Acid attack victim: I heard a horrible screaming sound... it was coming from me







True courage: Kate Piper had acid thrown at her face when a boyfriend was worried she was about to break up with him

It was just a normal mirror but as I reached for it, my hand trembled. 'Take your time, Katie,' my psychologist Lisa said gently. 'Look at your chest first, then work your way up slowly.'



But I didn't do things by halves. I mean, how different could my face be? It might be red and scarred, but it would still look like me, right?



Taking a deep breath, I held it up to my face. That little mirror was a window into hell.



My skin was red raw. My eyelids were puffy and underneath, my eyeballs protruded like cartoonish globes.



My left eyeball looked milky and opaque. My lips were swollen like sausages and my eyelashes and eyebrows gone.



My nose was a shrivelled mound. My cheeks had sunk into my skull. My face had melted into my neck like candle wax.



I wasn't a model and TV presenter any longer. How could I be, looking like that? 'No,' I whimpered, my chest heaving with sobs. No tears came: my ravaged eyes couldn't even cry.

'What have you done to me?' I wailed inside. 'Where's my face? Get it out of the bin and give it to me right now. I'll fix it myself.'

'It's early days, love,' Dad said soothingly. 'You won't look like this for ever,' Lisa added. But all I could hear was the thump of my heart and the whoosh of blood in my head; their voices sounded far away.



Even though I sat there in silence, in my mind I screamed for my beautiful, stolen face - gone for ever.

Born in Hampshire in 1983, I had an idyllic childhood. My father David owned a barber shop and my mother Diane was a teacher.They doted on my brother Paul, sister Suzy, and me.



As a youngster I was independent and fearless. I never suspected there was any badness in the world. 'You can be anything you want to be,' Dad used to tell me.

In adolescence my face lost its childhood chubbiness and I started blossoming. 'I'm quite pretty,' I thought in delight.



I decided to take a course in hair and beauty therapy at college, then got a job in a salon in Basingstoke.



People were always telling me I should be a model and when I was 22 I paid for a photographer to take some shots of me and began to get modelling work for magazines and catalogues.

In 2006, I landed a presenting job on a satellite TV channel and moved to London. Other presenting jobs followed and I appeared as an extra on The Bill, East-Enders and Ashes To Ashes.



Acid attack victim: Katie was a model and TV presenter before the attack, which left her afraid to leave the house

I was getting lots of male attention but always from the same kind of guy: sleazy types who wanted a trophy girlfriend. My looks seemed to attract the wrong kind of men.

I shared a house in Golders Green, North London, with other models and TV people. My flatmates and I would trawl the internet for work and upload pictures on to Facebook.



One night in February 2008, I saw that I had been contacted by a guy called Danny Lynch.



His profile picture showed a good-looking, mixed-race guy. I didn't recognise him but we had 30 mutual friends on Facebook - people I'd met through my promotional work at various sports events.



Had I met him at one of those? His message explained that he was into martial arts and that he was a grappling champion.

Perhaps a sportsman like him had more substance than the flashy guys I normally met? I typed a reply and, over the next few weeks, we sent each other messages. Danny asked about my job and showered me with compliments. I was flattered and we arranged to meet at an event I was working at.

After the show, we chatted. He was smartly dressed, good-looking and seemed down-to-earth. We agreed we'd talk more on Facebook and began chatting every day. We really clicked.

As well as being a martial arts expert, Danny, who was 28, said he was studying computing and owned properties in Kent and Manchester. I was impressed.

When he asked if I would go on a date with him, I agreed and suggested the Comedy Club in London's Leicester Square.



At the interval, I went to the bathroom. Danny insisted on escorting me. It seemed chivalrous and old-fashioned.



During our first week together, we went out for lunch, wandered arm-in-arm around the shops, and shared a Chinese takeaway at my place.



He sent me a never-ending stream of texts and Facebook messages and phoned me constantly. It was overwhelming but I liked him a lot.

I felt as if I was being burned alive. I thought it was impossible to feel this kind of agony and survive...

Danny told me his father had been a famous wrestler but his parents had broken up and he'd had a difficult childhood. He said that his best friend had died recently in an accident.



'You poor thing,' I said, throwing my arms round him. I wanted to look after him, and take away his hurt.

One day, as I picked him up in my car, he handed me a little teddy bear and a red rose. To my surprise, he told me he loved me.

'Thanks,' I giggled, trying to defuse an awkward situation. It seemed a bit full-on, and I was also starting to wonder how much of what he'd told me was true.



There were no grappling trophies or computer books in his bedroom, and he seemed to have a lot of free time, as if he was just sitting at home on his computer all day. Had he exaggerated to impress me?

During the second week of our romance, my doubts grew.



Out shopping one afternoon, we stopped to buy some doughnuts. 'I'll have a chocolate one, please,' I smiled to the old guy behind the counter. 'Here you go, darling,' he said, handing me the bag.

Danny erupted, livid that somebody had called me 'darling'. Mortified, I apologised.



'What was that about?' I demanded of Danny. Just as quickly, he flicked back to his normal self and apologised.

I was starting to feel smothered by the emails and phone calls: when I came home from work one day, I found he had sent me 37 messages in a few hours.

'He's getting a bit stalkerish,' one of my flatmates said.

Not long afterwards, shopping in West London, Danny spotted some trainers he liked and decided he was going to buy us matching pairs. The shop assistant brought two pairs out but when Danny spotted a tiny scuff on one of them, he flipped.



He started hurling all kinds of abuse at the assistant then stormed out.



Following him, I asked him what was up. His face contorted with anger, he told me to drop it.

Career girl: Katie in one of her modelling agency publicity photographs before she was brutally attacked

We made our way to the barber's, where he'd made an appointment to get his hair cut. The barber told him he just had to finish another client first. For the second time in 30 minutes, Danny exploded. He started screaming, furious he was being made to wait, before stomping out.



As we wandered to a pub afterwards, I decided to stop seeing him. After all, we had been dating for only two weeks. His behaviour had been terrible and I realised I'd made too many allowances for him. I'd spend the rest of today with him as planned, then that would be it.



He suggested we get a hotel in town for the night. It meant I could have a drink over dinner as I wouldn't have to drive afterwards and it would be handy for my hairdressing appointment the next morning.



Danny seemed to be back to normal and I persuaded myself everything would be fine.



We had a nice evening in a restaurant but in the hotel lift Danny looked at our reflection in the mirror-and snarled: 'You're not even all that in the flesh, are you?'



I was shocked and looked away. In our room, despite what he'd said, Danny assumed he could still get intimate with me. I made it clear that I didn't want to sleep with him.



His face flushed red with anger and he started accusing me of not wanting to be with him any more. He launched into a tirade of abuse. With his lips curled in a snarl he looked like a wild animal.



I panicked, searching my mind for a way to calm him. But I couldn't think quickly enough. Danny's ego was dented and he was in a rage - with all his body weight he pushed me and I hit the door.



The back of my head cracked against the fire exit sign and everything faded to black as I slumped to the floor.

He launched into a tirade of abuse. With his lips curled in a snarl he looked like a wild animal



'What's that noise?' I thought, woozily. I could hear an angry voice shouting but it seemed far away.



My eyes flickered open and I stared, disorientated. Danny was looming over me. The man who was meant to be my boyfriend had attacked me.



I reached for the back of my head and felt blood pulsing from it. 'I need to get to hospital,' I sobbed hysterically but Danny simply ordered me to stop crying.



Before I knew it I was being forced on to the bed. Instinct told me what was coming next. Danny was going to rape me. I started weeping. 'Please, no, not that,' I begged.



Danny ignored me and held me down, while screams tore my throat. I sobbed inside, unable to get my words out.



It seemed to go on and on, like some nightmare I couldn't wake up from. Screaming made no difference and I couldn't move.



Then I thought: 'What if Danny doesn't just let me go afterwards? What if he murders me?' Someone would find me dead, naked and covered in blood. They would know I died humiliated and terrified.



Danny was suddenly still. Paralysed by fear, I just lay there and he moved away from me. I tried to stand up but I flopped back down again. Eventually, I managed to stagger to the bathroom.



Then the door burst open and Danny started swearing at me. He threatened to kill me and my family if I told anybody about what had happened.



Grabbing a disposable razor, he held it in front of my face. I froze. He had already stripped me of my dignity and broken my body. But I could hide that. If he mutilated my face, I would see his evil handiwork every time I looked in the mirror.



Bracing myself, I said a silent prayer: 'Please, not my face.'

Scarred for life: A hospital nurse cares for Katie, whose face is covered in bandages. left. Katie gives a thumbs-up sign despite her terrible injuries, right



He turned away, slapped the blade on the sink and walked away. I flushed the razor down the lavatory and Danny reappeared. He asked me where my belt was.



Pulling it from my jeans, he hooked it around the arm of the hinge at the top of the door. It dangled like a noose, and realisation hit me like a punch.



Petrified, I watched as he placed a chair under the belt. He ordered me on to the chair. I knew if I was ever going to get out of the room alive, I had to talk him out of it.



'You don't have to do this, Danny,' I blurted. 'I won't tell the police, I promise.' He had threatened to hurt me, my family and my friends if I did. I knew he was capable of it.



'The chambermaids will be here soon,' I said. Trying to sound reasonable, I did my best to convince him he wouldn't want to face them, given the state of the room.



I think he realised he couldn't keep me in the room for much longer without someone discovering us and he decided we should leave.



On autopilot, I showered and dressed. I attempted to wipe the blood from the bathroom walls and floor. Then I held my breath as Danny opened the door and we walked out of the hotel to my car. I didn't even consider trying to run, I was so frightened.



It must have been early morning and Danny announced he had to attend a parole meeting that day, and I was going with him.



He had never mentioned being in any trouble with the law. What had he done?



At the parole office, Danny told me not to say a word. I nodded dumbly and sat down in the reception area while he went to see his probation officer.



Back in the car, I somehow found the words to persuade Danny to take me home. Realising he had smashed my phone in the hotel, he went to buy another mobile so he could contact me.



Then he gestured for me to get out of the car and we walked to my flat. Danny told me he would get me if I breathed a word to anybody.



I slipped my key into the front door, then, heart hammering, ran up the communal stairs three at a time, and into my flat. My flatmates were sitting there, chatting. 'Danny attacked me,' I blurted out. 'My head's still bleeding. Can you take me to hospital?'



Terrified Danny would be waiting outside, I looked out of the window. There he was, marching up and down the street and shouting in to his mobile. The mobile he had given me started to ring. I knew if I didn’t answer it, he would kick the door in.



Danny started screaming down the line at me, asking whether I had told my flatmates. ‘No, Danny, of course I haven’t. Please go home,’ I replied.



Eventually, I managed to end the conversation. My flatmates and I left by the back door and fled to my car. I started weeping and confessed that Danny had raped me too. ‘You have to tell the police,’ one of my friends said.



‘No way! He said if I report him he’ll kill me, or hurt my family.’

Child's play: Katie and her brother Paul in their Scouts uniform

At A&E, I didn’t even consider telling the truth. Patched up and back at home, Danny rang practically every ten minutes, demanding to know what I was doing, if I’d told anyone, whether or not I hated him.



‘I don’t hate you. I haven’t told anyone,’ I lied. ‘Please, just give me some space.’ I decided I would keep placating him until I went into the Candy Crib house on Monday evening.



Candy Crib was a new reality show in which models lived together in a secret location and were voted off each week. I’d be safe there.



The next day, I stayed in the flat. Danny didn’t give me a minute’s peace. He wanted to know my every move.



In one call, he told me he had a present for me. What the hell was he planning to do? Was he going to try to hurt me again?



After another sleepless night, I dragged myself out of bed on Monday. Danny kept calling. Was I going anywhere else before I headed off to Candy Crib?



He threatened to come to Golders Green if I didn’t tell him. He said he’d sent me an email that explained everything and insisted I read it.



‘My internet connection’s down,’ I told him. It was true. He suggested I go to the local coffee shop where they had internet access. If it would get him off my back, then maybe it was worth it.



Danny ordered me to get ready and then call him back. I put some clothes on and shoved my purse into my handbag.



I told Danny I was leaving. He wanted me to tell him my every movement. Going along with his sick games seemed to work, so I played along. He asked if I was on the street yet. ‘Yes,’ I sighed.



That’s when I spotted a young guy in a hoodie crossing the road and coming towards me, with his arms outstretched and a coffee cup clasped between his two hands. He looked like a drug addict or a beggar.



I felt sorry for him. I rested my mobile in the crook of my neck and reached into my bag to give him some money.



Splash. He chucked the contents of the cup over my face. For a moment, I didn’t understand what had happened. And then the pain hit me – an explosion of agony, unlike anything I had ever experienced before.



It spread through my body like fire.



I could feel my face burning, so hot I thought it was going to burst into flames.



I heard a horrible screaming sound, like an animal being slaughtered. Then I realised it was coming from me.



This was the ‘present’ Danny was talking about. And he was still on the phone, listening to my screams.

Guilty: David Lynch, left, who set up the attack, and Stefan Sylvestre who threw the acid over Katie



I felt as if I was being burned alive, that I was melting like a candle. I thought I must be dying; it was impossible to feel this kind of agony and survive.



I staggered across the road to a cafe. ‘Please help me,’ I screamed, lurching behind the counter where I thought there would be a sink.



The customers froze, coffee cups in their hands. I started trying desperately to rinse my face in an ice bucket but it was too shallow.



Still shrieking, I lurched into the ladies, and stuck my head into the loo. I flushed and flushed, but the trickle of water didn’t do a thing. Why wouldn’t the pain stop?



I blundered back into the cafe.



Everyone seemed to be running around in a panic. Someone sat me in a chair and started spraying my face with water. The acid ran down my neck, on to my chest and legs, and I felt my clothes sizzling as it ate away at the fabric, and then the skin underneath.



I remembered my flatmate Marty was the second to last person I’d rung. Somehow I called him, and found the strength to shout: ‘Marty, I’ve been attacked! Come to Mocha.’ Seconds later he raced in and rang 999.



For the next hour I sat in that seat, as still as I could, while the ambulance weaved its way through rush-hour traffic.



By now I couldn’t see a thing and all noises sounded muffled, as though I was under water. I faded in and out of consciousness as the paramedics waited for the green light from police before they could treat me. Apparently, they had to make sure my attacker wasn’t still nearby.



The next thing I knew, I was being zipped inside something and wheeled into an ambulance. ‘I must be dead,’ I thought in relief. ‘This must be a body bag, and those voices I hear are other dead people.’



Then everything went black.



I came to the following morning, pumped full of morphine, in a specialist burns unit at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. I heard Mum and Dad. I assumed they were dead, too. ‘I wonder how they died,’ I thought. ‘What an unlucky family we are.’

By now my head had swollen to the size of a football. Tests showed that the acid had been neat, industrial-strength sulphuric acid.



I was under heavy sedation. The next morning, still fuzzy with medication, I heard Mum and Dad’s voices again, trying to reassure me, but I couldn’t speak and my eyes were welded shut.



Someone handed me a clipboard and pen, and I scribbled messages. ‘Help me. I can’t breathe. Am I dead? Am I blind? I’m sorry, I love you. Please don’t cry.’



When they had done their best to answer my questions, Mum asked if Danny had done this to me.

Someone handed me a clipboard and pen, and I scribbled messages. ‘Help me. I can’t breathe. Am I dead? Am I blind? I’m sorry, I love you. Please don’t cry.’

I wrote that he’d raped me and threatened to kill me. I thought he was going to break into the hospital and kill me. As far as I was concerned, I was better off dead. I scribbled another message: ‘Kill me.’



The next day, I started to catch flashes of the real world as my vision came back: my sister Suzy, Mum and Dad, and an Asian man with warm brown eyes and a kind voice, who introduced himself as my surgeon, Mr Jawad.



‘I’m going to help you, Katie,’ he said. I nodded. I knew I could trust him.



Two days after the attack, I had the first of what would prove to be more than 60 operations to rebuild my face and repair internal damage to my oesophagus.



I had the worst injuries the medical team had ever seen. They sliced away my entire face, removing the dead and burned skin.



I had suffered third degree burns, as well as losing most of my nose, my eyelids, and half my left ear.



The acid had also damaged my eyes, my mouth and my tongue. It had splashed on to my arms, hands and legs, and burned right through my neck and cleavage.



After the operation, I was swaddled in bandages and moved into a high-dependency room. The next day, I went back into theatre for another operation.



Danny was arrested at the scene of the acid attack the evening after it happened.



Apparently he’d gone there, acting concerned, and told the police he was my boyfriend.



His arrest didn’t lessen my terror.



He could get out, couldn’t he? He could come here and wait until the police officer standing outside my door was distracted, couldn’t he?



The next day, five days after the attack, I was dozing in bed when Dad woke me up. ‘Katie,’ he whispered. ‘The police think they’ve caught the guy who threw the acid. They need you to look at some photos to try to identify him. Do you think you can do it?’



I never wanted to see that face again but I croaked: ‘OK.’



A police officer and solicitor came into my room. They explained I would see pictures of nine different men. I shouldn’t say anything until I’d seen them all twice. It began. I looked at one man, then another, then another.



Then, suddenly, his face flashed up.



I went through the process twice. When it was over, trembling and sobbing, I pointed him out.

The hoodie’s name was Stefan Sylvestre. He had only been caught because he had been spattered by the acid as he threw it.



Over the next few days, in between plenty of sleep, I was cajoled into managing to sit in a chair; there was another operation to clean my wounds; I was able to swallow yogurt for the first time.



Underpinning everything, though, was constant fear. Danny and Stefan stalked my nightmares and I woke up screaming every night.



Nine days after the attack, my surgeon came into my room and explained I would soon be having a major operation.



Mr Jawad seemed like an angel to me and I knew he would do his very best.



Two men had destroyed my face and now this one was going to try to rebuild it.



Copyright Katie Piper 2011



Beautiful, by Katie Piper, is published by Ebury at £6.99.



To order your copy at the special price of £6.49 with free p&p, please call the Review Bookstore on 0845 155 0713 or visit MailLife.co.uk/books.



To make a donation to the Katie Piper Foundation go to www.katiepiperfoundation.org.uk.

