Insight into anguish | Melanie Metcalfe (ISBN: 1903087406)

A man involved in Christian youth work is falsely accused of sexual assault allegations. It turns into a nightmare for his family. Melanie Metcalfe gives a taste of this true story.

Twenty-four hours after the 'bomb' had dropped, I was walking along the Surrey hills: 'This can't be happening, it just can't.' Involuntarily I let out a loud anguished groan and burst into another flood of tears.

The path along the Downs became firmer. I dumped myself down on a bench. 'What did anything matter? How can life have been good? It would certainly never be the same again.' More tears, until emotion was drained out of me and I could cry no longer. Time stood still as I sat there hunched, lifeless and blank.

Somehow, I knew deep down inside that life must go on. With an effort I heaved myself up and forced my legs to amble along.

Was it only Monday that all had been fine? I thought back, for it felt like a previous existence, a different life, aeons away. I remembered the washing being done, the bedrooms being tidied, the shopping. The children had come home from school; Jessica with a headache, Felicity with a certificate for good work, Esther, talking non-stop, and Emily, quiet, getting on with life. Then Nick had returned. We had had a normal busy day. Now it felt like something almost lost in antiquity.

The sun came out, a watery misty sort of pallor filled the sky. Soon I would have to make my way home: wash my face, change my clothes, put on a bright face for the children and be supportive of Nick. How? I'd manage somehow, I would cope, but oh, if only the anguish would go away. The world had changed. The door was shut on happiness. Over-night our whole existence had been turned upside down and I wondered what the future held.

Ring at the door

On Sunday night there had been problems with our car alarm. Only Emily had heard it and told Nick over breakfast quite nonchalantly, 'The car alarm went off four times last night.' Nick nearly choked on his muesli. 'Why didn't you tell us?' Adolescent, self righteous, knowing smile. 'I don't think I was awake enough.'

So Nick had apologised to our neighbours for the noise and begged them, if it happened again, to come and ring the doorbell.

Consequently, when the doorbell rang at 6.30 am the following morning, I roused Nick and muttered: 'Your car alarm must be going off.' He was out of bed in a flash and down the stairs. Voices. Back up the stairs three at a time. Puzzled expression. 'It's the police.' Before I had got further than a confused 'What? Why?' he was pulling on clothes, and I did the same.

'Mr. Metcalfe, what are you doing?'

A large figure in dark clothing loomed at the bedroom door. I still shudder to think about it. I can't remember what I had on, but hope it was decent. 'Getting dressed' was Nick's retort, I remember the moment vividly and indignantly. 'What did they think he was doing? Playing draughts?' He hurried down the stairs and I followed a couple of minutes later. Two policemen and a police woman were standing there. Nick's face was indescribable. Pale, distorted with anguish, twisted, puzzled like a child. I'll never forget that look of total devastation and bewilderment.

'They think I've raped Anita and assaulted Penny', he gasped. I ran to his side, grabbed his arm, 'That's crazy, there's obviously been some terrible mistake.'
My mind leapt around at random, like a firework out of control. Why should two of our good friends from a church youth group allege such crazy things? What did other people in the church think?

'Nick Metcalfe, we're arresting you on suspicion...' I can't remember the exact terminology, but walking downstairs on that Tuesday morning was like walking into your worst nightmare. Nick was taken by the officers to search the house, and I was left with the policewoman.

'I'd like to talk to you and then the girls if I may?' she'd announced.

Horrific awakening

I ran upstairs and woke the girls. It was a horrific wakening for them. No mother would ever want to do what I had to do that morning. I barged into the bedrooms of four peacefully sleeping girls and turned their world upside down.

'Get up', I ordered, 'the police are here, they say Dad's done something wrong. Get dressed, they want to talk to you.' I saw complete bewilderment on each of their faces as I broke the news, confusion on the two little ones, something resembling panic on the two older ones.

Back downstairs, I noticed the WPC was wearing a Child Protection Unit badge which made my stomach churn.

'No, no she can't take the kids.' I screamed inwardly as I clutched the settee to steady myself. I didn't understand what was going on, but I knew they just couldn't take my girls.

'Tell me a little about yourself and family.'

What could I say? Once the happiest family in Britain, and the next, shattered into a thousand fragments.

'We have no problems. The children are happy at school and Nick wouldn't harm anyone.'

'Could I speak to each of your children?' she'd asked. What could I say? They were the police. They called the tune.

'You may accompany them if they wish.' I was outraged.

'If they wish', I'd thought. 'What about if I wish? I'm their mother.

Poor loves, of course they wanted their mother with them. Emily was first; scared, tense. The officer introduced herself: 'I know it's rather unusual to have to talk to a police woman.' I can still recollect my outrage. We, as a family, had never been in trouble with the law and now Emily's father was being marched round the house by policemen, watching it being torn apart. Cupboards were wrenched wide, drawers yanked open and contents of wardrobes strewn liberally across the floor.

The WPC continued:

'How do you get on with your dad?'

Anger surged within me, 'What sort of question is that?' I wondered. 'She adores him, thinks the world of him.'

Emily's response came hesitatingly: 'I like him.' It must have been the shock that caused her restrained response.

Then, in my view, another stupid question. 'Do you have anyone you could go to if you had any problems?'

Of course she had her parents. But she listed teachers, friends from church, etc. In the last 15 minutes, our role as parents had become irrelevant so that our help clearly wouldn't be of much value.

Next came Jessica, the sensitive one, in tears.

'I'm sorry this has upset you', murmured the policewoman.

'So she jolly well ought to be', I remember thinking. 'What long-term psychological effect is this going to have on my girls?'

'Why are you crying?' persisted the policewoman.

The answer was just about intelligible between the sobs:

'Because my dad wouldn't do anything wrong.' Same questions as before, and soon the tearful Jessica was discharged and Felicity came in.

Suddenly my poor stupefied brain began to function; Nick would need a solicitor! Leaving Felicity with the policewoman, I telephoned the only solicitor I knew - our conveyancer. Poor fellow, I got him out of bed. He sounded terribly sleepy, but explained that rape wasn't his line. He gave me a Mr. Green's number. I gratefully rang Mr. Green, who sounded calm and confident. He instructed me to tell Nick to ring him once at the police station. 'Write down my phone number on Nick's hand', he insisted, 'not paper; it's amazing how such things have a habit of disappearing in police hands.'

It was a relief to have a little support as our world crumbled before us; at least this unknown solicitor would advise Nick.

'You'll need a solicitor'

I returned to the family room where the police were loading videos into big brown paper bags.

'What is happening?' I cried in my head. 'This happens on telly, but not in our law abiding, middle class set up.'

The police were taking videos Nick had recorded at Christmas for the children; home videos of their cousins, videos Nick's dad had made of us on holiday. They took Nick's computer, disks, an unexposed film from Esther's camera and then the policewoman gave me a card with their names on. She told me they were taking Nick to Horsham police station.

'You'll need a solicitor', I said to Nick. 'I rung Robert Marshall who recommended Mr. Green. I'll give you his number.'

One of the policemen gave an impatient cough. I grabbed a pen, pulled Nick's hand towards me and wrote the number clearly on his hand. Nick was be-mused, but had the sense not to comment.

The police were anxious to take Nick away, but I suggested a kiss for the girls. Nick ran upstairs, closely followed by a policeman. He returned, face contorted with grief. I'd never seen him cry before.

I gave him a hug and a kiss with three police people watching, but I didn't care, and then I watched him walk up the drive with a police officer on either side and one behind. The sense of abandonment and isolation was overwhelming. I was left wondering: 'Will I see him again? Is he going to be locked away? What is happening?'

'Insight into Anguish' is published by Day One Publications (01372 728300), 288 pages, £8.99, ISBN 1 903087 40 6.