Finally

Finally

he's admitted it.

I receive the text from 
another continent,
another time. 
An emoji that reads 
thank fuck.

Hungrily, thumbs afluster,
I scour the news —
her all too familiar face,
stark in its dated lighting
smiles at me
from across the years,
happy and slightly shy,
reluctantly caught on camera.
Reminds me how young
we were.

Below her wide grin,
it's there in print:
the guilty plea.
Serial killer.
The words don’t seem real.

I sit in the back of a taxi
speeding along an elevated highway
and take in the sun set —
a glowing lava globule
dulled by pollution’s haze
slung low between dark towers —
and feel something 
like grief — like relief — 
swell up inside me,
chokes my throat
stings my eyes with the threat
of tears.

Across continents we 
reach each other. I reply:

Finally…

Too late for her mum
who will never know 
the man accused of
her daughter's murder
has finally held up his hands
in court and admitted
responsibility. 

Too late for her who, at 17,
will never grow a day older 
while I — out that same night
on the same dance floor
with my sister
grooving to the heart
in the dirtbox of our hometown
walls emblazoned with
caricatures of James 
Dean, Marilyn, Lennon — 
a squalid shrine to lives
already snatched by time,
savouring the final dregs
of that summer of ‘99
before returning to uni —
was granted a future.

We danced, we drank, we
shared a taxi home.

Another night I would 
have walked, singing
to the stars, hugging myself 
to stay warm — it’s not that 
far — sauntered up the road taking
in the air, dashed
up the dark brambly alley by the railway 
line, the rush of terror pounding
in my ears, urging me on;
burst into the open, streetlamps, home.

I always thought the road was safer.

Another night, was his
burgundy Scorpio
on the prowl
crawling the kerb 
on the hunt?

How far had we been
from danger on countless
other nights — too skint
for a taxi and needing the
night air? 

At 17 — at 19 — you’re invincible,
safe in your skin.
Rape alarm for the city, sure,
but not here.
Not this quiet seaside town 
where the worst things to happen 
are drunken clowns might
tear up a few marigolds,
pull a hanging basket 
down, steal a road sign, 
burn a beach hut to the ground.

Emboldened by youth,
carefree with childish abandon
we learned life lessons from 
The Golden Girls, Alanis,
Courtney and Polly Jean;
gave zero fucks as we 
fell to our knees laughing,
lay in long grass and gazed
at shooting stars, our shoes 
in the gutter; sharing drunken moments
with unending warmth, our hearts 
on fire; tripping over
the pebbles of misfortune to fall
into the open arms of friendship,
ready with a pint of water, 
holding our hair, a hand at our back; 
flitting between summer crushes
like butterflies.

We were the free generation
post feminist, post modern, post punk,
ironic, and gifted with a subculture
that promised a future that glittered 
on the highway.

Finally, we were free
to do what we want
any old time.

But of course 
we weren’t. We’re not. And 
reading the headline 
twentysix years after 
the news that shocked 
us, rocked our illusions,
snapped us out of that 
childhood spell — that lie — 
of safety, equality, freedom.

She was found in a ditch, 
naked but for her jewellery.

I recall the cold phone calls
hushed disbelief, relief it wasn’t 
one of us, (except it was) as days passed
in a haze until she was found.
The hunt for the killer.
Years trickled by,
we lived.

Now, finally, he has admitted it, and 
we can breathe a sigh of
grief, that justice, at least,
in this instance, will pass.

And of the others? The Andrew
formerly known as Prince? Those who 
wield so much power they 
shit gold and babble incoherent 
nonsense in their gilded offices, 
with their grey-gilded skin
(if they could, they’d gild their bones) 
they are above justice, for now.
Yet their cracks are on show
the fissures run deep 
spilling names, leaking
truths, unspoken, unheard
ignored for too long.

Will their day finally come? 
Will they admit
their wrongdoing? 
Just say it.
Save us the heartache.
Please.

The sun has sunk lower
dipped in haze, my taxi tracked
for my safety — I am on my way to meet
my sister. I feel the years
rush over me, feel again the kicks to my
stomach each time I read a
new story: Jyoti Singh. Sarah 
Everard. Natalie Shotter. Sabina 
Nessa. Gisele Pelicot. 
Too many more.

I take my ponytail out now 
when walking alone. I still keep
my keys threaded between my 
fingers. I’ve learned martial arts.

Will my 16 year old, 
in twenty six years’ 
time find herself far 
from home and hear 
that justice — finally — 
has been done?

Will she know a world 
where the seething
pain of women everywhere
felt in every new story, every
blow to what it is to exist 
as a woman in fear, shared
in whispers as confessions
of shame, of guilt, can be
finally relinquished?