Invisible (30 page)

That’s another thing. I get
their cards stuffed through the letterbox, along with endless letters saying
that they’d ‘love to hear my side of the story’. That I’m being judged by
people already and so it’s only fair that I get to ‘set the record straight’ by
speaking exclusively to them. Oh, and that while ‘obviously it isn’t about the
money’ they would be ‘more than happy to pay a six figure fee’. So when it gets
right down to it they think I’m some heartless bitch who will profit from what
has happened.

The really obvious question though,
the one I’m asked time and time again, is: ‘Did you really have no idea?’ Of
course I had no bloody idea! Surely no one can truly believe I would know about
what Daryl was up to and keep quiet.

Or…maybe they think I got
some horrible thrill from it, or was somehow party to it? Maybe they think
Daryl would come home afterwards and give me a blow by blow account over a
cuppa, and I’d laugh and clap my hands in delight in all the right places as he
got to the really gory details. And afterwards we’d sit and watch Coronation
Street.

If people really believe
that, they must be sick themselves.

But…then again, I have to
remind myself about women like Rosemary West and Myra Hindley. They really did
enjoy their bloke’s crimes. In fact, they actively took part, loved every
second of it, were a driving force behind it. Is my name going to be mentioned
in the same breath as them now?

The thought makes me feel
sick – I mean makes my stomach physically contract and I have to run to the loo
or stand over a bin, retching, gagging.

I hate being sick, it scares
me, but the second I feel scared, I feel guilty. I can’t allow myself to feel
anything
any more
, because nothing I feel can ever
compare to what Daryl’s victims feel.

I’m glad Mum’s here. It
gives me less time to think about that sort of thing. Of course, the second she
arrived, she took charge. You know what? I didn’t mind at all, in fact, it felt
great. It took everything she had not to open the curtains, but I’ve got used
to the half-light now, and it means the paparazzi can’t sneakily take photos of
me in my own home.

They do that, you know,
sneak up to the window, press the camera right up against the pane then snap
away. The photo quality isn’t great, as I discovered when the first grainy shot
of me was printed immediately after the verdict, when I got home and put the
telly on to try and drown out the noise they were all making outside. No, it’s
not great, but it satisfied the appetite of the nation to see the ‘monster’s
wife relaxing at the home they’d shared’.

Relaxing! I’ve already
checked with Peter – they can’t make any specific allegations against me, they
can’t outright say that I knew anything because then I could sue them for libel
and defamation of character and all that. But with oh so subtle use of words
they can imply so much. ‘Relaxing’ because I don’t have a care in the world, ‘relaxing’
despite my fella being a killer and multiple
rapist
.

So Mum kept the curtains
closed and instead cleaned up the mess in the twilight. I seem to have
forgotten how to do the washing up, vacuuming, dusting…bathing, dressing,
brushing
my hair…

Then she offered to go
shopping because apparently everything I own is past its use by date. ‘You need
to eat, keep your strength up,’ she told me. I think she tells me that a lot, but
her words, along with everything else in the real world, seem to have turned
into a strange fug that is muffled from me, and everything I see is dulled
through a mist. I don’t exist
any more
. I am a ghost.

As she wittered on about
eggs and bread and milk and vegetables, I simply grunted occasionally, but when
she was about to open the front door reality hit along with panic.

‘Wait!’ I shouted, grabbing
her arm and holding her back. ‘Be careful out there, Mum.’

She looked at me, eyes
widened in surprise that I was finally reacting to something.

‘I mean it,’ I begged. ‘If
people know you’re anything to do with me they’ll try to hurt you or have a go
at you. Be careful.’

She nodded slowly. Placed
her fingers over my hand and rubbed them gently until I stopped squeezing her
arm. It soothed the hysterical fear that was building inside me and I cleared
my throat, trying to regain control.

‘Just…don’t go to the local
supermarket, people might recognise you, link you to me,’ I instructed. ‘Drive
to that other one that’s across town.
Or the big one by the
bypass.
I tend to change which ones I go to, so that no one can ever
guess where I’ll be and plan an attack. Sometimes I even drive to different
towns…’

I trailed off then, suddenly
struck by the concern, fear, and fierce love all reflected in Mum’s face. It
must be so hard for her. I’ve got to try harder to pull myself together, if
only for her sake.

I’ll try. I promise I’ll
try. I just don’t know how I’ll manage it though.

Wednesday 1

Night time is the worst, I
think. During the day I can distract myself. I can do things, talk to people
(well, Mum, Dad, and Kim – that’s it, everyone else has disappeared).

At night though, there’s
nothing for me to do but
lie
waiting and hoping for
sleep to finally take me into oblivion for a while and offer me a few hours of
respite. It rarely comes though. Instead I lie in the darkness, staring
straight up, in a bed that seems abnormally huge.
Cold and
empty.
I know I spent the majority of my time alone when Daryl and I
were together, and then almost a year while he was on remand and I kidded
myself that he’d be home because he was a good, innocent person…but somehow,
knowing I am now truly alone and hopeless makes the bed seem bigger and emptier
and lonelier.

I curl up and try to imagine
arms around me, a warm body spooned behind me, but my imagination’s not that
good. Then I realise I’m thinking of him, my husband, and feel sick because now
all I can think of is the Port Pervert.

How could I not have known?
Why did he do this to us?

Those are the thoughts that
keep me cold at night, shivering even when it’s warm.

Thursday 2

Mum marched me down to the
doctor’s today and despite my protests she sat in on my appointment as if I was
a little girl again.

‘She doesn’t eat, doesn’t
sleep, barely speaks, can’t be bothered with anything and either stares out of
the window in an almost catatonic state for hours or jiggles non-stop, rocking
like a lunatic,’ Mum told the GP.

Wow, I hadn’t realised I was
quite that bad. But instead of arguing I just sat there, knee going up and down
like the clappers.

‘It sounds as if you’re
depressed,’ the doctor replied directly to me. Her voice was sympathetic but
her body language spoke volumes: if she’d sat any further back in her chair
she’d be coming out the other side. Yes, she knew who I was and wasn’t happy
but was doing her best to be professional. ‘I’m going to write a prescription
for you that will help you deal with things.’

Finally I found my voice.
‘No, I don’t want that,’ I blurted, shaking my head stubbornly. ‘I’m not
depressed, or, at least I am depressed probably but I know why; there’s a
reason why I feel this way and tablets aren’t going to get rid of it. If I’m
going to stand any chance of getting over this then I need to deal with it
properly. Work through it.’

It was the most I’d said at
one go since the trial started. Goodness knows where the determination came
from, but I kept on talking, my brain seeming to work properly for a few
moments, at least.

‘Tablets will fog my brain up
and make me feel better for now but it’s just putting off the moment when I do
have to face reality. I’d rather do that now, even though it’s…’ I searched for
a word to sum everything up, but failed miserably, ‘…hard.’

‘It doesn’t really work like
that,’ the GP replied, voice gentler, unfolding her arms. ‘The tablets would
simply help you, but if you’re certain you don’t want them…’

‘I am.’ It felt good to be
certain of something. Good that I was in control of some tiny aspect of my
life. There was one problem I’d like help with though… ‘I do have trouble
sleeping, and it’s making me feel like I’m losing my mind.’

‘Lack of sleep can
definitely make it harder to deal with everyday life,’ she nodded. Leaning
forward, she picked up her pen and started scribbling something down. ‘I’m
going to write you a prescription for some sleeping tablets. You don’t have to
use them every night, just as and when you struggle with sleep.’ That’s every
night then. ‘I also think you should consider having counselling to help you
deal with your issues. You, err, have had to deal with a lot… Now I can put you
down on a waiting list to see someone on the NHS, but it could take a year for
an appointment to come through, or you can pay to see someone privately. Here’s
a list of practitioners I’d recommend.’

She pushed it and the
prescription over to me and I reached for them but Mum got there first and
popped them both into her handbag.

Later, at home, we went
through it together. Counselling…I don’t know. I don’t think I can talk about
this stuff. How can I talk when I don’t know what’s going on in my own head?

I keep thinking about what
the Inspector said.
That there may have been more rapes than
they know about, more victims who are too scared to come forward.
It
haunts me. So now I keep going over every row Daryl and I ever had and
wondering if it was a trigger for another attack; thinking of happy memories
and being terrified that they were because he’d just hurt someone.

There isn’t a single tender
moment or happy memory I have from the last nine years that I can think
of
now and take any solace in. There’s no refuge from
Daryl’s evil. Everything is tainted by horror.

Did he do something terrible
the day he proposed to me?
On birthdays and anniversaries?
Even walks on the beach when he seemed happy, was he planning something? How
can the man who shared his life with me be capable of such things? He moves
worms out of harm’s way when it rains, and yet…

I once went away on a mate’s
hen weekend and when I opened up my overnight bag at the hotel I discovered
that Daryl had gone through it and hidden love notes in every single item. I’d
laughed, stunned, as they’d fluttered from tops I pulled out, jeans, my make-up
bag, one in each high heeled shoe I’d brought…

‘I’ll miss you, Gorgeous’,
‘You are my one and only’, ‘
My
first, my last, my
everything’, each message was different. He’d even written ‘I love’ you’ on the
cellophane wrappers of every individual tampon I’d had to bring with me.

At the time I’d thought it
incredible and rather wonderful that he’d gone to all that trouble. Now it
freaks me out. Why did he do it? What triggered such a show of emotion? Had he
hurt someone? Nothing can be taken on face value, not when you’re thinking of a
man who agrees to have a baby after murdering someone.

No, there isn’t a single
thing I can take from the last nine years of my life. My whole adult life had
been based on lie after lie layered together until it gave the impression of
something solid and reliable, when all the time it was waiting for the bloody
great wrecking ball of truth to smash it apart.

How I wish I could go back
in time and never have met him. If I just hadn’t gone to that stupid party with
Hannah, just think
,
I’d never have known Daryl. He was
only at that party by chance, so if we hadn’t got together there maybe we’d
never have clapped eyes on one another. Think how different my life would have
been. Maybe I’d have met someone else that very night, fallen for them instead
and now I’d be married to someone honest and lovely.

I’d be curled up in bed next
to him, and we’d be complaining about our couple of rug rats crawling in with
us, but actually secretly pleased as they snuggled up with us, because that’s
what life is really all about when you get down to it: family. We’d laugh as we
all squeezed together in our little double bed, complaining that someone was
hogging the duvet when actually there simply wasn’t enough to cover us all,
then finally the kids would fall asleep again, their hot breath against my
neck, their legs thrown over me and their dad in a tangle that seemed
inextricable.

I’ve a stupid smile on my
face as I imagine that, tears dribbling down my cheeks. That’s the life I
should have had. I wish I could turn back
time
.

Some people believe there
are parallel universes out there, don’t they. They think that every permutation
of every decision we could have made is being lived out somewhere at the same
time as we’re living this life. I don’t really understand it, but it’s an oddly
comforting thought that somewhere out there
there
is
a me that got it all right and is happy. That somewhere
that scene I imagined is reality, and I have children and I’m loved and I’m
truly happy and have solidity, contentment, everything I ever wanted.

I’ve got to stop writing for
a
minute,
the tears are making it hard to see the
page.

Right, I’m back, that’s
better. Well, it is and it isn’t because while I was crying I had another
horrible thought.

That story about his mum
leaving him for three days after he told her he was bullied. It can’t be right.
How could he have gone for three days without water? He made it up, of course.

God I’m stupid! He made
everything up to make me feel sorry for him, to dupe me into falling in love
with him and actually feeling protective of him – him, the evil monster that
everyone actually needed protecting from!

Or did he make it up? Maybe
it was real and that was what damaged him beyond repair? Could that be the
beginning of him becoming twisted and sick?

He’d looked so serious and
sad as he’d told me, surely it couldn’t be yet another fabrication. The way his
eyes had filled with tears, and he’d twisted his hands anxiously as he’d
spoken. The odd expression on his face as he’d told me the story, as if he was
making his mind up about something and letting me in…

Jesus, he’d been thinking
about killing me, wringing my neck, that’s why he was wringing his shirt hem;
it was instead of my neck! What had it been about me that made him stop, not go
through with what his heart told him to? Should I feel flattered? Or sickened?
Maybe he saw in me some flaw that was equal to his, maybe he thought I was like
him.

What if I’m evil and don’t
even realise it?

Thursday 9

Despite popping a sleeping
tablet, all night I kept thinking about Daryl telling me the story of being
bullied and his mum ignoring him. At about 3.30am I decided there was only one
course of action I could take: I had to call his mum and ask if it was true or
not.

I’ve spent years hating that
woman. Perhaps there was never a reason to. Perhaps she was so odd because she
was trying to protect herself from the son she knew was evil. Then again, maybe
he’s strange because he takes after her… All I know is that throughout this
Cynthia has been a total waste of space not just for him but me also. Every
time I call her she tells me not to bother her any more. Yet she’s the closest
person I have to someone who will really understand what I’m going through.

It took a lot of
self-control not to get up and call her right there and then. Even I could see
it wasn’t a great idea to ring in the small hours though, so instead I lay in
bed, watching the clock’s digital glow changing shape every minute in the
darkness, willing it to move faster, faster, faster. Safe to say, I don’t have
telekinetic powers – unless maybe I made it go slower.

By 6am the internal argument
had started. Was it still too early? Officially it was daylight; in fact the
sun had been up for hours. No, Cynthia might still be asleep.
6.30am
. Still too early. 7am: maybe I could get away with
that? But no, I didn’t want the conversation to get off to a bad start, needed
things to go smoothly, so better to wait.

By 8am I couldn’t stand it
any more
. I tied my hair back in a ponytail (as if somehow
tidying my hair would help tidy my mind and make me think clearer) and dialled.
As soon as Cynthia heard my voice she became defensive.

‘My dear, if you’re calling
to persuade me that he’s innocent or to go see him -,’ she began. Clearly like
me she never says his name any more, but it didn’t take a genius to know who
‘he’ was.

‘No, no,’ I interrupted
quickly. ‘Even I’m not so blind that I can’t see that he’s guilty. I just…I
suppose I want to work out why…’

‘…And thought you’d blame me
because it’s always the mother’s fault?’

‘Not at all, I just…’ Just
what? Now I was talking to her I didn’t really know what to say. I suppose I
hoped that we’d talk and she’d tell me about some clear trigger in his
childhood that had caused him to become so damaged that he’d wreaked terrible
revenge on all women. Maybe it was this incident where he’d locked himself in
his room, maybe it was more complicated than that, but there had to be
something, some reason, surely.

‘People don’t just
spontaneously become rapists and killers. Do they? And if they do, surely it’s
because they’re evil through and through – and if they’re evil like that then
it means they have no loveable traits, and that just wasn’t Daryl. He could be
so wonderful…so why does someone wonderful do something so terrible?’ My words
tumbled out, eager to escape my brain, where they’d been going round and round
all night.

Cynthia gave a sigh. ‘I know
you want to understand but there’s nothing I can tell you. Some people are just
born twisted. I’m afraid Daryl was never right.’

Despite myself I felt
annoyed, leapt to his defence. ‘How can you say that about your own son?’ I
demanded.

‘Because it’s true, my dear,’
she said simply. ‘He’s always been a little charmer – and a little liar. I
don’t know where he got it from because I’m not like that and his dad, God rest
his soul, certainly wasn’t. But from the day he could speak, I couldn’t trust a
word that came out of his mouth.’