls whose lives had been blighted by what he’d done to them. I was unbelievably proud of her, at her willingness to be identified as a victim and for her part in sending that animal to jail. The cameraman couldn’t seem to keep the camera off her, the reporter had to keep signalling him to point it at her so she could deliver her report, but I didn’t blame him; I couldn’t stop looking at her either…
*****
As in all things like this, Sherry was a nine-day wonder; with her chic, movie-star looks and effortlessly stylish elegance she was a TV natural and requests to appear on national morning TV, local news programmes, TV magazine shows and that kind of thing kept coming. Inevitably, though, interest ebbed and finally died away, culminating in a last appearance on BBC News when a segment aired about victims and witnesses and their treatment in the press.
With all that drama missing from our lives, my quest to convince Sherry to return to medical school resumed, and finally paid off. She submitted her transcript, and was accepted back to restart Year 2 in the autumn with full credit for Year 1. Of course, that meant she would be a year behind me, but on the plus side, she’d be covering ground I’d already passed over, so she had me as a ready-made tutor and mentor. All in all, things were finally looking good and falling into place for us; it was a good place to be.
To celebrate, I took her out to a snazzy Japanese restaurant, where we stuffed on Unagi, and Ika Nigri Sushi, Yari Ika Tempura squid, and Chicken Teriyaki Teishoku. Sherry had never eaten Japanese before, and she lapped it up; she even braved the Sushi, and loved it, actually pinching mine too, so I knew where to bring her again…
While we were deep in discussions about us, a discreet cough made me aware of a man in a smart suit and carrying a document-size manila envelope standing at our table. I looked up at him quizzically, but he spoke to Sherry.
“I’m sorry, I apologise for disturbing you, but am I addressing Miss Cherie Morrison-Young?”
Sherry looked at me; I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded.
“Yes, that is I; what can I do for you?” she answered.
The man held out the envelope. Sherry took it from him, but didn’t open it.
“I was asked to deliver this to you in person Miss Young. Please, do carry on, I’m sorry to have interrupted your meal, please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
With that he did a strange, formal little head-bow and turned and left.
Sherry stared at me, and I stared back. What the hell was that about?
“Danny?” she murmured, holding the envelope gingerly.
“Open it, Sherry; let’s see what was so important they had to delivery it at this time of night.”
Her hand crept across the table and I squeezed it reassuringly. Sherry grimaced and carefully slit the envelope. Inside was a buff document folder, Sherry looked apprehensively at me, opened it, and gasped. Alarmed, I slid out of my seat and went round to her side to see what had startled her. I found myself looking at a an 8×10 glossy of a girl who could have been Sherry: the same mischievous, happy smile, the same glossy raven-black hair, the same huge bright blue eyes, even the same dimple in her cheek, but this girl wasn’t Sherry, I saw that immediately, but she came awfully close.
The girl in the picture’s hair was like something off a 1980’s “New Romantic” fashion magazine cover, short at the side and swept back, cascading diagonally across her face in a long fringe that swept over one eye. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. I looked at Sherry, at her puzzled expression, and turned the picture over, hoping for a clue. On the back, in the bottom right corner, was written “Rosalie Jean Morrison 14 Aug 1989”, and scribbled across the back was “Happy Birthday Jamesie, I’m broke so you get this! Luv you Bruv! Rosa.”
Sherry locked gazes with me, her eyes welling up.
“Danny… look, it’s Rose… it’s my mother… how…?”
“I don’t know, babe. What else is in there; who sent you this stuff?” I managed, fascinated at how much Sherry looked like her birth-mother; I remembered Sherry looking just like that when we were young. It was almost eerie how similar they were…
Sherry opened the folder fully and a whole sheaf of papers cascaded out; I picked up some at random: her mother Rosalie’s birth certificate, a marriage licence, more photographs, and in the midst of it all, a sealed envelope addressed to “Sherry-Baby.” Only Mum, Dad, and I had ever called her that. It was the title of one of those old pop songs Mum used to sing as she cooked and cleaned. Where had this stuff come from?