A Night at the Xerox Building: A Harrowing Memory of Abuse in the 80s

The Approach and Initial Nervousness

As the Caspian blue and strato silver Ford 2.8 injection Capri rolled into the dimly lit carpark of the Xerox building in Slough, an overwhelming sense of apprehension washed over me. The night was eerily quiet, with only the soft hum of the car engine breaking the silence. The building itself loomed in the distance, its windows dark and imposing, casting long shadows across the empty lot. This was not a place that inspired comfort or safety.

The journey here had been a blur, but now, parked in the desolate carpark, the reality of the situation began to sink in. The anticipation of what lay ahead was almost unbearable. The cool night air seeped through the car’s slightly open window, a stark contrast to the heat of my nervousness. Every shadow seemed to whisper tales of dread, and every creak of the car sounded like a portent of the night’s events.

As I stepped out of the car, the smooth tarmac underfoot, each step amplifying the silence around me. The imposing figure of my abuser stood a few meters away, his height and demeanour exuding an air of dominance that made my heart race even faster. The power dynamic was clear; I was at a disadvantage, both physically and psychologically. His presence was suffocating, a looming threat that cast a long shadow over the night. The stark contrast between his calm composure and my palpable fear only heightened the tension.

The external environment mirrored my internal turmoil. The cold, silent night, the intimidating architecture of the Xerox building, and the isolation of the carpark all contributed to a sense of impending doom. It was the perfect setting for what would become a night etched into my memory, a harrowing reminder of the abuse I endured in the 80s.

Encounter with the Security Guard

The entrance to the Xerox Building was guarded by an imposing security door, a relic of the 80s with its heavy steel frame and intricate locking mechanism. As we approached, the flicker of a black and white combination TV radio cassette unit caught my eye. The aged security guard, seemingly engrossed in the static-filled screen, glanced up with a mixture of curiosity and wariness when we entered his line of sight.

Despite his advanced years, the guard’s eyes were sharp, scrutinizing us with a practiced vigilance. My abuser stepped forward, his demeanour shifting to one of confident assurance. He initiated a casual conversation, weaving a narrative filled with plausible reasons for our late-night visit. The guard, though initially sceptical, seemed to be gradually swayed by the abuser’s smooth reassurances.

The discussion between them was brief yet laden with the unspoken power dynamics that left me feeling increasingly helpless. Each word from the abuser was a calculated move, and each nod from the guard an indication of his growing trust. The guard’s questions were met with practiced responses, and soon, the tension began to dissipate, replaced by a growing sense of unease within me.

The sense of foreboding was palpable, each step we took amplifying the dread that clawed at my insides. The guard’s figure, now a distant silhouette, faded from view, leaving me acutely aware of the isolation and the impending reality of what lay ahead. In that moment, the walls of the Xerox Building seemed to close in, a silent witness to the harrowing events that were about to unfold.

Inside the Empty Office Floor

The interior of the Xerox building during the late 80s was a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the daytime. Under the dim, fluorescent lights, the empty office floor appeared almost ghostly. Brown carpet tiles stretched endlessly, punctuated by a large computer equipment and desks. Each workstation was a frozen snapshot of the day that had just ended, with computer equipment left in a state of suspended animation.

The Video Display Units (VDU) screens, bulky and imposing, stood silently on the desks, their screens dark and reflective. These early monitors were accompanied by equally substantial hard drive units, the heart of the office’s digital operations. The hard drives, encased in beige metal, were formidable in size compared to modern standards. These units hummed softly when operational, storing immense quantities of data that powered the company’s daily functions.

The hard drives’ presence was a reminder of the technological advancements of the era, yet their silence during off-hours added to the eerie atmosphere. Overhead, a network of fluorescent tubes cast a cold, unwelcoming light, emphasizing the desolation of the space.

The office floor was shrouded in an unsettling quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of the central air conditioning. The sterile environment, stripped of human activity, felt almost oppressive. The absence of the bustling day’s noise made every small sound—an occasional creak, the distant hum of machinery—seem amplified and more ominous.

This peculiar setting, devoid of life and vitality, set a foreboding stage for what was to come. The empty office floor, with its rows of dormant VDUs and silent hard drive units, became an unwitting witness to the harrowing events that unfolded, forever imprinting a memory of unease and disquiet.

The Trauma and Aftermath

The encounter in the men’s toilets was an ordeal marked by an overwhelming sense of dread and forced compliance. The grim setting became the backdrop for an act of sexual abuse that would forever alter my life. Within the cold, impersonal walls of the Xerox Building, the men’s toilets turned into a place of harrowing vulnerability. The abuser’s coercive dominance rendered the me powerless, with fear gripping every inch of their being. This was not just an instance of physical violation but a profound psychological torment that shattered any semblance of safety.

Once the abuse concluded, my abuser’s demeanour was disturbingly composed, as if nothing had transpired. The stark contrast between my internal chaos and my abuser’s nonchalance only deepened the trauma. As I was escorted back past the security guard, my mind was a whirlwind of confusion and terror. The guard’s indifferent gaze seemed to dismiss the entirety of my anguish, reinforcing a sense of isolation and helplessness.

The return journey through the building was a blur, each step weighed down by the gravity of what had just occurred. There was no outcry, no immediate search for justice; instead, there was a chilling silence that encapsulated my experience. The sense of compliance, born out of sheer fear, lingered heavily. The abuser’s casual behaviour and the lack of intervention from onlookers created an environment where I felt utterly alone, trapped in their trauma.

As I finally exited the Xerox Building, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to lift only slightly. The physical departure from the site of my abuse did little to alleviate the psychological scars. The event left an indelible mark, shaping my perception of safety and trust. The trauma endured in that desolate men’s toilet of the Xerox Building became a haunting memory, a poignant reminder of the nightmarish experience that would shadow me for years to come.