I witnessed a woman being sexually harassed – now I can’t sleep not knowing if I did enough to help her

FOR many women, the trauma of being harassed by a stranger is not unusual.

After years of lobbying by campaigners, the Government announced in December that sexual harassment on the street will be made a crime in England and Wales, with a jail sentence of up to two years.

As part of the plans, backed by Home Secretary Suella Braverman, cat-calling, following someone and blocking their path will be criminalised.

Sadly though, women are still the target of regular abuse, as Sun columnist Trevor Kavanagh witnessed.

Here, he writes an open letter to a young woman he recently saw being harassed on a train.

Dear Bianca,

I DON’T know your surname but I desperately hope you are safe and well and have come to no harm.

The last time I saw you was at 3.50pm on Monday as you left the Elizabeth Line train from Heathrow Terminal 4 to Terminals 2 and 3. You were wearing black jeans, a winter coat and white sneakers. 

And you were being stalked by a worryingly persistent male who would not take no for an answer.

I haven’t been able to sleep ­properly since. 

In a brief five-minute journey, you were engaged in eager conversation by a confident long-haired stranger in his 20s or early 30s who ­peppered you with questions.

My wife and I were sitting in the row behind listening with astonishment as he swiftly reeled in your identity, immediately asking your name and pointing out that it means “white” in Italian.

Within seconds, he found out where you came from, where you were going, what you were planning to do next, why you had so many bags and, oddly, did your mother know what was inside them?

 “Are you a model?” he then asked with a slight accent.

Red flags began to wave. This was not idle curiosity. It was skilled, swift interrogation. 

Trustingly, you answered every question. You might have thought how friendly we Brits are to attractive American girls. Seconds later, he left his own seat and sat beside you, insisting: “I can help you.” 

In a flash, he had taken your phone out of your hands and was tapping in his details. His own phone was in the same hand. Was he downloading your data?

 In moments he had used his mobile to take a selfie with you.

All this took place in a flurry of fast-moving chat. This was not light conversation between two fellow travellers. This was an expert stalker in pursuit of easy prey.

I tried to catch your eye and ­convey alarm. You were clearly ­rattled, but too polite to tell him to sling his hook.

 So I stood up and said: “I am sorry to interrupt, but this man is invading your space. He is asking you too many questions. He has already found out your name, where you are going, he has accessed your phone and taken a picture of you.”

The man, with black hair and a full beard, became agitated. He was fashionably dressed in a high-end Scandinavian puffer jacket retailing in posh shops like Selfridges for around £300 and topped off with a flamboyant silk scarf.

Clearly alarmed

I know all this because I took a photograph of him — against his noisy protests and an attempt to block my view with his hands. 

“Why are you taking my picture?” he demanded.

“Why not? You took a picture of this lady.”

It was at this point, Bianca, that you became alert to the potential ­danger. “Yes, delete my picture,” you shouted.

By this time we were pulling into the station for Terminals 2 and 3. To my surprise, you were getting off, perhaps for a transit flight. While I helped you unload your bags to the platform, the man disappeared. By this time you were clearly alarmed. 

“Thank you for opening my eyes,” you told me twice.

We manoeuvred your five bags on to the platform just in time before the doors closed and the train pulled away. There was no time to exchange names, contact details or phone numbers.

But as the train moved, I was horrified to see the man on the platform, waving in your direction.

 Why on earth did I not get off and help you with your bags into the terminal? I could have caught the next train to London. Had we left you in his clutches? So I dialled 999 from the train and reported all the alarming details to the police call-handler. I was happy to be told the conversation was being recorded, including, of course, my details. 

I told them that your name was Bianca, that you were being stalked and offered to send him the ­photographs of your pursuer.

Instead I was told: “At this stage, no crime has been committed.” 

The 999 respondent asked if I wanted an incident report number.

 I had no pen or paper.

“I’ll text it to you,” he promised. That incident report number never arrived.

Bianca, if you or your friends read this, it would be wonderful to know you are OK. After all, I could have been mistaken. Who knows? This man might have had your best interests at heart.

All you need to do is email me at: trevor.kavanagh@the-sun.co.uk.

I might be able to sleep properly.

Trevor