Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘How do I look?’ I mumbled, like a bad ventriloquist, trying not to move my mouth too much.

  He leaned back to take in my full, reeking glory. ‘You’ve never look better – or smelled it,’ he joked. Ha, ha.

  We both baked gently in the sun until the mud hardened, then rinsed off in a shower before dipping in a hot thermal bath. Wonderful! My skin felt so very soft afterwards.

  Then we went by boat again to the beach where the loggerhead turtles lay their eggs. The surf there is massive but the sea is also very shallow for a very long way out. We both went out into the surf, and the crashing waves kept almost pulling my bikini off! We were jumping over the big waves like kids and laughing. Great fun. Then we dried off in the sun before sailing back. It was just glorious sitting at the head of the boat, lying on the flat bulkhead, sunbathing.

  Tues 2

  It’s 10am and already uncomfortably hot. I’ve arranged to meet Daryl downstairs in 15 mins because he wanted to finish off his breakfast, while I panicked about burning so decided to come to the room and slap on the factor 30! We’ve a hectic day ahead of us…

  Weds 3

  Well yesterday got off to a good start. Daryl had really splashed out and hired a sort of yacht called a gullet. Where he got the money from God knows but, hey, I’m just glad he’s spending it on treats for me! We sunbathed on the deck, beneath the masts and every now and again the captain would pull into a secluded harbour and we’d climb down the rope ladder and swim in the sea from the boat. Fab.

  I was a bit wary at first about swimming straight from the boat because obviously I couldn’t put my feet down on the floor, but the warm, bright blue sea is so salty there that I was incredibly buoyant, so it wasn’t a problem. It was amazing swimming round and round the boat. Then it was back to a bit more sunbathing!

  Daryl was getting a bit amorous on deck, but I wasn’t having a bar of it. Honestly, he’s terrible! Can’t keep his hands off me sometimes, and he does love a bit of al fresco action.

  ‘Come on, Gorgeous, the captain won’t notice,’ he insisted, hands sliding up my thigh. I slapped him away, but laughed. He pouted – those big lips of his are built for that expression. Then he had an idea, grabbed the towel and flung it over my bottom half. ‘I could touch you under this…’ he began. Before I had a chance to say no, his fingers slipped under my bikini bottoms.

  I rolled away, scandalised. ‘No chance,’ I hissed, giving him a stern look. Not too stern, but enough to show I meant business. I think he gets off on the thrill of possibly being discovered – but let’s face it, when you’re on a tiny boat and there’s only three of you, chances are you’re going to be caught in the act!!

  Anyway, I got absolutely hammered last night. We got back from the boat trip and went to our hotel room and tried to have sex but…Daryl’s problem made a re-appearance.

  We didn’t talk about it, of course, we never do, and I pretended not to notice when things failed to rise to the occasion. But it makes me feels so rejected, and Daryl always seems so deflated afterwards. Ooh, unfortunate turn of phrase there… But it definitely put a dampener on the mood, which had been really buoyant up until then.

  This problem of his has been happening on and off for the last two years or so, and seems to have got worse since I really started hammering home how much I want a baby. I’d hoped that him agreeing to that would mean the problem wouldn’t happen again, but seems I was wrong.

  Am I not enough woman for him? Don’t I turn him on? Maybe I’m just really bad in bed. Oh heck, how embarrassing. I bet it’s me. It can’t be him, he’s always so rampant and up for it. One look at me is enough to turn him limp though.

  Afterward we’d got dressed; we’d decided to go for a nice meal in nearby Hisaronou and we shared a bottle of wine…then another bottle…then we went to a bar and had another bottle, plus a couple of cocktails. I was steaming and we had a row.

  ‘If you want to fuck that bloke, why don’t you just go over to him?’ Daryl snapped at me suddenly. I’d immediately tensed up, even in my drunken state, knowing that he was picking a row with me for no reason because he was in a bad mood about our abortive sex. A row would make him feel a bit better, more in control. So I tried to stay calm.

  ‘I’m not looking at anyone,’ I said, looking him in the eye. Admittedly, it was quite hard to do because the room was swimming a bit as I’d had so much to drink. It may have been an unsteady look, but it was still sincere though.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve been looking at him ever since we got in here. At least have the respect to not rub my face in it.’

  The storm clouds had well and truly gathered, his face like thunder. I made myself take a deep breath, didn’t want to panic and make things even worse. I tried to soften my voice, like an FBI agent in a film trying to negotiate with a mad bomber or something.

  ‘Daryl, I’m not looking at anyone but you. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t even know what bloke you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot,’ he shouted, the barstool clattering to the floor as he stood up. He leaned right down over me, his face almost touching mine and I flinched back. ‘Don’t ever treat me like I’m a fucking idiot.’

  Then he stropped off and left me alone. At first I was a bit relieved, but as adrenaline made me sober up slightly, I started to get teary, then really angry.

  Furious, I stomped after him but there was no sign. I walked round and round that pub for ages looking for him, even asked a fella to check the gents for me, but he’d gone. Eventually I got a cab back, but he wasn’t at the hotel room either. God knows what time he did arrive – I was dead to the world by then; passed out, if I’m honest.

  So we’ve spent most of today barely talking. He still seems to think the whole thing is my fault and that I should apologise. Keeps muttering about me eyeing up some ginger bloke. I don’t even remember seeing a red-head, let alone giving him the eye, but Daryl won’t listen and every time I try to tell him it jut sparks another row. He says I’m treating him like he’s stupid, that I’m showing him no respect, that I’m just a tart. It’s so crushing after the wonderful start to the holiday, and I don’t know what to do.

  Maybe, this is payback for me going through his phone. But at least when I did that I realised immediately how terrible I was being, how wrongly I was acting, and confessed all to him in a bid to make things right.

  So no, I’m not apologising to him until he apologises to me. He’s the one in the wrong, I haven’t done anything. Besides, I’ve got a stonking headache that’s putting me in a very bad mood, so there is no way I’m giving in on this.

  Thurs 4

  Okay, so I apologised to Daryl this morning. It’s day two of the hangover (seriously, I can’t handle my drink now I’m in my 30s. I remember when I used to drink loads then wake up bright and breezy the next day. Now it takes me two days to get over a big night. Two days!!) and I didn’t have the strength to keep up hostilities.

  So this morning I tried to give him a hug in bed. He shook me off. I knew what I had to do. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I was drunk, I honestly don’t remember what I did, but I never, ever intended to upset you. Please…forgive me?’

  Did it put a smile on Daryl’s face? No. He was still in a right old grump. But at least things thawed between us slightly and I knew it was only a matter of time before I was in his good books again.

  Still, when he grunted at me that he wanted a Turkish bath, I just couldn’t face it. The thought of getting all sweaty and claustrophobic in a tiny cubicle then having someone pummel me…no thanks, not with my stomach still so delicate, and my head still woozy and thumping.

  Instead I said I’d just lie round the pool…and I heard something terrible. The gossip poolside is that a woman was attacked last night and raped. Awful.

  The other holidaymakers reckon that the police and the hotel staff are all keeping it quiet because they don’t want tourism affected – but I thi
nk that’s disgusting, if it’s true.

  I don’t know how much I believe, the details are a bit sketchy, but, well, it’s shaken me up. This girl was attacked on her way back to her hotel after leaving a nightclub – one not far from where Daryl and I were.

  When I told Daryl, I freaked out a bit. ‘I was stumbling round last night, really drunk and…it could have been me!’ I said. ‘You left me on my own…it could have been me.’

  All thoughts of our stupid row were forgotten instantly. He gave me a big hug and said: ‘No one’s touching you, they’d have to get through me first.’

  Bless him, I always feel so safe with him. He must have been worried too though, because he actually apologised for leaving me alone.

  ‘I’m an idiot, I shouldn’t have done that,’ he admitted. ‘I won’t leave you again for the rest of the holiday – promise.

  ‘No matter how stroppy you get,’ he added, the cheeky devil.

  Fri 5

  Our last day. I’ve been lying on the beach all day thinking about the little boy or girl I’m going to have one day soon. Who will our child take after most? My eyes or Daryl’s? My lips or Daryl’s? My temperament or Daryl’s?

  JULY

  Sunday 12

  2am – I need to write this all down to make it real. Or maybe I shouldn’t write it down, maybe it shouldn’t be real. I don’t want it to be real.

  3.15am – I’ve been pacing. Kim is staying with me. Bless her, she dropped everything when I called her. Everyone did. But she offered to stay, knew I didn’t want to be alone. In a minute I’m going to write down what happened. I think. I feel like I’m going mad, or am the butt of a very sick joke or something. I want to curl up and pretend that what’s happened hasn’t happened at all…

  Let me start small. I’ve been arrested. I’m staring at those three words now, hoping to drill them into my brain so I’ll accept and somehow reboot myself so that I work again, because at the moment I feel like a faulty computer. My programme is frozen and no matter how hard someone punches the keys, I can’t respond with anything other than a whirling ‘wheel of death’.

  So, I’ve been arrested. The next bit to write is why, and I don’t think I can face those words. Not yet. Not yet. Too soon. I’ll have to work my way up to it.

  Daryl was home last night – well, the night before last, now, I suppose; I don’t know where I am any more. Anyway, it was Friday he came home. He was in one of his moods, but I’m used to that. I just hid in the kitchen for a while, stretched out cooking for as long as possible, hoping that eventually he’d crack a smile. Or at least not have a go at me.

  Made him a cup of tea, made sure I got it exactly the right colour for him. Put the telly on, let him watch whatever he wanted, while I loitered, giving the countertops a good wipe down, getting the sink sparkling.

  It wasn’t too bad a night in the end, he did cheer up a bit. I just let him slag off every telly programme and that seemed to vent most of his mood. Let him have sex – I mean, it’s no hardship really to do it. I enjoy it most of the time. But it was one of those horrible nights when he wasn’t making love to me, wasn’t even having sex, I just ended up lying there while he pounded me. It took everything I’d got not to cry. He didn’t look at me, just pounded away.

  It doesn’t happen often, but when he’s like that I always feel like I could be anyone, like I’m just a hole he’s shagging. There’s no connection. He had that dead-eyed look, when his eyes remind me of a shark’s. Bright, cold blue, and devoid of emotion. Where does he go when he looks like that?

  But I made myself make all the right noises, do all the right moves, so that he’d think it was good, and eventually he finished. He withdrew for that. I remember thinking: ‘How am I ever going to get pregnant if he doesn’t do the deed inside me?’ and feeling hurt about it. Knowing that at some point I’d have to ask him, and trying to work out the best time to tackle it, the best way of phrasing it so that it didn’t seem like I was having a go at him. We’ll probably never have that conversation now though.

  Afterwards, we curled up and fell asleep quickly. It was the bang that woke me. The sound of the door hitting the wall as it exploded open, only of course I’d no idea that was what the sound was at the time. All I knew was that some bloody loud noise had made me jump from sleep to wake in a microsecond, my heart thumping away as suddenly it looked like aliens had taken over the bedroom, all these lights bobbing up and down, shining onto the bed, people shouting, shouting, shouting. So many people shouting at once, the noise overwhelming.

  I couldn’t make head or tail of what was happening, my brain still too heavy with sleep to work. I just lay there, scrabbling around for the duvet and pulling it up under my chin like it would somehow protect me. Were we being burgled? Had Daryl somehow annoyed the wrong person? I had no idea, didn’t really have time to think.

  It shows how quick it happened, because Daryl didn’t even have time to jump up and get angry, although he was on his feet before I realised what was going on.

  Just then my addled brain worked out what the hell everyone was shouting. ‘Police! Stay down, stay down! Stay where you are!’ And Daryl was up now, shouting back, his words drowned out by the din. Out of the darkness someone in black grabbed him.

  The lights were wobbling all over the places, torches held by these blokes. Wobbling from me to Daryl, Daryl to me. I’m amazed there was enough room in our bedroom for so many people – I mean, it’s quite a tight fit between the wardrobe and the bed.

  And that’s what I kept thinking as someone read Daryl his rights and arrested him. I just kept thinking: ‘How do they all fit in here, all these policemen? How many of them are there, because there are a lot of torches…’

  Think I must have been in shock.

  By the time an officer had flicked the big light on, Daryl was already in cuffs, completely starkers, and I’d totally missed why he’d been arrested.

  That’s when I noticed they were all holding what looked like little machine guns. If I’d been scared before, now I was terrified.

  As he was led out, a woman came over and sat on the side of the bed, like she was a friend. That just confused me even more. She said I was coming to the station too, but instead of asking questions I just pulled the duvet a bit higher and nodded.

  ‘Where does your husband keep his clothes?’ she asked. I pointed to the chest of drawers and she opened it up and took a jumper and some jeans out for him, then opened up a couple of other drawers and chucked some of my clothes onto the bed for me. ‘I’ll leave you alone to get dressed,’ she added.

  When the door closed, I was alone. I stared at the wall for a minute or so, stunned, literally stunned, then shook my head and got up, trying to move quickly then as I realised someone could burst into the room any second. It’s hard work putting on clothes when you’re shaking and there’s a bunch of strange blokes standing on the other side of the door, and it’s 3am and you’ve just been shocked out of sleep. I couldn’t even stand on one leg to pull my socks on, had to sit down as I was trembling so much.

  After all that shouting the quiet seemed so eerie and my ears rang so loudly – which only goes to show that silence really can be deafening, but only if you’ve got tinnitus.

  The officers were ever so nice though, as they read me my rights and arrested me. Honestly I couldn’t take in what they said, their words fading in and out of my consciousness like someone was turning the volume on a radio up and down, up and down, very quickly.

  Charges…aiding and abetting…multiple persons or person…

  So I just assumed I’d misheard the whole thing, that what they had said couldn’t be true.

  ‘Are you going to handcuff me?’ I asked, dazed. I even offered my wrists. Well, I didn’t want to annoy them, wanted them to know I was a nice person and had absolutely no flipping idea what they were on about. I mean, how could I have anything to do with breaking the law? How could I have anything to do with the terrible thing they believed I’d don
e; something so awful that my whole mind and body rebelled every time the words flashed through my brain.

  The officer just glanced at my proffered wrists then gave me a look. Sort of pitying and exasperated all at once, in his cool little SWAT team type dark navy clothes – you know, those little boiler suit type things, with ‘firearms officer’ written on the back.

  ‘No, you don’t exactly look like a flight risk,’ he sighed,

  I’m writing all of this down now and it doesn’t seem real. It’s like a scene from a film…or a sitcom. I mean, my husband and I had just been arrested, and I didn’t dare check why because I’d been told already and didn’t want them to think I was stupid.

  Next thing I know I’m in the back of a police car being driven to the station (no sign of Daryl, they’d put him in a separate car). I was shaking and juddering like an ancient diesel engine. I tried to stop, tried to get my body under control even if I couldn’t marshal my thoughts yet, but no matter how hard I tensed up and willed myself to stay still, the trembling continued.

  I only came to myself when I realised we’d gone round the same roundabout twice. By the third time it was obvious that we were a bit lost. Before I quite knew what I was doing I found myself piping up from the back: ‘Umm, are you okay? Only there’s an A-Z back at the house; we could go back and get it if you like?’

  The officers exchanged sidelong glances. I’m a decent person, you see. I don’t deserve to be questioned for a heinous crime because actually I’m so nice and polite that I even offer to help out police officers who’ve arrested me. I don’t think they knew what to say, not sure they’d ever dealt with anyone like me before. Probably more used to people swearing and spitting at them, but I respect the police force, think they do a hard job under tough conditions. Well, I wouldn’t want to do that job…

  In the end the one in the passenger seat replied. ‘It’s okay, we’ll radio the station for directions. We’ve, umm, not been to this station before, aren’t from round here.’