Invisible (13 page)

So my husband has been charged, and
apparently he’s already been to magistrate’s court late this afternoon and
remanded to appear at Crown Court in a week’s time.

God, fancy having to face that alone, he
must have been terrified as the crimes were read out: five counts of r
ape, one attempted rape, five assault by
penetration, assault occasioning actual and grievous bodily harm, and one murder.

Amy had to write
the list
down,
it was too big to remember, while I
rocked back and forth on the sofa like some loony tunes person, moaning gently.
When she handed it to me the paper was shaking so much I had to hold her hand
in both of mine to keep it steady as I took in the words – but she pulled away
from me as if I had acid for skin.

‘I knew it,’ she
whispered. Her eyes were big, like a spooked horse’s, and she took tiny steps
away from me as she shook her head and sent her long, crazy curls dancing.

She was scared of
me, was so terrified she couldn’t drag her eyes from mine for one second in
case I did something insane.

My stomach
dropped. ‘Knew what?’ I’d already guessed the answer though.

‘That day Hannah
and I came round, I knew he was evil. We saw something in his eyes. Gut
instinct warned us. But I told myself I was being stupid, over-reacting,
because how could you be married to him if he were like that…?’

Her voice was low
but every word clear as a bell. She knew what she was saying. Still her eyes
bored into mine, and I saw fear harden into anger. ‘This is the proof though.
He’s raped. He’s murdered!’

This last word was
almost screeched. It broke the spell holding everyone in
place,
suddenly people were all talking at once, rushing between me and her.

Kim’s voice rang
out clearest over everyone else’s. ‘This isn’t proof, Amy. He’s been accused
but we don’t know what’s happened. Whatever Daryl’s guilty of, you can’t
seriously think she knew.’ She jerked her head in my direction.

I didn’t move a
muscle, my throat so constricted I couldn’t swallow let alone speak. Let it all
play out in front of me, knowing, knowing what was going to be said.

‘How could she not
know? She’s his wife! He must have acted weird; there must have been some
clues! If I could see it, why couldn’t she?’ Amy didn’t wait for an answer. She
grabbed her stuff up in both arms and ran from the room, from the house. The
front door slammed, then silence.

There it was. She
believed Daryl was guilty, and if he was then so was I. My horror rose, along
with some bile. I swallowed down the bitter taste, trying to think.

Andy was next to
break. He cleared his throat,
Mr
Reasonable after Amy’s
hysterics. ‘The
erm
, the police wouldn’t charge Daryl
unless they had some pretty hard evidence, surely? And he’s been denied bail…’

Una
reached out gently and touched his arm. ‘People are found innocent in court sometimes
you know. Innocent until proven guilty and all that,’ she said to him,
then
looked at me. ‘But look, you probably need a bit of
time alone to process this bombshell. We’d best go too, don’t want to leave the
grandparents looking after Jacob for too long, he’ll be getting antsy soon. You
know what five-year-olds are like!’ She laughed, then
realised
her mistake and left it hanging in the air.

I swallowed
quickly, my mouth suddenly full of saliva. ‘Yes, yes, you’d best go home,’ I
replied thickly.
Hugged her goodbye.
As they drove
away I ran to the loo, stomach heaving, and threw up.

I’ll never see
them again, I bet. If friends believe he’s guilty then what will the rest of
the world think? What will a jury think?

What will everyone
think of me?

I’m scared.

No, we’ll get
through this, we’ll be fine because there’ll be a trial and no one will find
him guilty because he isn’t guilty.

Tuesday 14

Normal life is completely
suspended until this…mistake is over. Yesterday, on top of everything else, I
had to call my boss and explain that I was taking a couple of days off for personal
reasons. He wasn’t pleased about it until I said I’d suffered a bereavement –
that’s what it feels like so the lie came quickly and easily to me. Normally
I’m so bad at fibbing, I get tongue-tied and my brain doesn’t seem to work fast
enough; only afterwards do I think: ‘ooh, I should have said so and so, that
would have been great. Why didn’t I think of it at the time?’

So my boss swallowed the lie…until
the newspapers came out today.

Daryl’s name and picture
everywhere (where the hell did they get the photo?!) there was even information
about him: his job, the fact he’s married, even the street we live on. I’m just
appalled they’ve done that. What if some weirdo actually thinks he’s done all
these things and comes round to the house to get revenge? I feel scared in my
own home now. Thanks a bunch, my life wasn’t crappy enough already.

They’ve given Daryl a moniker
too.
The newspapers.
I should have seen it coming
really, I mean, they always name people. Sometimes cool, sometimes eerie,
sometimes a bit silly, but the name the papers give is the one that becomes
synonymous with the crimes. Think about it.
The Moors
Murderers.
The Night Stalker.
The M25 rapist.
The Suffolk Strangler.
It seems like giving the label is almost as important as finding out the
perpetrator’s real name. More important in fact, as it takes them a step away
from humanity, from us normal people, in the same way that a superhero’s catchy
name does.

If Batman had just gone
around permanently as plain old Bruce Wayne no one would have taken him
seriously. ‘Bruce, stop wearing that silly utility belt and whizzing round in
that fast car, you’ll get yourself killed,’ pals would have nagged. Because
he’d have been normal, see. But give him a cool name, Batman, and he’s capable
of anything, because he clearly isn’t like the rest of us. He’s capable of
much, much greater things.

Well, I reckon that’s why
the need is so great to label killers, rapist, and ‘baddies’. To show that they
aren’t one of us, either, and that’s why they are capable of doing such
terrible, twisted deeds.

So, Daryl isn’t Daryl any
more. He’s The Port Pervert. Does it make it any easier for me to deal with?
I’m not sure. Part of me feels relieved. He’s not the man I loved any more, he
the Port Pervert. How could I have known what he was up to when no one else
guessed either?

Look at the way Clark Kent
fooled Lois Lane for all those years, and he saved people right in front of her
face. It’s so easy to be taken in by a secret identity when you’re right in the
middle of it – but of course the people on the outside can see it so clearly.
How many times have people rolled their eyes at the TV screen while Lois once
again failed to notice that Clark and Superman are never in the room together,
and that they look exactly the same? I feel sorry for her.
Because
I’ve been fooled too.
And now the world is shouting at me, not the
telly, screaming: ‘How could you not have noticed? How stupid are you?!’

If he really is guilty, the
answer is ‘monumentally’.

I don’t know the Port
Pervert, I know my husband,
I
know Daryl. If he hurt
these women then I never really knew him at all. All those shared memories
built up over nine years together are nothing.
Lies, lies,
lies.
Can I believe that nine years of my life was spent with a
stranger? I can’t,
it’s
madness. These accusations
just don’t sound right to me. Amy’s right about one thing: if he had done these
awful crimes I’d have seen something, known. You can’t be that close to someone
and not know what they’re capable of.

So no, I don’t believe my
husband is the Port Pervert.

Bless him, he must be so
scared. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if the police hadn’t released me.
Thinking of being locked up in that horrible cell makes me shiver all over
again. That’s why he didn’t call me, I’m sure, not because he didn’t want to let
me know what was happening, not because he didn’t long to hear my voice, but
because he was trying to protect me from worry. I’m desperate to speak to him;
as soon as I hear his voice I’ll feel better, more confident that things really
will turn out okay in the end.

Right now I feel lost.

There’s no time to feel
sorry for myself though. There’s so much to think about, but the first thing I
have to sort is a lawyer for Daryl. One of those top flight ones, like you see
on telly…but I’m not exactly sure how you go about getting one.

I started with Yellow Pages.
Called all the ones in there; it took forever.

It’s not exactly the kind of
thing I’m used to doing, explaining that my fella’s in the clink. I was so
nervous I’d jotted down a few notes so I wouldn’t forget anything, and launched
into the explanation as soon as the first person answered the phone.

‘Umm,
hello!
I’ve – my husband – well, he’s been arrested – we were
arrested – you might have seen it on telly - they barged in at 3am – the
police, I mean – and now they’ve charged him with,’ quick glance at notes,
‘five counts of r
ape
, attempted rape, assault by penetration, assault
occasioning actual and grievous bodily harm, and one murder
–
they can’t, well, they can, but they can’t – well, you know – so I need someone
for him – for court - can you help?’

‘You want a criminal
lawyer,’ sighed a woman. ‘We only do family law; it does say so in the advert.’

Did it? Yeah, actually, when
I checked it did indeed. ‘But this is kind of family law, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Our little family, mine and Daryl’s, is being ripped apart by the police’s
mistake.’

Mum and Dad (he’s taken some
time off work and arrived this morning) gave me an encouraging thumbs up, as
out of their depth as me in all this.

‘You want a criminal
lawyer,’ the woman repeated down the phone, sounding bored. ‘Goodbye.’ The
dialling tone sounded as she hung up. Well, sorry my humdrum little problem of
my life falling apart was so sodding dull for her.

Still, it taught me a
lesson. From then on I read the ads better before ringing. After a couple of
goes I even stopped gabbling and was able to encapsulate the problem in
seconds, not minutes. ‘I need a criminal lawyer; my husband has been arrested
for rape and murder,’ seemed to cover it.

By the end I was exhausted
and my voice a little croaky from over-use. Mum offered to take over, but I
refused. This is my problem.

She made me a cup of tea
afterwards, the hot liquid soon soothing my throat as I curled up on my big,
squishy armchair. She sat down at the end of the sofa closest to me, at a right
angle to me, with her knees almost touching mine.

‘Umm, your father and I
would like a word,’ she said. On cue Dad walked into the room then, looking
sheepish but determined as he sat beside her. They both leaned forward intently.
I felt like a little girl about to be gently told off for letting go of their
hand and wandering off while shopping.

‘Don’t be annoyed…but are
you sure you want to stand by Daryl?’ asked Mum. I opened my mouth to argue but
she raised her voice just slightly and continued as kindly as she could at the
increased volume. ‘I mean, what if he’s guilty, love? Have you thought about
that? You’ve seen the way your friends have reacted…’

‘Mum,
it’s
fine. This will be sorted out soon. He’ll be home in a couple of days,
probably,’ I insisted.

‘We’re worried for you,
love,’ said Dad. He sounded like a gruff bear in a kids’ cartoon; he doesn’t do
touchy feely emotional stuff much. In fact, he doesn’t really talk much,
thinking about it. My dad has been a silent man, quietly getting on with his
life of work, gardening, and reading the newspaper. Sometimes he disappears
into his shed for hours and tinkers with bits of wood or something; and as I
gazed at him now I realised…I don’t really know him much.

In fact, as Mum and Dad
talked on, I found myself staring at them and trying to think about them as
people instead of My Parents. I don’t know them. I don’t know their innermost
secrets and desires. I don’t know what makes them tick. For instance, there
must be more to Mum than an ability to listen to me whine about life while
making sympathetic noises, a gift for baking seriously nice cakes, and a
penchant for kitsch stuff (and not in an ironic way). But if there is, I don’t
actually know what…

They’re both so quiet, so
accepting of life. Maybe that’s where I get it from, my inability to question
things, or to speak up for myself. We’re more a stoic, put-up-and-shut-up kind
of family.

Anyway, eventually they
stopped talking and I carried on staring at them until the silence became
really quite awkward, and finally I cleared my throat and said: ‘I’ll
definitely think about what you’ve said. Honest.’ Of course I can’t though, because
I wasn’t listening.