This is just a bad dream; he’s never laid a finger on me.
Friday 15
A bad night’s sleep had followed Monday’s bad day at court…and was followed up with…well, I don’t know how to describe it. There’s been an avalanche of evidence and I’m buried under the snow, hoping someone will dig me out, but I can’t see anything but white, can’t hear anything, oxygen is running out. It’s cold, so cold, and I’m so tired that I want the end to come. I’d welcome it.
The blizzard that started the avalanche was the forensics expert. When the police had taken Daryl’s lorry away and searched it, they’d found what was described as a ‘rape kit’ in the locked overhead glove compartment – that compartment I hadn’t been allowed to touch when I’d been in the cab with him during our weekend trip away.
Still, I told myself that describing silver Gaffa tape, latex gloves, and condoms as a rape kit was a bit over the top…even if it was odd that they were stuffed inside a briefcase. After all, I know he used those gloves to stop getting oil and dirt under his nails when tinkering with the engine, and duct tape comes in handy for quick repairs sometimes too. The condoms were harder to explain though.
The forensics officer started talking. It was really complicated but I tried my best to follow. Basically, they proved that the duct tape was exactly the same brand as the rapist had used to truss up his victims – something to do with the same chemical signature or something. I wasn’t convinced; lots of people must use that same brand, and I didn’t see them in the dock.
Then she started showing pictures of the end of the tape, where Daryl had torn it off. Alongside that she brought up a snap of the bloodstained end of duct tape the killer had used on Julie. Both torn ends slotted together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, a perfect match for one another. Julie’s attacker had used Daryl’s silver duct tape.
That was when the avalanche smashed over me. I should have had hysterics. I should have had a total meltdown. There it was, simple but inarguable proof than my Daryl was a killer; I knew I to be true now, there was no room for my denials and excuses any more.
A leaden sense of inevitability had settled over me then.
At the end of the session I couldn’t help myself. I’d looked at Daryl as he was led away. He smiled as his eyes met mine, eyes like a shark’s now that the truth was out.
‘I love you,’ he mouthed, still grinning.
My stomach lurched, saliva filling my mouth. I jumped from my seat, shoving people out of the way, running, running, running to the ladies, cubicle door punched open and rebounding onto me as I heaved. I barely got there in time, some yellow vomit splashing onto my navy suede shoes.
Over the following days more and more pieces of evidence slammed into me, each one making me cower down further and further. I couldn’t stop going to court though, had to know the truth. It was almost a relief to finally have everything slot into place. To have the doubt finally brought to an end.
They’d found the all-in-one, boiler-suit-type overalls he liked to drive in. The outside was clean as a whistle, but on the inside…
‘We found blood stains and hair from a number of the victims. We have concluded that the accused would approach his victims in smart trousers, shirt and tie in order to look business-like and gain their trust,’ the forensics officer said.
He’d then attack them, using his strength to overpower them and sometimes pretending to have a knife. In order to not leave any evidence behind of fingerprints or DNA, he wore the gloves; and used condoms during most of the attacks, taking the used ones with him in the briefcase so they wouldn’t be left behind. Then, the clever devil would quickly slip his overalls on, over the top of his by-now bloodstained smart clothes, and walk away without a care in the world, knowing no one would link this overalled lorry driver with the businessman rapist.
The smug bastard wasn’t as cunning as he’d thought though. Despite his best attempts, he’d left DNA evidence at a number of the attacks. The first woman, in our home town, had been littered with evidence – he hadn’t even bothered wearing a condom then; and of course the skin under the victim’s fingernails from her scratching him had also been a match to Daryl.
They reckon that during the second rape, in Manchester, he’d been so cocksure he wouldn’t be caught due to lack of forensic evidence thanks to his DIY rape kit, that he’d made the woman look at him. He’d been on a total power trip, his over-inflated ego and arrogance dooming him in that case.
He’d have probably got away with the third rape though, the first attack near Tilbury Docks…but he forgot to switch his mobile phone off. Using its signal, the police had been able to prove he was in the vicinity of every single crime he was accused of, including that one.
All those times we’d argued and I’d repeat dialed him and couldn’t get through, was that what he’d been busy doing? Was this all my fault somehow?
A single pubic hair was left on victim number four. Unlucky for him, lucky for everyone else. And one end of the ripped piece of duct tape used during this attack matched an end of the adhesive that had been used to restrain poor murder victim Julie - the other end of that piece had, of course, been a direct match to the tape in Daryl’s briefcase in the truck.
As for the Turkey rape, the silly sod had clearly been so angry with me that he’d just lost control and grabbed the first woman he’d seen. If he thought at all, he’d probably simply assumed that it wouldn’t be traced back to him because we were abroad. It’s not much logic, but I’m fairly certain I can say logic probably hasn’t played much of a part in Daryl’s life for a while. Mine either.
Then there was the murder. As well as the ends of duct tape matching up, Daryl had apparently punched Julie in the face again and again with such ferocity that he had smashed some of her teeth, ripping open his latex glove and cutting his own skin in the process. He’d left behind a smear of his own blood, mingling with hers on her lips.
It was what the Americans would call a slam dunk case. He did it. No doubts. No uncertainty. Nothing open to interpretation. I’m married to a killer, a rapist, the lowest of the low. To add insult to injury, it turns out he hadn’t been working extra hours, or selling days off, or even driving on the continent. What he was doing with all that spare time away from me is anyone’s guess. Conducting more attacks?
They even got a linguistics expert to prove that the speech patterns the Port Pervert had used meant that it was definitely all the same man. Daryl. Well, he was always keen on using words like ‘whore’ and ‘cunt’ to describe my friends…
I sound all right, don’t I? Like I’m handling the news of his guilt. I’m not. Some of the stuff I’ve sat through is so graphic, so disgusting, that I’ve vomited until even my stomach lining has come up. That someone I know is capable of doing those things…no, I can’t comprehend. That someone I love could…
It’s unthinkable. What I mean by that is I literally can’t think of it. I try. My brain refuses to work, goes utterly blank.
I’m as numb as an ice statue. I’m in the heart of the avalanche, frozen solid, can’t feel, can’t think, can’t, can’t, can’t…
Saturday 16
Thank God for my parents. They arrived on Tuesday and once again are stuck with the job of holding me together as I fall apart. Before the trial I’d confidently insisted that I’d be fine alone and that I preferred to face the trial without their fussing (in the nicest possible way).
Of course that was when I thought my husband was innocent and would be home with me soon…I’d even started planning what meals I’d cook for him, was going to do all his favourites, even breakfasts were going to be lavish affairs. Now all my plans lie shattered.
At least I’m not back to the gibbering wreck I was when I was arrested, my mind going crazy. Instead, I seem to have shut down. I know I’m not being normal…the problem is I don’t seem to be able to access normal any more. I think I’ve forgotten how to feel.
I looked like absolute shite though. Pasty, da
rk circles under my eyes, unable to sleep or eat. Ah well, I’ll rest when I’m dead. I feel dead, so maybe it’s not far off.
My parents are worried about me. They talk to me in low, gentle voices, as if I’m ill or so fragile that a loud noise might make me crumble. They don’t understand why I have to keep going to court. Dad is particularly adamant that I stay away, but I can’t. I know I should, but I can’t.
This thing has swallowed my life whole and destroyed everything I thought I knew, and what, I’m supposed to just shrug and walk away? No, I have to see it through to the very bitter end.
Bitter. Yep, that’s me.
I think it’s my mum too. ‘You need to get away from that place, those memories,’ she said about the house. Almost spat the words. My mum has never hated anyone, but the venom she finds for Daryl now is …scary and inspirational all at once.
To distract herself, she rolled up her sleeves (literally. She actually rolled her long sleeved top up to over her elbows and gave me a meaningful look, so I felt obliged to do the same) ready to tidy the frankly disgusting house. I’ve sort of let things slide this past week.
Dad sighed, and opened the back door to let in some fresh air, then stepped outside to give us room. Judging from the look on Mum’s face, he was worried he might accidentally get swept up with the rubbish and put in a bin bag.
Outside, from the neighbour’s side, came the persistent, mesmerising drone of a lawn mower. Clearly they’d got used to the constant press presence and started getting their life back to a semblance of normality. As normal as life can be when you live next door to the building that once held the Port Pervert.
First Mum tidied up the kitchen, then the living room. I’d kind of forgotten how different the place looks when it’s clean and everything isn’t filed on the floor. Well, at least I knew where everything was.
I admit though that while I was enjoying wallowing in self-pity and chaos (as only seemed fitting, as it was a direct reflection of the state of my mind) it did make me feel better to see everything back to the way they used to be. It was weirdly comforting, as though the whole thing had been a bad dream.
It had a very different effect on Mum…
The more things went back to normal, the more annoyed she seemed to get. Her shoulders were going, twisting round and round like a Les Dawson character, like they were trying to burrow through her top and make their escape – the only part of her body to betray that she did want to escape.
After a valiant effort to control it, her face went too. She looked like she’d sucked a lemon.
By the time we reached the bedroom she’d really worked up a good head of steam, muttering under her breath, slagging Daryl off, asking how he could do such a thing to me.
To me? I should have been grateful, I suppose. Finally someone was on my side. Instead though, I just felt…not a lot really. Vaguely annoyed that she was talking about poor me when what Daryl had done to me was nothing in comparison to what he’d wreaked on those women.
Guilt gnawed at me, chewed on my very bones. How can I possibly feel sorry for myself? He’s blasted apart my life, everything I thought I knew has turned out to be a lie, everything solid was quicksand, every memory of the past nine years is tainted. I can’t trust anyone or anything – certainly can’t trust myself because clearly I have terrible judgement and zero ability to spot liars and worse. Yet…
Yet for all that, when I think of those women and their families, I can’t allow myself or anyone else to feel sorry for me. If this is a ‘my life is crap’ competition, they win hands down. And that’s how it should be.
The only problem is that right now, if I can’t feel angry or bereft or any of the myriad other feelings that threaten to tear at me, then I don’t know how to feel. So I feel nothing. Good old icy numbness.
‘Look at that bed!’ Mum exploded suddenly, pointing, shocking me from my thoughts.
It seemed a bit of an over-dramatic reaction to the simple double divan that Daryl had bought dirt cheap from a mate two years ago, when we moved into the house, and we’d never got round to replacing.
Clearly she could tell that I was confused, so she expanded on the subject.
‘It’s cheap!’ she raged. Actually quivered a bit. ‘It’s cheap and disgusting, just like that man.’
Yes, Daryl may now have two identities, his own and his Port Pervert pseudonym, but to Mum he has a third. He is like Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter, He Who Must Not Be Named. She never, ever says his name.
I put my head on one side and considered the bed. ‘I never liked it much,’ I admitted. ‘I always wanted one with storage underneath, you know? It was just meant to tide us over until we saved up for a decent one.’
She was clearly dissatisfied with my response, so to show solidarity with her, I added: ‘The mattress is a bit uncomfortable…’
My mum is a really mild mannered person. She never gets riled up about anything, or if she does, she doesn’t let it show. She hasn’t got a temper. So it was a bit weird seeing her so infuriated and offended by the bed. It wasn’t a great bed, but it hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Mum glared at it like she wanted it dead.
So she killed it.
Suddenly Mum leapt forward and kicked the bed. She even gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
I raised an eyebrow, a bit stunned. I’d never seen Mum get physical before. Ah well, I thought, if it makes her feel better, and there’s no harm done…
‘How could he treat you like this?’ she shouted. ‘That bed is like, like, like a symbol of how he treated you. It’s cheap, nasty, common, worthless.’
Each word was punctuated with a kick, and with an audible tear the material gave way. The first times she’d landed her blows on the spindly wooden frame that held the bed together, but the last time she’d got lucky and hit material that was stretched between the cheap frame to give it the appearance of substance.
I’ve seen documentaries where packs of lions or wolves or whatever, once they see weakness, go into a kind of frenzy and attack. That was Mum once the bed tore. She didn’t say a word after that, just went mad, lashing out.
‘Umm, that’s my bed,’ I pointed out, but rather weakly, because I was kind of fascinated. She wasn’t my every-day, mild mannered mum who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, who refused to tackle the horrid neighbour she had who made her life a misery by making little comments about how leaves from her hanging baskets blew into his garden, and such other petty misdeeds. She’d been transformed into some kind of glorious avenging angel, her face twisted from the norm into something between sheer rage and heavenly joy.
It was strangely inspiring to see, and I was envious to be honest. She’d focused all her anger on that bed and was kicking the shit out of it – and loving every second. It was a release for her, acting like the valve in her pressure cooker. I wanted that. I wanted to feel the anger coursing through me and make someone or something pay.
But I just didn’t have it in me. Instead I stood there, watching my mum quickly create matchsticks out of my bed. When there was nothing left of the flimsy little pine joists, she started on the material, ripping it to shreds.
Finally, panting heavily, she looked with some satisfaction at the little pile of debris.
Frankly, I’m not sure which surprised me more, her actions or the fact that my bed could be so easily destroyed, and had been made of nothing much more than matchsticks and cloth.
Mum smiled at me, looking relieved. Clearly she was all spent of anger.
‘Sorry, love,’ she panted, breathless after her exertions. ‘It was just really pissing me off.’
Wow, another first; Mum swearing.
‘That’s okay,’ I shrugged. ‘Although I do have to spend money on a new bed now, as well as everything else.’
Mum had been standing with her hands on her hips, leaning forward slightly because she was so done in, but at those words she straightened and waved her hands airily. ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter; you can pick them u
p cheap enough.’
I wonder if she appreciated the irony of that comment.
Sunday 17
I spent all of today in bed (technically, I was just on the mattress, of course, as I no longer have a bed, just a pile of wood that’s been shoved into bin bags and popped into the wheelie bins outside). Mum and Dad brought me a steady supply of tea and sympathy. The only time I moved was to go to the loo. The fact they didn’t lecture me to pull myself together and at least get dressed shows their level of concern. They did, however, try to get me to ‘see sense’ about continuing to go to court.
‘People will think you’re supporting that man,’ Mum insisted. In that one sentence alone her voice had gone from reasonable to worked up. Dad put a soothing hand on her forearm to stop her from saying more.
‘Honestly, what he’s put those poor families through. And then to make them give evidence, re-live it all…’ she hiccupped, tears making her squeak. Then she ran from the room, crying, Dad going after her.
As I retreated once again under my duvet and pulled it over my head to soften the sound of Mum blowing her nose, I thought about what she’d said. Why is Daryl pleading innocent? I don’t get it. What can someone who is so obviously guilty get out of pretending he didn’t do it?
The image of his taunting shark’s grin as he’d mouthed ‘I love you’ to me that one last time flashed into my mind. Of course. It was that obvious, that simple, and that demonic. He wants to taunt those women too, and their families. He wants to relive his glory one last time, exerting power over them once more.
Twisted, evil sicko. That’s my husband.
Suddenly I flung the duvet back and with a grunt I hauled myself upright and marched to the phone. Dialed before I could change my mind. It rang a couple of times before a voice that always makes me tense up answered: Daryl’s mum.
‘How did you know and I didn’t?’ No preliminaries, no introduction, we didn’t need it.
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