Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  The whole time, the journalists yelled at me, all shouting different questions at once like an aural version of the strobing, but as I fell into the car and slammed the door shut one question made it through the wall of sound: ‘How do you feel?’

  I sat staring at the steering wheel, key in hand, telling myself to put it in the ignition and turn it, but the query had brought me up short. More media bods thronged round the car, more pictures were taken as I sat there like a crash test dummy. How did I feel?! What a bloody stupid question.

  But when I thought about it (and I kept thinking of it, for some reason) I realised it was really quite clever. It’s simple, but gets to the heart of the matter. How do I feel? God knows. When I figure out the answer, I won’t be bothering to tell that journalist though. I’ve a funny feeling that if I did my words would be used against me because, actually, no one gives a shit about me in all this mess.

  Finally I arrived at Peter’s office, having successfully remembered how to start a car. He looked genuinely pleased to see me – and genuinely concerned about what was going on.

  Still, as we talked, I couldn’t help thinking about how much money every syllable we uttered to each other was costing me. No matter how kind he seemed, I couldn’t relax, felt as if I was an actress playing a part, because I’m just not the kind of person who says: ‘I’m going to consult my solicitor.’

  I sat with my legs crossed neatly at the ankles, which felt really unnatural, but it seemed like the kind of place where ladies (not women, ladies. You have to act like a lady in this place) sit like that, and I kept my back ramrod straight too, even though it ached like hell and I’d really quite have liked to have gone into a teenage-style slump instead. My handbag stayed firmly on my lap, gripped like some talisman that would keep me safe from dodgy lawyers and other evils.

  ‘Can you stop the newspaper printing things?’ I begged, fiddling with the handbag clasp to stop my hands from shaking.

  Peter shook his head sadly, as though this was all a game, not my life, and I was stupidly refusing to understand the rules. No, that’s unkind. He did look like he wanted to help, kept running his hands through his dark hair in a concerned manner as I spoke; amazing how such short hair can be so unruly. But I feel like being mean because it seems no one can help me.

  ‘This isn’t my area of expertise but after your call yesterday I phoned some colleagues for advice. Basically, if I act against the press it won’t make any positive difference,’ he said. ‘And if you antagonise them, it will just make them worse. They will turn on you, lose any sympathy they are currently showing for you, and potentially could totally destroy your reputation.’

  The handbag got hoicked a bit higher, protecting me from his words like a shield. I had an idea. ‘Okay, well maybe I should talk to only one of the papers then.’ I could see him starting to shake his head but I ploughed on desperately anyway. ‘Or maybe a TV interview. Bit like Princess Di…’ I know, I know. I’ve no idea where that last bit came from.

  ‘You talk to one paper,’ he replied slowly, every word dropping into place like it weighed ten tonnes, ‘and the ones you haven’t talked to will turn on you instead. And they’ll be even more vicious, desperate to discredit the story their rival has published. It’ll be a matter of honour to prove that you are an evil, lying, manipulative bitch who was complicit with what her husband did, and should face the jury herself.’

  By then the handbag was at chest level; any more bad news and I wouldn’t be able to see over it.

  Peter changed the subject. ‘Have you found someone to represent Daryl in court yet? He’ll need someone pretty good; I could recommend a few people if you like.’

  ‘Could you do it?’ I asked. He hesitated.

  ‘I could,’ he replied, stretching out the words, ‘but as I’m now acting on your behalf to a certain extent, I believe it would be better for you to keep things separate.’ I gave a shruggy nod and he continued. ‘Now that he’s on remand it’s important to find someone as good as possible as quickly as possible so they can start building a case immediately. It’ll take almost a year to come to court, probably, which sounds a long time but really isn’t.’

  ‘A year?’ I gasped. I’d convinced myself it would be a matter of weeks, maybe a couple of months at worst case scenario. This can’t go on for that long, it’ so unfair, how will we manage?!

  Depressed but armed with a couple of barristers rated by Peter, I could barely drag myself back to the car and the waiting media, who somehow had managed to track me down to Peter’s office. The fun wasn’t over yet, either. When I got home I discovered my parents had spotted that the crowd of journos and cameramen outside had thinned significantly after I’d left, so had grabbed the chance to leave the house. They’d nipped to the corner shop. To buy a newspaper.

  Why do they keep doing this? Why??

  A number of the tabloid rags have run stories about Daryl’s life, upbringing, job, when and where we married… Picture-wise they’ve surpassed themselves by finding a wedding shot; one of the official ones, not a snap taken by a family friend. I got straight on the phone to Peter.

  ‘Surely they can’t just print any pictures of me and Daryl they happen to come across?’ I demanded despairingly.

  ‘The copyright of a wedding picture remains with the official photographer. He owns it and therefore he can do whatever he wants with it,’ came the patient reply. ‘In this case, if he chooses to sell it to a tabloid for a small fortune, he is at liberty to do so.’

  Fan-freaking-tastic. How come everyone else can do exactly as they please but me? Why do I seem to be the only one all at sea in this situation?

  Then I picked up the paper again and like a rubbernecker unable to take their eyes off a car crash, I found myself scanning the article. And for the first time I thought properly about those poor women who have been attacked. What a bitch. I honestly can’t believe I’ve been so self-absorbed that I’ve barely given them a second thought apart from an abstract, micro-second-long ‘poor cows’.

  Imagine it, walking home on a winter’s evening after a night out. It’s still quite early and you’ve maybe had a couple of drinks that are enough to keep the chill away but certainly not enough to make you drunk and silly. It’s only a two minute walk from the bus stop to your front door, and you know the area so well that you feel confident, at ease here; it’s not like a strange place, full of weird shadows and noises that might make you jump every minute, it’s your stamping ground. Then…wham! From out of nowhere someone grabs you, hits you, threatens you. You don’t know what’s happening, all you know is you’re terrified, heart pounding. You maybe try to scream, but all that comes out through the fingers clamped over your mouth is a muffled, barely audible cry. And then…and then…

  Even my over-active imagination runs out at this point. I can’t begin to put myself in their place. I’ve no idea what their ordeal must have been like. I don’t want to know, if I’m honest. Yet still I made myself read that article.

  Timeline of Terror was the heading on the box that caught my eye initially. All those dates I’d been questioned about at the police station that had meant nothing to me. As I stared at them now though, without pressure on me, I suddenly remembered something.

  December 18. That’s Daryl’s birthday, and also the date of one of the attacks. In my fluster I’d told police he’d have been with me, that I’d have cooked a meal as usual and we’d have eaten it together. Which is sort of true.

  He’d actually turned up late for his meal, I remembered now. He’d already seemed in a bad mood, then I’d made some comment that had meant to be cheery to ease the tension, but that had actually seemed to make him grumpier.

  ‘This could be our last celebration as a couple; this time next year it’d be nice if we had a baby. Just imagine!’ I’d smiled hesitantly. I’d pushed the boat out, making his favourite pork roast, buying a birthday cake and candles, got dressed up in a nice dress for him. I’d even cut different-sized heart shape
s out of red tissue paper I’d bought, and scattered them over the bed.

  ‘What were you thinking of, cooking a meal? Why did you assume what time I’d arrive?’ he’d frowned furiously. ‘Jesus, you want to control everything about me.’

  I’d stood there, confused, hurt, upset. Unable to understand what I’d done wrong. He’d said he’d be home by 7pm, and he’d been late…but instead of me making any kind of critical reference to it I’d let it slide and then he’d had a go at me. When he gets like that, shouting at me like that, I feel like I’m going mad because I believe him, believe I’m in the wrong, and only afterwards do I think, ‘hold on, that seems maybe a bit unreasonable.’

  He’d stomped out, turned his mobile phone off. I’d called and called but only been able to get through to his answerphone. I’d left a stroppy message (I’m always braver after the fact and when he isn’t actually around) but by the next day I still hadn’t heard from him so had wound up sending him a text saying: ‘Are you ready to talk yet?’ A few hours later, he’d finally deigned to switch on his mobile and receive my calls. In my relief at getting through to him I’d swallowed down my anger, a puppy grateful that the master had come home after being ignored all day.

  Why hadn’t I remembered this when the police were questioning me? I don’t know. Possibly it was the terror of being arrested in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was because I got in a flap as they fired date after date at me until my head span. It could even be that I’d blocked it out, smoothed over it as I always tend to do when Daryl’s been in one of his moods; life’s easier that way. Whatever, I’d remembered it now, which left me with another problem.

  Should I tell the police what I’ve remembered?

  Oh God, I have to, don’t I. Because he’s innocent, right, so what difference can it make? Just because he hasn’t a solid alibi for one of the attacks doesn’t mean he’s guilty. It doesn’t.

  I realised I’d scrunched the paper up in my fist as the memory had come to me. I threw it to the floor as if it burned me. ‘No more reading tabloid nonsense, it’s just going to upset me,’ I told myself.

  I walked from the room into the kitchen, leaving the screwed up ball where it had fallen, and flicked on the kettle. Stared at it. Stared at the kettle. Stared at the teabags in the jar. Sighed, walked back into the lounge and reached down, smoothing the crinkles from the story.

  Honestly? I had to know more; I’m still that rubbernecker at the car crash scene. So once again I started to read the Timeline of Terror. My stomach lurched with nerves, I put the paper down again. Picked it up.

  ‘Stop being a baby,’ I muttered out loud angrily, forcing myself to read on.

  ‘In June police identified the existence of an extremely dangerous serial rapist who is believed to have attacked at least six women - killing one victim and the very next day conducting a depraved assault on another.

  ‘His hunting ground is believed to have stretched from Manchester to as far afield as Turkey, but his favoured location for his sickening rape spree appears to have been around Tilbury Docks, Essex, where he found four of his six victims – and became dubbed the Port Pervert.

  ‘Often he’d gain the woman’s trust by wearing smart clothes that gave the appearance of a security guard or office worker, before launching a blistering attack, frequently punching his victims in the face to incapacitate them.

  ‘Essex and Manchester police joined forces with Interpol to launch a massive manhunt named Operation Globe. Within just one month of its launch, they’d made an arrest.’

  My stomach lurched, my breathing quickening as if I was running rather than rooted to the spot. Manchester, Tilbury, Turkey…all places Daryl knew well. He couldn’t be capable of these crimes though; if he did, how come I managed to escape his evil clutches? No, he’s a mardy arse sometimes but he’s such a gentle, loving bloke – when he comes home after a long break, he gets into bed with me, spoons up behind me, gives a huge sigh of contentment and says: ‘Ah, thank God I’m home. I know I’m home when I’ve got your freezing cold feet against mine. I bloody love those blocks-of-ice feet.’ That is not how a rapist and murderer acts.

  I ignored the burning bile at the back of my throat, and ploughed on. Stared at the list of dates, willing more memories to come. 18 December, 14 January, 3 February, 2 March, 29 May, 2 June.

  Nothing would come, why wouldn’t anything come?! Then another date jumped out at me: Friday 29 May. According to the newspaper, the Port Pervert murdered a woman that night.

  God help me, but I almost danced with glee at that news.

  Daryl can’t be the killer. On Friday 29 May he was on a plane, flying to Turkey with me. Being trapped 30,000ft in the air with over a hundred witnesses has to be the most airtight alibi ever. I know I mentioned it during my interview, so why on earth haven’t they corroborated it yet and released Daryl? Lazy, useless buggers!

  I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath until I let it out in a great big huff of relief. Now I knew for certain – not just certain enough to defend him to friends, family, the world, but to know to the depths of my soul. Now I can focus all my energy on supporting my husband and getting him freed. And getting justice for those poor women too; they deserve seeing the real criminal jailed rather than some poor hapless bloke the police have chosen for no apparent reason.

  Smiling for the first time since my husband was banged up for a crime he didn’t commit, I shouted to my parents. ‘He’s innocent,’ I said, almost laughing as they ran into the room looking comically panicked. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to get Daryl out.’ Then I explained everything. They smiled too, gave me a massive hug. Didn’t realise I saw the worried look they exchanged.

  ‘Mu-um, Da-ad,’ I said in warning.

  ‘Umm, it’s just…’ began Mum.

  ‘There have been more calls, love. While you were out we plugged the phone back in. Some of the stuff was, well, I’m just glad you didn’t hear it,’ explained Dad.

  Stupid me. Just because I’d realised the truth doesn’t mean others will. That moment won’t come until the trial, a whole year away from now.

  ‘Well, don’t worry about it now,’ Mum told me with fake brightness, then shot Dad a look and told him in a stage whisper: ‘I knew we shouldn’t have said anything.’ She walked from the room then came straight back holding a box. ‘Anyway, this package came for you. Is it something exciting? It always cheers me up, getting a delivery through the post; almost like getting a present, somehow.’

  She smiled and shrugged at her silliness as she handed it over.

  I stared at it, confused. ‘I haven’t ordered anything.’ She was right though, I did feel a thrill of curiosity and excitement as I tore into the box, and plunged through the plastic bag inside to reach the contents.

  I reeled back in horror, a terrible stench making me want to gag.

  It was a dead rat. Attached to it was a note: ‘This is what happens to vermin. You’re next.’

  Saturday 18

  The police came round last night and took the package away after Dad called them. Thank goodness he was here; I couldn’t have done it… I’d been busy having a bit of a breakdown while it was all going on, to be honest.

  Fear, lack of sleep, the strain of what’s happening all built up to a point where I couldn’t take any more. I’ve never felt like that. I’d literally no strength in my legs or my body (or my soul, it felt like) and I sank to the floor right where I’d been standing and curled up, sobbing. Couldn’t have moved if my life had depended on it. I just wanted the world to stop for a while so I could have a break and get the chance to catch up, cope.

  Mum pulled at my arm ineffectively, saying ‘oh, love, don’t, don’t’, then gave up and sat beside me, her arm wrapped around me while Dad talked down the phone about ‘deaths threats’, ‘protection’, ‘it’s simply not good enough’, oh and of course ‘she’s in fear of her life’.

  Someone out there wants me dead. Even if they’d never
go through with the threat and actually kill me, they still want it. Not in a transitory way, that split second moment in a row where you shout petulantly: ‘I hate you! I wish you were dead!’ Instead they’d taken the time to write it down and tell me. I can’t imagine thinking that about anyone; not really, truly.

  Turns out they aren’t the only ones either. The postman knocked on the door this morning with a thick handful of letters and suspicious-looking packages. Mum, Dad, and I went through them warily, with wrinkled noses, touching things gingerly, fingertips only. Most were poorly spelled messages of vitriol and spite. We quickly became able to spot them without having to read anything. A quick peek, a guttural noise of terror and then they were flung to one side into the growing pile; it would have become mechanical had it not been for the fear.

  People hate me. People want me dead. People want to kill me.

  I can’t take this any more. This is not my life. I’m bloody well going to get my life back though.

  So I picked up the pile of hatred, stuffed it into a carrier bag, and stepped out. Noise erupted, flashes exploded. Bloody journalists. I put my head down and marched straight to the car with a stony face and drove to the police station. There I gave a fresh statement to DI Baxter about what I’d remembered.

  ‘Oh, and I’m fairly certain that if you look in my diary – I dropped it in the day after my arrest, did you get it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, if you look in my diary I’m fairly certain it will back up what I’ve just told you.’

  He doesn’t give much away, DI Baxter, but I swear he gave a shadow of a smile as I spoke; perhaps he’s been having second thoughts about Daryl’s guilt too.

  Then I explained about the threats and handed over the bag. ‘I’m really scared. Is there anything you can do? Everyone knows where I live because the telly and newspapers keep mentioning the road I live in, well, Daryl lives in, so…’