Chapter 3: Victim of Assault

This next experience that I am about to reveal to you all, is one that hit me hard. It happened in quick succession after the fraud events, and while it seems like I was still going out and having fun, I was celebrating the birthday of a man I thought was a very close and genuine friend.

As I did within Chapter 2, I will be using fictional names as the purpose of this story is not to name names but to focus more on how and why things affected me and the detrimental impact it had on my mental wellbeing.

On a Saturday 11th March 2017, I was invited out for Hamza’s 21st birthday. He wanted to go to Pryzm, Kingston, for a big night out with a group of his friends. Hamza lives in High Wycombe and his uncle owns a coach company, so he arranged for a driver to take around 15 of us in a mini coach to Kingston and back.

Another quick backstory - I met Hamza, his younger brother, Shahid, and their two uncles while on holiday in Turkey with my family in October 2015. They were staying in the same resort as us and on our penultimate day, I met these guys in the swimming pool. We got chatting and coincidentally, they lived in the next town over from Maidenhead. Mum told me to go to bed (as she always does!) but since it was our last night, I spent that evening with them drinking in the bar, having a good laugh and a really fun evening. Once they got back, our friendship hit off: from chilling out together, going out for food, and many other social activities.

In his professional life, Hamza was a bouncer at different clubs/bars while training to work in private security. He was actually the one who referred me to the security contact I met with for the music gig. Hamza formed part of the security team and, in all honesty, was there for me through all of it. He attended meetings when he wasn’t needed, pitched in ideas and when it all went to shit, supported me through it however he could.

Hamza invited me over to his house earlier than his other friends so that I could be there with him while he cut his cake with his family. I had met a couple of his friends briefly before, but, as his other friends started to arrive, Hamza and Shahid introduced me to each of them and as I normally would, I made conversation; and the group chilled and partied all together.

We made our way onto the coach and everyone had a really good night - full of fun, laughter, dancing, the whole shebang.

As we left the club around 2am, we walked over to the parked coach and waited outside to ensure everyone had come out of the club. As we gathered together, an argument seemed to break out within the group. I had no idea what it was about but somehow Hamza got dragged into it. Hamza was quite drunk, as was everyone. However, as the argument continued, I sobered up and pulled Hamza to the side, suggesting he should come onto the coach with me. He thought it was a good idea and followed me onto the coach. Shahid came too. We sat in the back row of the coach, Hamza in the middle, me on the left of him and Shahid on the left of me.

The group came onboard, still loud and shouting, some finding their seats but a few walking down the aisle towards us at the back. The group was led by one guy, Atif, who walked towards us, shouting as he came. As the group reached us, Atif continued shouting and pointing fingers, all of which were aimed at Hamza. Shahid and I sat their quietly. At times, I would look across to Hamza, slightly shaking my head as if to say, “please don’t react” and keep him calm. There were times Hamza replied but Hamza never raised his hands. Some from the group behind Atif spoke out, telling Atif to leave it, be quiet and sit down; others stayed quiet, peering over, talking among themselves.

The coach had begun to move, and we were headed home. I don’t remember how it happened but midway through Atif’s rant, his knee had propped up onto mine, as if to support him as he stood there, partially leaning downwards towards Hamza. I left it there at first, so not to antagonise him, but as he got angrier, his knee dug in deeper and deeper to a point where it started to get painful. As the bus was moving, there were also certain jerks where Atif’s knee would dig in as he steadied himself. So, I shifted my leg slightly – damn, was that a mistake - he fell slightly forward onto us to regain his balance. Filled with rage, his entire attention redirected to me.

“Who the f* do you think you are?” “Why the f* did you do that for?” “How dare you!?” “Who even are you?” ”Who invited you?”, “What the hell are you doing on this coach?”

Although I apologised immediately, Atif began screaming right in my face. Deep down, I knew that if I reacted, it would only make matters worse. I sat there, said nothing and took it all. At times, I looked up at him and the others, eyes full of fear, not knowing what to do or say. At this point, a few boys started to pull at him telling him to back off, including both Shahid and Hamza telling him to go sit down. But this seemed to just enrage him more, to a point where, out of the blue, he punched me, square in the chest. The guys grabbed him immediately after, dragged him to the front of the coach and sat him down. I heard some comments like “What did you do that for?” and “That was bang out of order man”. The guys around me checked on me and asked if I was okay - I wasn’t. I was speechless, I had no idea where that came from or what I did to deserve that kind of reaction.

Though Atif was now sat near the front of the coach, he continued with such foul verbal abuse that I’ll never forget. it -

“I’ll kill you!” “Just you watch bruv, wait till we get off the coach in High Wycombe!” “I’ll come for you when no one can help you.”

Laughing as he spoke, he repeated the same sentences over and over. To hear such language filled with intent, tears came to my eyes, and fear engulfed me. Shahid, Hamza and some others told me not to listen, while others told him to shut up, but he just would not stop.

What he didn’t know was that I had pre-arranged for the coach driver to actually drop me home, as the route to High Wycombe was via mine. However, I began to fear letting Atif know where I live. Having discussed it with Shahid and Hamza, I asked Shahid to pass a message to the driver:

“As soon as you get off of the dual carriageway, can you please stop the coach on the bend, it’s about 50m from my house. I’ll jump out of the emergency exit door in the back of the coach. As soon as I leave the coach, please drive off straight away! - Stress to the driver to leave as soon as I’m out of the coach.”

The coach stopped, and one of the boys offered to go to the front to distract Atif while I exited the coach. I got out of the coach and ran towards the front of the coach to then run home. As I just passed the front of the coach, I heard a voice behind me… It was the coach driver! I turned and looked at him, he asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine and begged him to leave. Next thing I knew, Atif exited the coach. As he advanced towards me, I had two options: I could attempt to run home with the fear that I either wouldn’t make it before he caught me, or that I’d lead him directly to my house so he would know where I live; the other option was to run back towards the group that were now exiting the coach. I chose the latter. As I circled the road, he confronted me. It all happened so fast, but what I saw next, I could never have imagined.

His belt was dangling from his hand. He was clenching the end with the holes. The end with the buckle was hanging free.

He swung at me twice, missing both times, and I managed to push him away. As he swung for a third time, I felt it connect. I felt the buckle connect with the back of my head.

Immediately, I fell in the middle of the road, both hands clasping my head. I could feel it was wet, warm and sticky. I looked at my hands and blood was dripping off my fingers. Blood was streaming from my head, down my face and neck, onto the road.

Around me everyone was shouting, people were asking if I was okay, others were pulling Atif back. I could not contemplate the speed that this was all happening, but scared of everyone around me, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. My only thought was that I needed someone I could trust; I needed my dad. Somehow, I managed to call him, and he picked up. It must have been close to 4am. I remember screaming whilst crying down the phone that I needed help, I’m on the road outside the house, bring the car, there’s blood everywhere, help dad, please!!!

I felt a hand on my back, I turned, full of shock and fear, and saw Hamza - I shuffled back slightly, frightened to my very core. He said we need to get out of the road, we are not leaving you, but the coach needs to leave. Hamza, Shahid and Hamza’s best friend stayed behind as the coach shot off with everyone else on board. Within minutes, my dad pulled up, got out of the car and saw me lying on the pavement. The boys helped me up and got me into the front seat of the car, and with them in the back, we drove to A&E. I could feel the blood still dripping down my neck.

Upon reaching A&E, I got checked out straight away since I had a head injury. The nurse had told me that it was a superficial cut (a cut on the surface) and that, ’fortunately’ it was not deeper. She said I would require glue instead of stitches, however I was to be further examined by a doctor prior to treatment. Hearing all of this, still in a state of shock, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up. Knowing that this would later be required when reporting the incident to the police, I took a few pictures of myself - first a selfie showing the dried blood on my face, neck, collar and chest, then a picture of my hand and arm covered in blood, and finally my white (now red) shirt drenched in my own blood.

I remember sitting in that waiting room with so many emotions inside me - shock, confusion, pain, scared, somewhat alone, I guess. Though I had dad and my ‘friends’ around me, that feeling of being alone overwhelmed me. I sat there replaying the incident over and over in my head, not understanding how it went so far before someone stepped in to help, wondering why I was so alone.

Hamza told my dad and I that they would each give a statement to the police and make sure Atif got what he deserved. “We’ve got your back Akshay, whatever you need! We even had a call from the coach driver and he too will give a statement!” As it was late by this point, around 6am, dad told the boys to head home as there was no need for them to wait for me to get my treatment.

Shortly after I was treated, I headed home with dad. I spent most of Sunday either sleeping or in my room, not knowing what to say or how to react. Ashamed and embarrassed, were they the right words to describe how I felt? Ashamed that I couldn’t defend myself. Questioning myself on whether I could have defused the situation or what would have happened if I had called my dad on the way home to ask him if he could meet me at the coach just to be safe. These questions did me no good and are all consequences of the term ‘hindsight’. However, I will touch on this another day.

The doctor had ordered me to stay home for a week which meant I had to call my manager and explain to him why I wasn’t going to be in. This was extremely difficult for me - do I somehow tell him the truth but worry what his opinion will be, or do I make something up? My relationship with my manager and team has always been good, so I thought the best move was to tell him the truth no matter the consequence. I’d rather him know the full truth, in case the headaches that I was experiencing, which were beyond painful, could potentially impact my work in the following weeks. This was an extremely difficult conversation to have but he understood. He took the time to listen and told me to take all the time I needed.

If I remember correctly, while at the hospital, I was visited by the police to take an initial statement about the events that had occurred and had been told that I would be visited again shortly to take my full statement. Two days later, two police officers came to my house and proceeded to ask me what happened, probing for further details. I tried as best as I could to tell them everything, replaying the scenes over and showing them the pictures I took. They asked me about witnesses and who to contact to get statements from; I provided the details of everyone who had volunteered to speak up. They told me they would need time to investigate but they would be in touch soon.

On Thursday, the same two police officers came to my house. They began by informing us that they had arrested Atif on Tuesday and took him in for questioning. However, to every question they asked, he replied with “no comment”. Getting nothing from him, they had no choice but to let him go whilst they investigated the witnesses. The police officers then dropped the bombshell - No witnesses were willing to come forward.

The three guys, Hamza, Shahid, and their friend, all denied the request to provide witness statements. The coach driver too - who had called the day after the attack asking if I was okay and if I needed a statement - also withdrew from being a witness. My spirits dropped. I sat on the sofa, expressionless, not quite understanding how anyone can be a witness to such cruelty, offer their support and then completely turn around and effectively take sides with him. That is how I felt. I didn’t know what to say. The police officers informed us that due to the fact that no witnesses were willing to step forward, they were unable to proceed with a case as it was my word against his. With that, they left.

Shortly after, I attempted to call Hamza, then Shahid and finally the coach driver, none of them taking my calls. The entire evening, I repeatedly called them, none of them calling or texting me back.

Questions popped up and continued spiralling in my mind… How could they do that to me? What sort of friends would do that? After knowing everything I’ve been through with the event and now this, why don’t they have my back? The friendship and trust that had been built alongside, was completely smashed to pieces because of their actions.

The next day, Hamza called. “Hey bro, how you feeling?” That’s how he started, in the friendliest way, as if he hadn’t stabbed me in the back two days prior. These were genuinely the thoughts flying around in my mind. Not responding in the friendliest way, he went on to say “Look man, Atif comes from a bad family. His family isn’t one to be messed around with in High Wycombe so we couldn’t come forward as witnesses. He wasn’t even out that night as my friend, he’s a friend of a friend. I’m sorry but we can’t help you.” I won’t go into the details of the full conversation, but I sat there not knowing how to respond. I pleaded with him to change his mind or at least have the driver come forward but neither worked.

As the conversation drew to a close, Hamza asked if we could just move on and put this event behind us, but, how could I? How could I continue to be friends with someone who is a constant reminder of a time where I was at my most vulnerable, when I was scared to my very core, almost fearful of my life, and when I turned to him for the help that I needed, just stepped aside. After everything that had gone on in those two months, first with the fraudulent music gig and then with this physical assault, I couldn’t have any more poison in my life, so I cut all contact with them.

After that traumatic week had passed, I went back to work, with only a select few knowing what had happened to me, everyone else oblivious. And as I did with the aftermath of the fraud, I buried my feelings, so deep, that I seemed to just go back to everyday life as if all was normal. I never took the time to first actually process the occurrences. I didn’t have it in me to confront all that I was feeling, thinking if I just tried to move on, the feelings would just disappear. I had no idea how to talk to my family about any of it, so instead, I thought I’d confide in a couple of my friends. On the whole, the reaction I received was supportive. However, there were certain negative comments made that impacted me and overshadowed all of the positive ones. Comments such as “Why did you even go out in the first place, especially when you only knew two people?”, “You’re asking for trouble if you go on nights out with that kind of gang”. But I never have, and still do not, base who I get to know, who I make friends with or who I go out with, on racial or ethnic factors. If you have a good vibe about you and you seem to respect the values that I stand for, then that’s all that matters to me. That being said though, hopefully you can understand why these comments weighed on my mind so heavily as I had just been through something so traumatic and terrifying and for it to be suggested that ‘I asked for trouble’ was such a heavy, negative thought.

Given the poor state of mind that I was in, I could only see the bad and therefore all the negative comments which detrimentally impacted my mental health. I began to further bury my emotions and felt that I had no one to turn to. If I said anything to anyone, they were only going to compound the negativity that I already felt.

This was not the way.