‘You go and have a lie-down Sarah,’ Sam said, considerate as ever. ‘I’ll finish off tea then take the boys over on the field to play cricket so you can have some rest.’ He looked so sincere, so caring, so worried. Inside I hurt, because I had lied to him. I had never lied to Sam before, ever. I hated myself. And I felt so unbelievably guilty.
An hour or so later I heard the door open once more as Sam began leaving the house with the boys; their cheery, babbling voices echoing part way up the stairs, and finally disappearing as they all filed out of our tiny hall together. Sam closed the door behind them as they all left to play a game of cricket before bedtime. Cricket with Sam and the boys was so wonderful. I hated missing out on sharing every second of this precious, special time with them all.
As I began to think of dashing off after them, painful memories flooded my head. I lay back on the pillows, closing my eyes because I knew this was my only defence against them. I was trying my best to block out all the old troublesome, numerous recollections that were now set for a collision with my present life, ready to destroy my happiness. My head felt like it was on a carousel, spinning around and unable to stop; whilst inside the rest of my thoughts felt as if they were attached to the arm of a spinning top, whirling out of control.
I needed to talk to Sam about today’s events, but I knew if I talked to him about seeing Bill, it would hurt him deeply, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I was not prepared to hurt this wonderful man. I simply would never hurt him, ever. He was the only man who had made me feel this secure, this happy, this loved. After all, he had spent the whole time that we had been together protecting me, so I felt that I had to do the same for him in return. I had to protect him. I had to.
Bill and the memories I held of him were dangerous things. Just the very thought of the man and what he had done to me started nightmares that were so extreme that they should have only occurred during sleep, not when I was awake. If the terrible memories were confined to nightmare dreams, the people around me would be safe from Bill. Instead the memories were here now in the stark, unforgiving, brightness of the day. I needed Sam to enjoy his life and remain un-haunted by any new developments that might result from my sordid, chequered past. I realised it wasn’t fair to involve him, but on the other hand I knew secrets weren’t good in a marriage either.
As I lay thinking about the events of the day, I fell into a deep, troubled sleep. I woke with a jolt when I heard the door close about an hour later, and the boys giggling at the bottom of the stairs. I slowly got up, brushed my hair, somehow found a smile from some deep, hidden, contented part of my mind, and walked downstairs to meet them. Just the very sight of them all as I descended the stairs, all happy together, made my heart sing and a surge of joy reappeared once more in my life.
‘Hi Mum,’ they all sung out to me, between giggles. It was so funny watching them all dancing around our tiny three-foot by four-foot hallway, trying not to trip over each other as they wrestled to take off their shoes and place them in a row on the mat.
They looked so happy, so content, and so complete – my family of wonderful boys. Sam kissed me when I got to the bottom of the stairs, saying, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better,’ I replied softly. ‘I’m glad. I missed you.’
He kissed me again. ‘I missed you, too.’
As we followed the boys into the lounge, they settled down with their cars and their road mat, happily making car sounds as they played. When I look back, my son Michael’s police cars were quite unique with their ‘ne-naw’ sounds that intensified as the car came closer to the scene of the accident. (Usually an overturned car or two – of the Matchbox model variety – would be blocking one of the roads.)
Sam went upstairs to run baths for them while I slipped into the kitchen to pour four cups of milk, ready for the boys once they had all had their baths. Once my sons had been bathed and were each in their beds, Sam read them a story while they drank their milk and I sorted out baby Timothy before settling him in his cot.
All our nights were just like this one. We followed a routine, which included the boys playing lots of cricket and football. They were always laughing; they all shared a special sibling relationship and very rarely fell out with each other. If the weather was horrid, we would play games together indoors, reading stories or colouring in picture books. We had a full family life and each one of those contented days just added to the happiness I felt inside. I had been so blessed with this new life; a life I realised was quite extraordinary and unique. I had a wonderful husband who most people would say was ‘too good to be true’. He isn’t. He’s real and he’s my knight in shining armour. My only wish would be that every abused woman have a caring man like Sam in her life.
Chapter Five
AS THE WEEKS passed by, the dreams slowly began to enter my sleeping hours. At first it wasn’t every night or even every week, they just crept up on me gradually. Each dream invaded my sleep slowly at first. And then, as the months progressed, the dreams took over my slumber in a more savage way.
Each time I dreamed, Bill would always be there watching me; never saying anything, just watching. My dreams continued like this for a few months and then they began to intensify. Each time I experienced this intrusion to my sleep, the next dream would always be progressively more significant than each previous one.
Bill was becoming more powerful in my dreams, but now he wasn’t just a vision standing there before me. He appeared to be following me, too. Every time I walked, he walked. Every time I stopped, he stopped. I began to feel unsafe again. I even started looking round corners when I wasn’t dreaming. I began to imagine that my dreams were becoming reality, and that every hidden, darkened corner I couldn’t see around was concealing a new, more immediate danger, with Bill standing there silently, expectantly waiting, ready to move in. I remember feeling ill at ease, even in the daytime. This uneasiness ate into me, gnawing away at me, even when I had people I loved close by. I still felt I couldn’t tell Sam what I was feeling, even though I knew he loved me more than life itself. I knew he would always protect me, yet I felt so very vulnerable, trapped like a butterfly in a net.
I sensed Bill had found out where I was now living and was hiding somewhere, watching me whilst he was drinking in my life: a life that he desperately wanted to be a part of again. I knew he couldn’t have found me, I knew I was just over-reacting, but still the threat of him felt as real as it did all those years ago.
As the dreams became more frequent, I now could no longer keep all the bad memories in ‘the box’ in my mind. They had broken free and now filled each new dream I had, spoiling them, making them tainted and unfamiliar. It wasn’t just the watching and following now either. I felt as if Bill was physically touching me again. Touching me in every way possible. Even my compulsive repeated washing had begun again. When I was younger I had battles with my parents to use hot water for something as simple as a bath, something that is taken for granted today. As a child, I had a bath once a week and that was it – but as an abused child I felt the need to wash every time I came home after Bill had abused me; my sink filled with cold or lukewarm water, soap and scrubbing brush at the ready, trying to remove the smell of him from my skin. There were many times I rubbed myself raw with Vim as I tried to remove the memories created by the touch of his fingers. I never found a way to wash the memories away completely though.
I hated closing my eyes and even used to cross-stitch late into the night so that my sleeping hours would be drastically reduced. I don’t know how my body coped with such a small amount of sleep, or how I still functioned each day. I think what troubled me the most was that these were dreams in which I was powerless to stop Bill being part of my life again. All I could do was stay awake as much as possible. Sam continued to call me at least three times every day when he was at work and we were apart. The longer we were married the harder it seemed to spend time apart. It was unbearable at times and all I ever wanted was to have Sam at my sid
e.
Three months had now elapsed since I had accidentally met Bill in town, and as each day passed, Sam began to instinctively realise that something was wrong. One morning as we sat eating breakfast, he asked me if I was okay. ‘Oh I’m fine,’ I replied wearily.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked me, his words full of concern.
‘Yes, positive, stop worrying, I’m just a little tired.’ I tried to make my reply sound as carefree as possible so that Sam wouldn’t worry.
Somehow I don’t think I managed it. Especially when he rang me from work five times that day, instead of the usual three. I knew then that I couldn’t continue to lie to Sam. I had to tell him about my dreams. However, saying you’re going to do something and actually doing it are two very different things. Sure enough, I kept on putting off telling him what had happened to me.
To this day I have never, ever, told Sam about those dreams. I remember I couldn’t face seeing the hurt in his eyes, or the tears I knew he would shed because he couldn’t protect me from them. The dreams continued through the next few weeks, my silence unremitting. The dreams remained my secret until finally, I could take no more.
It had now been almost four months since the dreams has begun. My mind was in turmoil. The chaos and confusion I felt were beginning to become unbearable. I found it harder and harder to focus on even the smallest tasks. Even making packed lunches for the boys became a test of both my mind and my ability to stay calm in the crisis I was living through.
Every time I had to think about what I needed to do next, or what filling was going into their sandwiches for lunch that day, I began to think I was auditioning for The Krypton Factor. (The Krypton Factor was a television programme that tested contestants’ physical, mental and general knowledge abilities.)
It was happening again. Bill was invading my life. He was taking over, and the only difference this time was that I knew I wasn’t being forced by other adults to endure his company. This time, if he appeared again, I had a choice. The only disheartening part was I didn’t know when that would be, or even if I would ever see him again.
Was I panicking over nothing?
Yet I felt that somehow, somewhere, he would find a way of getting to me again. He was like that, never stopping pushing himself forward until he got what he wanted. Even though he wasn’t physically part of my life, the fact that I had seen him again, when I believed him to be dead, was enough to panic and alarm me every time I ventured out of the house. I had started to avoid going to town, so at least that way I knew I was not putting myself in any unnecessary danger.
Even walking to school to pick up my boys began to be a major event in my life. Every street or road I went down, I expected to see Bill sitting there in his car with the door readily open, casually waiting for my arrival. In my mind I could see him clearly with a confident look on his face. This look registered with me; it was a look that meant he knew that I would automatically get in the car with him and allow him to drive me somewhere. A somewhere where he would be undisturbed. It was an expression on his face I’d seen many years before, on each occasion that he had called for me when I lived at home.
I knew I was being stupid. I knew there was no way he could get hold of me because he didn’t know my address or where I lived. I also knew that he wouldn’t go to see Dad again and try to wheedle the information about where I was out of him. Mum and Dad had divorced, so Bill couldn’t use the excuse that he had just popped in to see Mum.
It seemed that I was at a crossroads again, and I had to make a choice. Do I continue with this silent sin, a sin I felt I was committing? Or do I speak out and try to put my chequered, despairing, sordid past into context? (Not that that would be an easy option.) Or should I just try to ignore it? Simply ignore Bill, the dreams and the past. Ignore it all. Hoping that it would bury itself underneath the Sahara or the pyramids in Egypt.
I don’t know why I had asked myself such insignificant questions when I already knew the answers. Looking back, I realise that my next move was perhaps the only move I had available to make. It was a decision for action that I took quickly; if I had considered it for a while, taken time to think my actions through, I would still be sitting here caught in the nightmare of bad dreams and a damaged past. I was a woman who had been robbed of her childhood, and the thieves were getting away with the wicked act of stealing something so precious.
With no one knowing.
And no one caring.
I would have become just another unknown statistic.
Later that morning I began a journey that would take nine years to really begin, and sixteen years to complete. This journey would be like no other I had ever taken. It would bring heartache but eventually, I hoped, as the journey ended, there would be peace. And so the next day, as Sam left for work, I began the first faltering steps that would take me along this winding, uneven, bumpy path I had now chosen with such nervous trepidation.
As usual I took the older boys to school and dropped William off at playgroup. Once back home I rang my doctor to see if I could get an appointment to see him that morning. I was lucky that there happened to be a slot free at 10.15. As I finished the phone call, I looked at the clock: 9.10. I had fifty minutes to spare. I quickly ran upstairs and stripped the boys’ beds and put fresh bedding on them. I carried the dirty linen downstairs and put one lot of bedding in the washing machine before I left the house. Once I was home again I’d put the next load in and hang the first lot out to dry.
It took me fifteen minutes to walk through the estate, along the park path and down to the clinic. I felt relieved that it was a nice dry day and the sun was comfortingly warm as it shone on my face. It gave me hope, even though I felt I was about to fall down and crumble into millions of tiny pieces that would have no chance of ever putting themselves back together again. Once in the doctors’ waiting room I sat waiting to see Dr Tranor. The surgery was full and I felt as if all the eyes that had looked up at me as I entered the building knew the secrets I was hiding. It was as if those neon lights that were on my forehead years before, were now flashing brighter than ever. As usual Dr Tranor’s surgery was running a little late so I had to wait an extra ten minutes past my appointment time. I remember how very apprehensive I felt. It was as if I was going to talk to him for the first time.
Every second that ticked by on the big, white, plastic surgery clock felt as if it was part of one of those past minutes, one piece of the uncertain hours of my childhood. Unexpectedly, the buzzer behind the receptionist’s desk sounded frantically, breaking up my thoughts. Every set of expectant eyes in the waiting room looked towards the reception desk.
‘Mrs Preston for Dr Tranor,’ the receptionist called out over the heads of the people sitting patiently, waiting their turn. As I stood up and looked across at her, she acknowledged me with a small smile. I managed to smile back hesitantly, but my whole body felt as if it was going to fall apart.
I walked down the corridor past her desk towards Dr Tranor’s room. It was only a short corridor but I felt it was longer than it should have been, extending my journey by a few hundred feet. Each of the small steps I took felt like steps I’d taken whilst I was walking up one of my beloved Lakeland fells, each one more arduous than the last. As I look back at this fateful moment, I can still see the corridor, the reception desk, and everything else so clearly. It’s almost as if I was sitting looking at a photograph, newly created and captured through the lens for the first time.
I knocked gently on the door, opened it, and walked in. Dr Tranor sat beside his desk. I always liked his room. He had a small settee that had a blue cover on it with lots and lots of little toys, many of which were either hand-knitted or hand-made. It always felt homely and welcoming – each of the bookshelves always looked hugely chaotic, which reminded me of our bookcases at home. The desk he sat at was up against a wall so he faced you when you sat to chat. He never spoke to you across the desk, and I always appreciated the way he deliberately tried to relate to his patients info
rmally, as if we were friends. I always liked this. Dr Tranor was a wonderfully understanding doctor, with a caring, sensitive manner. That day I felt I was visiting him for the first time, when I knew all too well that wasn’t the case.
I had actually known him for almost two years. I first met him when I changed doctors and joined his practice. I was pregnant with Timothy at the time and I wanted a home birth, which my previous doctor would not agree to. Dr Tranor was the only doctor in my area that would take on patients wanting home births.
As I entered the room, he looked up, giving me his warm smiley greeting that always made me feel at ease.
Except this time I didn’t feel at ease. This time my visit was different.
‘Hello Sarah, what can I do for you?’ he began warmly.
I felt his smile would have to work overtime to make his there’s-nothing-to-worry about look make me feel better. I felt cheap, soiled and dirty. All the time I was wondering what he would think of me when he knew the truth. I just did not know where to begin. I had come to see him for guidance about where to find help and who to talk to about my abuse, but as I sat in front of this kind, caring man who I knew would understand what I was about to tell him, I felt my voice sinking away from me. Disappearing further and further, deserting my mouth, my unspoken words travelling at great speed through my body towards the floor.
He looked at me, realising that I was having trouble talking, trying to tell him about what was troubling me. He sat there not speaking, just looking at me with his gentle deep blue eyes, waiting for the first words I would say to him. He never prompted me with that familiar ‘take your time’ I had heard from so many other doctors before. He just sat patiently waiting. I knew he had other patients to see. It took time to form my words into any kind of comprehensible sense. When I whispered them silently in my head before actually speaking them out loud, they all sounded wrong. I was trying desperately to get them into some semblance of logical order before I spoke. In the end I just gave up. I knew I was taking up too much of his time so I just blurted it all out, not pausing for breath, not slowing down, just blurting it out like a scared little girl who had done something really bad.
Escaping the Darkness Page 3
