What the fuck am I going to do with his truck? I could sell it, I need the money, but who is going to want to buy it?
A sicko maybe, who wants it for some kind of twisted memorabilia. Well, I can’t let someone like that have it. So I’ll have to have it crushed or something. I don’t even know how to organise that. I’ll look into it another day…
When Kim called for her almost daily check up on me, I told her about it. ‘I can have a look into that,’ she offered. ‘I’ll get everything organised for you.’
‘Thanks, that’s really, really kind of you,’ I sighed with relief. ‘But are you sure you have time? What with work and Henry and…’
‘It’s okay, I can sort it tomorrow afternoon; Henry can be picked up from school by P-’ She stopped short.
‘By who?’ I asked curious.
‘Oh, nobody, it doesn’t matter.’
A nasty suspicious formed. ‘You’re not back with Psycho Sam again?’
She gasped in shock at the idea. ‘No! Oh, look I wasn’t going to say anything because, well, it’s just not important compared to what’s going on with you, but, well, I’ve started seeing someone.’
Normally I’d have been alight with curiosity. I didn’t so much as feel a glimmer though. Well, maybe a dying ember. Still, I forced myself to sound interested. ‘Oh, great. Who?’
‘It’s, well, it’s Peter. Simpson. The solicitor.’
Now I did smile. Only the slightest turning up of my lips, a movement that felt almost alien, but it was still definitely a smile. I’d honestly started to wonder if I’d ever do that again.
‘That’s great news. He seems like a really decent guy,’ I said. And he does. He really, truly does.
But do you ever really know anyone?
‘I’ve liked him since I first met him,’ she revealed eagerly. ‘He’s really helped me with Sam too, getting me a restraining order and making sure it’s being enforced correctly. I just feel safe with him. I’m not that crazy person Sam turned me into, I’m me again only…only a hundred times happier and nicer!’
Despite the thick layer of cynicism and despair that surrounds me, I was happy for her. If anyone deserves this it’s her. Besides, it’s good to know that there are some decent men out there.
‘He’s great with Henry too,’ she added. ‘It was ages before I introduced them because I was so wary after Sam, but Peter totally understood that. And the first time they met, Peter gave him a Ben 10 toy – I must have mentioned at some point that Henry loved Ben 10 and Peter had remembered; how lovely is that? They played together with it for ages, and Henry was totally sold on him after that. I…I honestly couldn’t be happier.’
‘Hey, you’re not crying are you?’ I asked.
‘Yep, tears of happiness,’ she sniffed merrily.
‘So how long’s this been going on?’ I wondered.
‘We got together just before the trial. We…we’d met up a couple of times for lunch, just as friends, when Peter suddenly made this little speech about how he really liked me and very much wanted to be more than friends but knew I was vulnerable and hoped I didn’t think he was being unprofessional and using his job to take advantage of me, and that I must say immediately if I felt uncomfortable or never wanted to see him again…
‘He was so nervous that it sounded really formal and it just made me laugh. I didn’t even think, just threw my arms around him and gave him a kiss right there at the table!
‘I wanted to tell you but it just seemed ridiculous and frivolous when you have so much going on in your life.’
‘So that was your big secret? I knew there was something! And honestly, I don’t think it’s frivolous, I think it’s great. I could do with some good news for once.’
And you know what? It did make me feel happier.
Wednesday 22
I’m going mad. The same stupid things keep going round my head. I can’t stop them. I can’t answer the questions. I don’t know why Daryl did these things. Even replaying the conversation with his mum doesn’t help, and her assertion that he was ‘born bad’. It can’t be that simple. If I’d been a bit more switched on could I have seen something was wrong with him and helped him? Could I have stopped this from happening? Could I have saved those women?
I can’t do anything, because I’m paralysed by this fear that I should have stopped Daryl.
Thursday 23
Was I so unattractive that the only way he could get his jollies was by taking it by force from others?
Why did he stay with me for all those years and not hurt me?
Why did he stay with me after he was arrested? He must have known the truth would come out eventually…
Friday 24
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
It took a long time to write all those. I still don’t have the answer.
Saturday 25
I’m at the end of my tether.
I had a call from the mortgage lender today; I’ve missed a payment. After a lot of negotiation, they’ve let me reduce the payments for a couple of months but it’s been made very clear to me that this is a short term fix and that I have to find a better solution, fast, or my home will be repossessed.
The fact is, my savings are totally wiped out, and Daryl’s too. It took everything we’d built up over our entire marriage to keep the house going and pay all the bills while Daryl was on remand – that and sending him £500 a month so he could basically have any luxury he could lay his hands on whilst in prison, the jammy bugger. It had been a huge struggle but what kept me going was the fact that there was light at the end of the tunnel. I’d kept telling myself that once the trial was over and Daryl was found not guilty, he’d not only be freed but probably get compensation for wrongful imprisonment or something; that would replenish all our savings and we’d be back on track again.
The flaw in that plan, of course, was that Daryl is guilty as sin.
Now I have no savings to fall back on, and I’ve no income either, now I’ve lost my job. How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?
I feel like I’ve died. I feel like this is the end of my life. Daryl’s in prison, but I’m the one serving a life sentence.
Sunday 26
There’s some kind of petition going round about me, I’ve discovered. It’s ostensibly about the lorry, people want it off the street, they say it’s causing an obstruction. But there’s also a whole bit about how they want me out of the neighbourhood too! I’ve brought the area into disrepute and lowered house prices, or something.
Maybe I should do them all a favour and die. I just want this unending hell to stop, I want the peace of oblivion. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I honestly wouldn’t care. What can I offer the world? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
No wonder the neighbourhood want rid of me.
Well, if I don’t keep up with my mortgage payments they’ll get their wish and I’ll be out of here. I’ll call an estate agent tomorrow and get the house valued, start the ball rolling with selling it. It won’t be a huge wrench to downsize; I used to love this house but even though his stuff has been thrown away, everywhere I look I see Daryl and his filthy lies.
Anyway, in preparation for a visit from the estate agent, I’ve actually managed to clean up. Hoovering and dusting seemed to take forever and sap me of what little energy I have, but if I can be free from this place it will be worth it. Maybe living somewhere else will help me get better again. Be human once more.
Monday 27
So much for me and my big plan. I got up today, actually showered and washed my hair, then called the estate agent who Daryl and I had bought the house through. I’d figured that would be easier than going with someone new, as they’d be more familiar with the property.
That was problem number one, of course: that they were familiar with the property…and the owners.
The woman on the end of the phone was lovely and chatty, right up until the moment I gave my name and address. Suddenly she went very quiet.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’ I checked.
‘Yes…’
‘Sorry, thought we’d been cut off for a moment there.’
‘Umm, the thing is, the market is quite depressed currently, what with the recession, so we probably won’t be able to get you a good price. Perhaps you should hang onto the house for now or maybe try another company,’ she said.
I laughed, thinking she was joking. ‘I hope you’re more enthusiastic when you come to selling it,’ I joked.
Silence. Cold enough to give me frostbite. Only then did I get it. ‘Are you saying you don’t want my custom?’ I checked.
An awkward clearing of the throat, another silence, then… ‘We have to be realistic, we can’t work miracles here, you know,’ she replied. ‘Your house has been plastered all over the news, people will see a picture of it and instantly know who has lived there. I’ll be honest…’
‘Oh, please do, I’m used to people giving me their bald opinions these days.’
‘…no one is going to want to pay top dollar for a house a murderer has lived in. I doubt we could even get you a low offer. We really wouldn’t want to represent you, sorry.’ Then she put the phone down.
Well, at least she’d said sorry, most people don’t give me that courtesy these days. Still, I was upset. I knew that the instant I called other agents I’d get the same response. Gutted, I called Mum and cried down the phone to her.
‘Oh sweetheart, don’t cry,’ she said sadly. ‘Anyway, you couldn’t sell up right now really, could you?’
‘Why not? I thought you wanted me to move on from Daryl, isn’t this the perfect way?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Well, of course, sweetheart, but you’ve got to get his permission first, haven’t you? Because he owns half the house too.’
Crap, how could I have forgotten about that?
‘Get the divorce started, that way you can sort out all the financial mess at the same time,’ Mum advised.
She’s right. That’s got to be my next move.
Tuesday 28
Okay, I’m a wimp. I could have used the visiting order Daryl’s sent to me to go and tell him that I plan to divorce him and need his permission to sell the house immediately. I could have used the time to confront him too about what he’s done and try to find out what the hell triggered this nightmare.
I could have but I didn’t.
Instead I wrote him a letter. It wasn’t a long-winded love note, instead it was short and to the point.
The thought of seeing him is too much, it makes me feel weird. Panicky, painfully heart-racy, and as if my stomach has turned into a washing machine churning round, and I’m horrified to admit it but there is also a tiny bit of me that gets excited too. Like, looking forward to it kind of excited. Oh God, I still love him. I do. I don’t want to, wish with all my heart I didn’t, but you can’t turn those kind of emotions off like a tap. So instead I’m stuck in a heart-rending limbo where I love the man I loathe.
That’s why I wrote the letter; better that than he see me and realise how I feel.
Dear Daryl,
I want no contact with you other than to discuss the business of wrapping up our marriage. We need to sell the house as I can no longer afford to run it single-handed, but I need your permission to do so. If you are agreeable I will get the ball rolling and send the relevant paperwork to you to be signed as and when. I also intend to start divorce proceedings.
I’m trying to be business-like and hold it together, and I really hope that comes across, but it’s hard. As I wrote the words all I could think about was what he’s done. I try and try to imagine what it must have been like for them. The victims. Their fear, their pain. His face over them, twisted as he inflicts himself on them. But I can’t. All I can manage is some kind of B-rated movie-style of what he did. I know the facts, of course, relive those words from court, see again his victims’ faces as they gave evidence, and it’s…every word I can think of fails to do it justice. Horrific, evil, twisted, whatever, it doesn’t sum it up.
How do you write to someone who is guilty of such things? The hardest part was actually signing off. I almost automatically put ‘love’, then tried ‘regards’ but didn’t even want to seem that friendly so in the end I settled simply for signing my name.
JUNE
Saturday 1
I feel like I should be fighting to get back to normal but…fight what? There’s nothing to fight. It’d be like thumping mist.
This time last year I was in Turkey.
Tuesday 4
Well, it took a week, but Daryl’s reply arrived today. My hands shook as I stood by the front door and picked at the edge of the envelope, trying to open it but unable to winkle a finger in to get it started. Losing patience I gutted it, ripping it wide open and two pieces of paper fluttered out.
My heart dropped as I stooped to pick them up from the welcome mat, because I instantly recognised one of them as a visiting order. For a moment I just stood there, gathering myself. Squeezed my eyes shut in frustration, counted to ten, then opened them and started to read Daryl’s note. It was as to-the-point as mine had been.
Babe,
I won’t be agreeing to the house sale or divorce. You still are and always will be my Gorgeous. Come and see me and we can discuss it.
Forever
Daryl.
I sank to the floor where I stood, curled up like a baby and sobbed, hand over my head to somehow protect me. As I rocked gently, despair crashed over me and took my breath away. He is never going to let me be free, he will never leave me alone. His love is like the sticky clay mud of a First World War battlefield, and I can’t break free, I am slowly being sucked down and the more I struggle the faster my demise comes. I surrender, you win Daryl.
Wednesday 5
I’m lonely, I’m so desperately lonely, and I need a hug, to feel someone’s arms around me, the human comfort of knowing someone cares and is there for me and only me, and yes, I know my parents are, but it’s not the same as a partner, is it, it just isn’t the same, and so the terrible fact is…I miss Daryl. And I hate myself for it.
I want a hug from the very person who has hurt me and put me in this terrible position. What a sicko I must be, what a sado-masochist. I know it’s not really Daryl I miss, of course. It’s the idealised version. I miss the myth that was my husband, my partner. I miss having someone to call and talk rubbish to. I miss knowing I have another person’s love. I miss the stability and solidity that having a loved one gives you, the smug knowledge that you are not alone.
I hate myself.
Tuesday 11
I’m so sick of feeling crap. I feel so guilty about it; I shouldn’t feel like this. What do I have to complain about really? In comparison to what Daryl’s victims have been through?
Every ti
me I feel sorry for myself I am eaten up with guilt. It’s the same old story of comparing my horror with theirs, the same feeling of being in competition against those poor women, and losing miserably every time.
Thursday 13
Since discovering Daryl’s secret I’ve changed physically almost beyond recognition. I look in the mirror and don’t recognise the person looking back at me. Which is just as well, because I don’t think I could look the old me in the eye, stupid, blind cow that I was. I’ve lost a stone and a half. Dropped 4 inches from my bum, five from my belly, three from my waist…
Nothing fits me. I need new clothes, but what’s the point? Kim has given me some of her clothes. She’s tiny – and I was amazed to discover they fit me (well, apart from the trousers are way too long for me because she’s tall enough to be a model, while I am titchy).
‘Can’t have you looking like a homeless person, love,’ she smiled gently when she gave me them. Bless her for standing by me.
Sometimes I find myself just staring in the mirror and talking. I hate myself. But I’m also the only one who understands how I’m feeling because there’s not exactly a support group for women who discover they are married a monster. I’m all alone with only me to rely on, so I stare in the mirror and talk. Am I losing it? I’m scared.
I feel totally helpless. I have no control over my life now. I’ve been sacked, I can’t imagine that anyone else will ever want to employ me, I’m hated by everyone in the world (apart from Mum, Dad, and one friend) and still regularly get death threats, I’m about to lose my home which is the only solid thing in my life right now, I’ve huge debts that I’ll never pay off, oh, and my murdering rapist husband wants me to go see him.
I am punch drunk, barely feeling each individual blow now, just reeling and stumbling around as I fight to stay on my feet. Well you know what? I’m throwing in the towel. I am sinking to my knees and refusing to get up any more, because if I do something else will just smack me one.
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