Still, I grabbed the milk and went to the counter smiling hesitantly, proffering a couple of quid.
‘It’s gone up,’ he said.
‘Oh, right,’ I said, flustered. ‘The, er, the price says £1.50 still.’
‘It’s gone up.’ This time he folded his arms, set his head back a little so he seemed to be looking down his nose at me.
‘How much?’ I asked, digging around in my purse.
‘More than you can afford, lady.’
My insides seemed to solidify into something cold and hard, but my mouth babbled on. ‘I’ve a tenner in here somewhere, that be enough?’
I meant it too, I’d actually have paid £10 just to get this awful episode over, and get the hell out of there with the milk.
Ric shook his head.
The thought of leaving without the milk seemed too mortifying to contemplate, so I tried again. ‘Come on Ric, please, I’ve been coming here for years, you know me…’
‘I don’t want your kind in here, lady.’ He said it slowly, deliberately, as if I were a child.
The shop bell gave a cheery ting again that was totally at odds with the atmosphere. I couldn’t look away from Ric though, nor he me. His eyes didn’t leave mine even as he spoke to whoever was behind me: ‘Don’t worry, this person was just leaving.’
I held his gaze for another beat, then hung my head and scurried to the door, feeling sick to my stomach.
I am hated. I am vilified. I am utterly rejected. That person who wrote the graffiti got it right: I am scum.
I ran home, tears streaming down my face so fast I could barely see. Hands shaking, I shoved the key in the door, desperate to get inside, then slammed it shut and leaned heavily against it, hysterical now. Crying so hard I could barely breathe, the sobs that racked my whole body sounded like an asthmatic donkey as I sank to the floor and curled up on the Welcome mat. It was 15 minutes before I could move, and then it was only to reach up and put the chain and bolt across.
It may be stiflingly hot and stuffy inside, it may be inescapable because it is surrounded by journalists, it may be in danger of being blown up or something, but this house is the only place I feel safe now.
Monday 17
Even the worst time of your life becomes mundane eventually. I visit Daryl twice a week, plus receive two letters from him and get a call every single night without fail. In some ways we have more contact than when he was working and life was normal.
Conversation between us is often awkward though. There’s not much to say. His life never changes, his daily routine remains a constant – the most exciting thing to happen to him is that he decided to try a different brand of body spray, so now he doesn’t even smell like he used to. And I can’t tell him about my life: money worries, death threats, aching loneliness. We avoid talking about the future, terrified we’ll jinx it, and he refuses to discuss the trial, which is frustrating but he thinks he’s stopping me from worrying about it by pretending it isn’t happening. I don’t feel in a position to argue and therefore add to his own worries; I want to stay upbeat and cheer him along his way somehow. Often we end up talking about telly programmes.
I’ve got used to seeing the plain clothes police officers outside my house all the time, and bring them a cuppa every morning when I make my own brew. I know all their names now, and although I wouldn’t even remotely say we’re friends we are friendly. I know Terry (PC Cole) is getting married in two months’ time; Luke (PC Christie) is waiting anxiously for a call about his baby daughter arriving because his girlfriend is due to go into labour any day now; and Senga (PC Wallace) is just buying a house. The only one who doesn’t say anything beyond the professional is PC Derek Yeoh, but he’s nice enough really.
The journalists seem to have got bored, as one day I opened my curtains and they weren’t there any more.
Work’s a worry though. No one is talking to me still; no surprise there. I just keep my head down and try to get on with it. Keeping busy is the best way through the day. But I’m not doing a brilliant job, to be honest, because I do have problems concentrating and at inopportune times I’ll realise I’ve drifted off and started worrying about Daryl or money or if someone will go through with their threat of planting a bomb under my car and blowing me to smithereens.
As a result, Keith has given me an official warning. It was done in a very touchy feely, caring and sharing way where he pretended to be worried about me, but I could tell that he’d be relieved to be rid of me. I expect I’m quite bad for office morale…
I wish I could feel, even just for a moment, normal again. I wish I could stop the churning worry in my stomach, and the fears rattling round and round my head. The only thing keeping me going is that eventually this will end, Daryl will be home and life will be normal again. Everyone who has given us a hard time will realise their awful mistake.
The one and only person who has stood by me is Kim. She’s been fantastic. Often I’ll text her at 3am, asking if she’s awake, and she almost always is. Then she’ll ring me and we’ll chat for ages about how crap life is, or exchange advice on how to keep going.
Ultimately though, the best advice is the simplest.
‘We’ve just got to get through it,’ Kim always says. ‘In the story of our lives, this is just a couple of pages, even though it feels huge right now.’
‘After every rain storm there is sunshine,’ I add. And we both repeat it, then say goodbye as the sky turns pre-dawn grey.
Saturday 22
More good news (can you sense the sarcasm?). There’s a benefit available to help people with the cost of visiting their loved ones in prison. I’m not eligible for help though.
Daryl being in prison is costing me a fortune – of all the problems involved with having an imprisoned spouse that wasn’t one that ever occurred to me. But things are tight enough paying all the usual bills on just my wage…then there’s the fact that I send him £500 every month. I write a cheque for that amount making sure to remember to write his prisoner number beneath his name.
SEPTEMBER
Saturday 12
You know what? I’m sick of feeling miserable and sorry for myself. I’m going to get through this and so is Daryl. I’m going to channel all the energy I’ve been using to be a miserable git into keeping everything going for Daryl. When he comes home everything will be exactly the same, and we can pick up where we left off – only things will be much better.
Sunday 20
I’m so annoyed with all my so-called friends. How could they just abandon me like this? I feel like phoning every single one of the buggers and giving them a piece of my mind.
Take Hannah; she’s meant to be my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were knee high, been through all sorts. I’ve supported her through all the problems with her asthma; and when she dumped Karl but then changed her mind and he didn’t want anything to do with her any more; and even when she had that affair with the married man (which I didn’t actually approve of at all, but I kept quiet because it’s none of my business, really, is it) and he wound up choosing to stay with his wife.
All sorts of things I’ve counselled her through, going way back to when she’d get detention at school for not doing her homework, then sound off for hours about how unfair it was. I’d nod, and agree with her, though technically it was fair because it was her fault.
Now, for the first time ever I need her. And where is she? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where!
But they’re all as bad as each other. I’ve helped all of them out in one way or another over the years, and never asked for anything back. I’d been lucky, I’d had a nice, smooth-running, straightforward life until now, although I reckon I’m now paying for it by having more drama than most people can pack into one lifetime… So the least I should expect right now is that my mates rally round me, right? Wrong. It’s been ages since I’ve heard from any of them.
I got lonely the other night, sitting watching telly all alone having spent an entire day
at work being ignored by everyone but Kim (even Kevin seems to avoid telling me what to do if he can help it, and he’s my boss for goodness sake) and I found myself sending a little text out to them all. Just saying ‘Hi, how you doing? Been ages, hope all’s ok. Be great to hear from you xx’
I thought that might open the door a bit, if they were worried that they’d left it so long to contact me that I now no longer wanted anything to do with them. I wanted to let them know that if they made a move to get in touch, we could get past this silly blip where they’d got all scared and judgemental (not that I’d ever have been able to forget it, mind, but I’d have been the bigger person and forgiven them).
The message went out to each of my so-called close friends: Una, Amy, Hannah, Sarah. I didn’t receive a single reply. They all ignored me.
I found myself checking my phone every hour over the following days; making excuses for them that perhaps there had been a problem with the network and the message had only just been delivered, or they were busy, or they were struggling to find the right words to apologise to me for ignoring me for weeks on end…
But no, I haven’t had anything back from them. They want nothing to do with me. Gits.
How dare they sit in judgement of Daryl and me? What do they know of the facts? They haven’t even bothered asking me whether or not I think he’s guilty. Well, the smug smiles will be wiped from their stupid faces after the trial when the truth comes out. I will never, ever forgive them for what they’ve done – because I wouldn’t have dreamed of treating any of them this way.
OCTOBER
Thursday 15
Kim went to see Peter today to get more advice on how to deal with Psycho Sam. The flipping weirdo keeps stalking poor Kim. The wire to her phone and satellite TV were both cut the other day when she got home, and though she has no proof, it doesn’t take a genius to work out who is responsible. She’s only just replaced her car’s windscreen too, after it was ‘mysteriously’ smashed one night.
I worry about her. And she worries about me. In a weird way I think it helps us both, distracting us from our own troubles. We still often call each other at obscene hours of the night, when the rest of the world is asleep. Without her, I think I’d probably have gone mad. I’m glad I’ve been able to help her in a practical way too, by putting her in touch with Peter. He seems a really genuinely lovely man, always willing to put himself out for people. Every time I meet him I find myself warming to him more and more.
NOVEMBER
Wednesday 20
People in the office are making plans for Christmas and getting excited. They all pointedly leave me out of the conversation. Kim tries to make it up by asking me in a loud voice what my plans are, or making a song and dance out of us going for lunch together, but I’m afraid that all her efforts just mean she is ostracised too. Not to the extent I am, as Kim is one of those lovely, smiley people everyone instantly loves and warms to, but even so there is a lack of warmth sometimes in the way they are with her, and a definite confusion in the glances thrown her way. They don’t get why someone as nice as her would have anything to do with someone as vile as me, presumably.
Mum and Dad are trying their best to get enthusiastic about Christmas too, bless them. They’ve invited me over to theirs and Mum’s planning on making all my favourite foods by the sound of it. They keep saying that I’ve got to enjoy myself, ‘it’s what Daryl would want’ (as though he is dead).
They’re right though, it is what he wants. Even he has made encouraging noises about how I should be going out and having fun. He has absolutely no idea how crap my life is, thinks I’m just carrying on as normal. I can’t tell him the truth.
Monday 25
4am – Just got off the phone from Kim. What a nightmare! She was woken at just gone midnight by the sound of someone outside. She called the police immediately, and luckily they arrived quickly because they know of her history of being stalked. Of course, they found good old Sam outside, trying to break in again.
As he was arrested she reckons he was moaning: ‘I love her! We’re meant to be together!’
Luckily Henry slept through the whole thing, only waking once Psycho Sam had been taken away. Apparently the little boy had been overjoyed to meet officers and try on their hats. But how much longer can Kim hide the frightening truth from her son?
‘Why can’t Sam just leave me alone?’ she sighed down the phone to me just now.
‘Are you scared of what he might do next? Scared for you and Henry?’
‘I was that first time he broke in, but not any more,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t know what to expect that first time, seeing him standing there with a knife in his hands. But he looked so pathetic when he stood there crying, with a couple of scratches on his arms, that all the fear disappeared. So even this time, I wasn’t afraid really, just…I don’t know, all I feel is pity for him; but not the kind that will make me want him back or anything. He’s broken and needs to be fixed by experts. There’s nothing I can do for him. There’s certainly nothing to love about him.’
Although I can see what she means, I can’t help admiring her because I just don’t think I’d react in the same way at all. I wouldn’t feel pity, I’d be scared stiff. Then again…
‘It’s amazing what people can cope with once life chucks horrible things at them,’ I pointed out. ‘I never thought I’d get used to death threats and police officers outside my door almost permanently, but somehow I barely give them a thought these days.’
‘You just have to get on with life,’ agreed Kim. Then she repeated our little saying, ‘After every rain storm there is sunshine.’
Yes, but when you’re in the middle of the monsoon and it’s starting to cause a flood, it can be hard sometimes to imagine the sun every coming out again.
DECEMBER
Thursday 13
The smashing of glass, instantly followed by shouting, sounds of running, pandemonium, had me wide-eyed and out of bed in one movement. I was standing up, looking round the room, heart pounding, before I was even awake properly. Head flashing this way and that trying to find the source of the chaos, taking everything in in snapshots.
Bedroom empty, still dark - this wasn’t another raid. Hammering on the front door. Someone shouting my name. Then a high-pitched screeching rent the air, and my heart hitched higher into my throat as I realised: it was the smoke alarm.
Oh God, oh God, someone had set fire to my home.
I still hadn’t switched a light on, instead raced and stumbled blindly along the landing that I knew off by heart. Skittered down the stairs, almost missing steps in my hurry. Almost at the bottom a smell hit me, so thick and acrid it was virtually a solid wall: petrol fumes and smoke. I coughed and wheezed as I breathed it in, my eyes starting to sting.
Shivering fingers felt for the hall light switch, and I blinked rapidly as my watering eyes adjusted, expecting to be blinded for a second or so. I wasn’t though, instead I gazed dumbly at black smoke rising taller than me and swaying lazily, and flames eager to join in the dance were licking at the bottom of the front door.
Panic froze me until another shout, more hammering, made me jump. ‘The back door,’ someone yelled. ‘Get to the back door! Get out!’
Right, of course! My brain was still unscrambling but my legs were already moving. Down the dimly-lit hallway, past the lounge-come-dining-room door, plunging on into the kitchen, almost ricocheting off the breakfast bar in my hurry, legs somehow tangling with the bar stools and bringing me crashing to the floor.
Pain flared in my right hip as I hit the ground, coughing still. More shouts from outside, hammering on the door replaced suddenly with a loud thump that made the wood shudder. I lay on the floor like an upturned beetle, kicking and kicking, finally extricating myself.
Another massive thump on the back door.
I jumped up, feeling blindly for the key. Got it! Turned it with a click and flung the door open, just as PC Yeoh was about to take another kick at it and break
it down. We almost fell into each other, and he grabbed me, dragging me from the house and into the garden.
His colleague, Senga, appeared round the corner, panting even harder than we were, her face smudged with black. ‘Got the little scrote,’ she gasped.
‘Who…? My house, it’s on fire,’ I screamed.
Senga put her hands on her hips, took a big breath, then smiled reassuringly. ‘The fire’s out,’ pant, ‘I put it out,’ pant, ‘extinguisher in car.’ Another couple of big breaths, then: ‘Looks like he chucked a homemade petrol bomb at your front door. Stupid sod didn’t seem to realise we’re watching the place. I arrested him before he’d got more than a few feet away, and Derek came round the back to make sure you were okay.’
I felt weak. Thank God they’d been here. Thank God. I could have been killed!
Senga stepped towards me, waving her hands in a placating manner. ‘It’s was just a dumb teenager doing it for fun; it wasn’t a serious threat,’ she said. She was trying to soothe me but that just made it worse. A kid with no grudge against me at all, apart from what he’d read about or heard in the media, had decided to try and burn my house down with me in it. If that’s not a serious threat then I dread to think what someone who was serious would do to me.
Shakily, I made my way round to the front of the house, not caring that I was in my pyjamas, or that my feet were rapidly freezing on the icy path.
The front door was scorched all over, and beneath the foam of the extinguisher I could make out black marks radiating out from the centre where the petrol bomb had been lobbed with unerring accuracy and shattered. The bottom of the door had borne the brunt of the burning, of course, as the petrol had dripped down and taken the flames with it.
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