Original subtitles

Gary's gob won't stop chatting a load of shite

as he chaperones me home.

With every step, he's acting like I'm some damsel in distress

and he's come to my rescue.

He thinks I think, because of the situation,

he's my knight in shining armour.

My hero.

Wants me to know he'll do whatever it takes to keep me safe.

He's taking this duty dead seriously.

He assures me that I've no need to fear,

because him and his brother know all the moves

from that Enter The Dragon karate film.

So, I stand back as he demonstrates his best Bruce Lee moves

out on the street for me.

Before there's any chance to be impressed, he has to slow down,

sit down and rest because his asthma's playing up.

Just what I'm looking for in a protector.

A wheezy chest.

Begged Mum to get me a dog I can walk home with instead.

A big, hard, bitch of a dog.

The type that has saliva drooling from the corners of her mouth.

I'll call her Lady, and she'll have a gold-colour leash.

Her bloodshot eyes and death stare would warn any man,

do not come anywhere near.

A growl emanating and radiating from her that says,

you've heard the bark, you do not want to stick around for this bite.

Mum said no way is she going to get a dog,

because the dog's going to crap everywhere.

But I would gladly kneel down and clean up Lady's crap if it meant I

didn't have to hear one more word of Gary's.

Mum got the fear in her when the coppers came knocking at our door.

I only opened it because I thought it was the Avon lady calling.

This copper stands on the step saying he's going door to door

with a word of warning to the women that there's been another killing.

That's six now.

Six women dead at the hands of him.

The Yorkshire Ripper.

I really hate that they call him that.

I'm going to stop calling him that, the Ripper.

Sounds like a character from a horror movie.

But this isn't a movie.

It's just horror, and there's no switching off from it.

So let's stop sensationalising him.

He's probably sat reading the papers,

chuffed to bits that we're calling him the Ripper.

When the coppers catch him, when they finally catch

that sad little man,

I bet we'll find out his name's something dead ordinary.

Something really dull. Like Colin.

Before he moves on to the next door,

the copper hands me a photocopied leaflet, tells me to read over it.

There's a number to call if you've got any questions.

Yeah, I've got a few questions.

You want to invoke a curfew?

For who?

"Well, as the literature explains," he says,

"we're advising women to stay indoors after 9pm.

"Only leave the house if it's completely necessary,

"and if it is completely necessary, ensure you are accompanied

"by a male you know. A man that you can trust."

Why? What have women done?

And he gives me one of those smiles,

like I've not been in the big wide world long enough,

or I'm not wise enough to truly understand.

"It's about looking out for your safety, love.

"We don't want this getting further out of hand.

"You see, we believe that the Ripper is now targeting innocent women,

"as well as the prostitutes."

Innocent women?

He says it like prostitutes can't be innocent women.

Talks about them like they're society's dirty little secret

that should be kept hidden and stay silent,

like the press stayed silent when the first prostitutes were slain.

And then they said they only had themselves to blame,

because apparently these good-time girls are more deserving of death

than other "innocent" women.

Maybe I'm not wise enough to understand because I never seem to

understand, so please, answer me this, Mr Officer.

How come the men buying sex are never vilified

or treated the same way as the women selling it?

I wait for his answer.

But he gets a call in on his radio.

Looks relieved when he says he has to be off.

He's really sorry, but he has to go now.

Mum shuts the door. Starts going mental.

I'm not having you out at night when there's some weirdo creeping up

behind women, hammering their heads in.

It's not like we can just stop working.

Who knows how long it'll take the coppers to catch him?

It's been two years since he killed the first one.

She says...

"Well, you can ask that nice Gary lad you work with to walk you home."

Nice Gary lad?! You met him once!

She doesn't seem to see the irony in me asking Gary to be my chaperone.

How do you know that nice Gary lad's not the murderer?

I could be putting myself in danger.

The police keep saying that the Ripper...

I mean, Colin, could be your husband, your boyfriend,

your dad or your son.

Well, he has to belong to someone.

I could be asking the wolf in sheep's clothing to walk me home.

And she's dead genuine when she says,

"Gary wouldn't do anything like that. He's got a kind smile."

I tell her, I shouldn't have to depend on Gary's chivalry

to stay safe.

I don't want him to start thinking of me as feminine.

I want to see me as a feminist.

She says that all she cares about is that I come home every night.

Alive.

Nine o'clock. I've made it back home, alive.

But inside I'm not feeling very alive.

Gary's standing there and he says, "I like walking you home."

And looks at me like I owe it to him to be thankful.

I'm not.

I can't be thankful when it feels like my rights have been taken away

from me, like my nights have been taken away from me.

So I turn and I say, "Don't get bloody used to it, Gary."

And then I walk away.

He calls after me, "The curfew's there for your safety.

If you were the police, what would you do?"

What would I do?

I would tell him to go home.

Because it's past 9pm.

I shouldn't be passing any men on these pavements with no female to

accompany them, to vouch for them.

I would approach him.

Excuse me, love.

I call them love to keep them calm,

you know how aggressive their lot can get.

You shouldn't be out here at night-time.

Ask me why not, a hint of resistance in his tone.

Because night-time is now our time.

I tell him there's been another killing.

He asks what's six dead women got to do with him.

Did you not get our leaflet through your door?

It explains that the perpetrator could be any one of you,

so every one of you need to keep off our streets

and allow women to go about their business in peace.

Allow women to walk without fear,

without looking over their shoulder or quickening their step.

Women should be able to go about their business,

which is none of yours.

He smirks.

Look, lad, if you don't want to be labelled a killer,

why aren't you at home?

I mean, you're just asking to be stopped, dressed like that.

You've brought it on yourself, walking

and talking round here like that.

Tells me he can wear what he likes.

Says he shouldn't have to stay off the streets

for the evil thing one man's done.

Why can't these men just keep quiet and cooperate?

Son, you're bound to start trouble out here on your own,

so give me your address, and I'll escort you back home.

And these streets turn a little darker.

And I feel a little colder.

As I see her from number 24, can't be much older than 24.

Head down as she hurries by with her sleeping baby

pressed tight against her chest.

But it's as if she's carrying the weight of the world in her arms.

Her fringe hangs, trying hard to hide another bruised eye

as she creeps out into the night,

to escape a husband who stopped using his words

and started talking with his fists.

I see her having to wrestle with the thought of who is a bigger threat

to her tonight.

The monster in her house,

or the one on the street she's been warned about.

So while the Ripper's dominating all the headlines, for many women,

stories like hers don't even make the sidelines.

No one wants to read all about the women being abused,

used, and owned in their own homes.

There's nothing sexy in hearing that their battered bodies

no longer feel like their own.

This kind of violence isn't even talked about.

It's not even thought about, because it's too domestic,

and the subject, just like the women, should stay at home.

Where our hearts are supposed to be.

But instead, we're feeling like prisoners in our home, sweet home,

while the real perpetrators walk free.

Within these four walls, we've been contained.

We're done with silent.

We're growing angry.

And now inside, I begin to feel alive as my angry rises

until it can't be contained.

My angry swells up, spreads and spills out.

My angry speaks with my feet,

and I begin to walk through the ill-lit streets,

sensing someone behind me, something behind me.

I look back over my shoulder to see the faces of the women beside me

who won't be curfewed or contained.

We're done with silent.

Because we won't take responsibility any more.

And we won't change our behaviour, because we're behaving just fine.

Our girls will no longer have to accept

having to put their heads down.

They won't cover up and keep their mouths shut.

But boys will just be boys who will grow up to be men,

who are taught the harder you are, the manlier you are.

The real men, they don't cry tears, they cause them.

They are led to believe that a man doesn't ask,

he takes, and he takes, and he takes.

Well, tonight, we're taking back.

We take to the streets, to take over the streets,

in the name of those six women, and all women who have suffered violence

at the hands of the man.

If I ever have a daughter, I want to ensure that these pavements

pave the way for her to safely walk on.

She won't be aware of the cracks in the concrete underneath her,

because her head will be held high, taking in the world around her,

a world that was made for her.

I hope her nine o'clocks will be beautiful, not fearful.

And the nightfalls magical.

Because what's the point in teaching them to reach for the stars...

..if they can't step out of their doors to see them?

Tonight, I'm reclaiming the night,

so she'll get to see them.