Josy accepted a housekeeper job on the other side of the world to give her daughter a better life, but it turned into a nightmare...
Pulling my little girl, six, into my arms, I gave her a lingering hug.
‘Mummy’s going on holiday, but I’ll see you soon,’ I said, as my daughter Eloá grinned.
After dropping her off at her dad’s,
I walked away, blinking back tears.
As well as being a mum, I was juggling a busy job in a finance company while studying law.
Growing up, we hadn’t had much money, so I was striving to provide a better life for Eloá.
But a recent disagreement with my boss had sent me spiralling with worry for the future. Then, one day, a friend had called.
‘Come and visit me in the UK,’ she said.
She was always inviting me over, but
I lived hundreds of miles away in Brazil.
But now felt like the right time.
Days later, I’d booked my flight and after saying goodbye to my daughter,
I headed to the airport.
While I couldn’t wait to see the sights I’d only ever seen in films, I was concerned about my prospects back home.
And just a week into my trip,
I got the news I’d dreaded.
‘I’m afraid we’re letting
you go,’ my employer told me over the phone.
‘What will
I do for money?’ I said to my friend.
‘I know a Brazilian lady who needs someone to help around her house,’ she said.
Sylvia was a wealthy art consultant who lived in affluent Chelsea.
Walking into her grand home, I felt uneasy. But
I was desperate, so accepted
the offer to work alongside Sylvia’s housekeeper.
I planned to return home as soon as I’d saved enough money to improve my daughter’s life.
Sylvia lived in the four-storey house with her adult son Maximillian – known as Max.
He was quiet, mostly staying
in his room.
'Why are you doing this?'
When we did speak, it was usually when he asked me to make him something to eat.
It was difficult being away from my girl and I’d FaceTime her every day from the cramped room I was renting.
Months later, the housekeeper suggested I could rent one of the two basement bedrooms in Sylvia’s house.
It meant the end to my exhausting journey, and I’d be able to save on travel costs.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said.
Later that year, Sylvia said she’d be travelling for three months – and the housekeeper would go with her.
‘Can you look after the house and take care of Max?’
she asked me.
It seemed odd that Max, who I guessed was in his early 20s, needed keeping an eye on.
Still, I agreed.
By then, I’d made up
my mind.
When Sylvia came back, I’d return to Brazil.
I was homesick and just wanted to be with my girl.
One night, I was watching TV when I heard footsteps coming down to the basement.
‘Josy, come outside,’
I heard Max say.
Assuming he wanted me to cook for him, I got up and opened the door.
To my horror, Max was standing there wild-eyed – and he was brandishing a large kitchen knife.
I was paralysed by shock, unable to scream or react as I saw a flash of metal coming towards me.
Then Max repeatedly plunged the knife into me.
I cried out in pain as the blade pierced my face, chest and arms.
‘Please!’ I cried out in shock.
‘I have a daughter!’
But he just continued his savage attack.
I’m going to die tonight,
I thought.
Next, he grabbed my blouse
to pull me towards him as I held my wrists up for protection.
Suddenly I was backed towards my bedroom wall
and Max had his hands around my neck.
But there was so much blood,
I slipped down the wall and slumped on the floor, with Max still trying to throttle me.
Then my daughter’s face filled my mind.
I can’t die here – she needs me, I thought.
Thinking of her gave me the strength to fight for my life.
Somehow, I managed to escape from Max’s grip.
But then he grabbed my hair and started to slash the back of my head.
Just as his hands slipped because of the blood, I made
a break for the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
But as he pushed against it,
I realised the lock might not hold.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I wept.
‘Because you’re EVIL,’ he said.
I couldn’t understand it.
We’d never had any kind of disagreement.
Deciding the only way I could get help was by getting my mobile from my bed, I tricked him into thinking I was dead by slowing my breathing.
When I couldn’t hear anything outside, I risked opening the door a crack.
But Max charged towards the gap and I had to close it again.
After a few more minutes,
I tried again.
And this time, I made it to my room and grabbed my phone before barricading myself into the bathroom once again.
As soon
as I’d called
the police,
I recorded
a message
to Eloá.
'You're lucky to be alive'
It was in case I didn’t make it.
‘I’m sorry
I wasn’t a better mother, but
I was trying to make a better life,’ I said, tears slipping down my face.
Then, eventually,
I heard sirens outside.
The next thing I remember is being taken by ambulance to hospital.
That’s when the adrenaline must have worn off, because the pain took my breath away.
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ the doctor told me.
I’d been stabbed 42 times, suffering multiple penetrating injuries to my scalp, my right eye socket, my left cheek and neck.
I needed emergency surgery on my lungs – as one had been punctured – and I would then be seen by the plastic surgery team.
Luckily, the doctors and surgeons were amazing.
Later, police told me Max had called them himself after the attack, claiming he was a ‘nice boy from Chelsea’ that had stabbed ‘the demon woman
in my house’.
‘He’s been arrested and taken to a secure mental health unit,’ the officer said.
The next day, as I lay on my hospital bed, I called
my family. But I couldn’t bear telling Eloá what had really happened.
‘Mummy’s been in an accident,’ I said.
After four days, the doctor said I could go home.
‘I have nowhere to go,’
I told him.
‘We’ll help,’ he said, saying he’d contact
a nearby charity.
Later, a lady called me and offered me a room for as long as I needed.
‘Thank you,’ I said, overwhelmed with gratitude.
But as well as the painful scars criss-crossing my body, I was left deeply traumatised and suffered panic attacks. I felt lost and confused, and needed counselling and medication to help me sleep.
But when the date of the
court case finally arrived, I was determined to attend.
The police told me I didn’t have to go.
‘I want justice,’ I insisted.
Southwark Crown Court heard 26-year-old Maximillian Bourne, who wasn’t in court, had been charged with attempted murder but was deemed unfit to stand trial due to his mental health.
I felt disappointed at the decision. But thankfully, the jury took just 10 minutes to find him responsible for the attack.
The court was told he suffered from paranoid schizophrenia
and had been in the grip of a psychotic episode when he’d stabbed me.
Judge Gregory Perrins said
he would stay in a secure hospital indefinitely.
He said, ‘She was attacked without warning and without provocation in the home in which she lived and worked. It is only through sheer good fortune that she survived the attack.’
Now, I’m raising funds to
bring a civil case to try and get compensation so I can rebuild my life.
That’s why I’m still in the UK
– but as soon as I’m able to, I’ll go home to be reunited with my little girl.
I truly believe I am only here today because of her.
Josy Pereira Do Nascimento, 30
• To donate, visit crowdjustice.com and search ‘Joselia Pereira Do Nascimento’