He releases his grip but only to once again start knocking me all over the bedroom, punching and thumping me, maintaining a furious aggrieved silence so he doesn’t disturb the neighbours, which feels even more intimidating than when he shouts and rails at me. He takes hold of my head and bangs it against the wall, slaps my face from side to side with the back of his hand, kicks my shins till they’re black and blue.
‘Shut up crying. Shut up, shut up, shut up!’
But I’m not actually crying now. Dry eyed, I’m gasping and sobbing, I’m trying to catch my breath and I’m begging him to stop. I’m frantically trying to cover my head and stomach and protect myself, terrified he might never stop. I make no effort to retaliate or protest, nor do I any longer attempt to tease him out of his incandescent rage. I am way past such tactics now and my one thought is to survive. The less I resist, the sooner it will be over.
Miraculously, as suddenly as it began, he gives me one last kick and the storm is over.
‘You shouldn’t provoke me,’ he mutters, as he walks away. ‘It’s your own stupid fault.’
When I am capable of standing again, I stagger to the bathroom to bathe my face in cold water. My throat is burning, it feels red raw and sore, and there are finger marks on my neck. My hand is shaking as I dab antiseptic on a cut lip that is beginning to visibly swell before my eyes. What am I going to do now? How do I get out of this?
I realise that everything has changed.
By staying and trying to save my marriage, despite my best efforts to help him deal with his problems, all of which seem to have failed, I’ve as good as condoned his treatment of me. I believed him when he claimed that Julie, his first partner, had hurt him badly, and even when he said his own mother had abused him. Until I spoke to Grace herself, that is, and realised the very idea of this gentle woman abusing her only precious child to be utterly impossible. I should have confronted him right away about my discovery, challenged this need of his to appear to be a victim. I should have left Oliver then instead of going with him to Paris.
But it felt as if he were really trying, as if our marriage had been revitalised and we’d found each other again. Now, its too late. I’m trapped.
Later, as we lie coldly side by side, his venom spent, the tears slide silently down my cheeks. I try not to make a sound but he hears my sniffles all the same. The next instant he puts his knee, or perhaps the flat of his foot, against the small of my back and kicks me out of bed. I knock my head on the bedside table and jar my hip on the floor as I fall.
‘For God’s sake, stop crying, woman. Shut up! I’ve had enough of your stupidity for one night. I wouldn’t need to touch you at all if it weren’t for your bloody hysterics. And if you ever try running off like that again, or leaving me, you’ll be sorry. You really don’t want to see how angry I could get if I put my mind to it. Just remember that I say what you do and where you go, as I’ve told you before. Got that? Is that quite clear?’
I mumble something incoherent and he leans over the edge of the bed to whisper ominously, mockingly holding a hand to his ear. ‘What did you say? I didn’t quite catch it.’
Icy fear crawls down my spine. ‘I said, yes, Oliver.’
‘Good, now shut the fuck up!’
I spend the rest of that night shivering on the floor, too afraid to move or try to escape again. We’ve been married barely seven months and I feel dehumanised and degraded, as if I have no control over my own life. I’m deeply ashamed that it’s come to this, although why I should believe it’s all my fault I’m not quite sure. Oliver makes me feel so worthless, so stupid and utterly useless. I do make mistakes, of course I do, I’m only human. I’m young and inexperienced, new to this marriage lark, which has turned out to be not such a lark after all. And getting pregnant was obviously the worst mistake yet.
I’m cold and uncomfortable and deeply frightened lying on the rug. Hot tears slide down my cheeks and neck, but crying isn’t going to help. It serves only to irritate him further, so I bite my lip and stay resolutely silent. I feel broken, defeated, knowing I’d do anything to put things right, for this not to be happening, but I’m helpless. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.
The only answer seems to be to do exactly as he says, to shut up and let him get on with it. He’s the one in control, the one with the power, not me.
I’m woken by Oliver lifting me back into bed. He’s all over me, weeping with remorse yet again, so very sorry for what he’s done and begging once more for my forgiveness. He promises to keep better control of his temper, is adamant that he doesn’t want to lose me, that he can’t face life without me or he’d fall into a depression. Top himself, in fact. He swears that he’ll never hit me again, but I listen to all of this without a trace of emotion. I know in my heart that he won’t keep his promises. Something else will irritate and annoy him, and this whole cycle of violence and remorse will start all over again.
He makes love to me but I stare mindlessly up at the ceiling, just waiting for him to be done.
At first I saw these black moods as caused by Oliver’s inability to control his temper. I’d suggest he count to ten, go for a walk, or take time out to think what he’s doing and where it might lead. But he doesn’t seem able to do this. He dismisses these incidents with a shrug, speaks about them as if they’re inevitable, something beyond his control and we must simply learn to live with them.
Gradually though, it has dawned on me that he does know exactly what he’s doing. He can quite easily choose not to hit me and frequently does, holding his fist over me as a threat but not actually using it. He has the sense to stop choking me just before I pass out. He certainly wishes to avoid any involvement with the authorities, such as the police calling, or my needing hospitalisation. Usually he’s careful not to hit me where the bruises show, choosing my body area or my shoulders and arms. He’s made a mistake this time by hitting me on the mouth, but he’ll learn from it. He always does. He won’t do that again but he will devise some other way of hurting me. That is the constant fear I have to live with.
When he isn’t getting his own way for whatever reason, if I’ve stepped out of line, or something unexpected that he didn’t anticipate has happened, then he’ll suddenly turn angry and let fly. It’s almost as if he enjoys stoking up his own ire in order to deliver my punishment for the perceived crime I’ve allegedly committed. He always holds me entirely responsible for the distress he’s allegedly suffering.
But I’ve noticed that even when he’s apparently raging out of control, it’s as if he’s thinking it all through and making studied decisions. When he loses his temper and throws things, it’s my stuff that gets broken or damaged, not his. He smashes my favourite lamp against the wall, tosses my papers on the fire as he did that time, breaks cups and saucers from my favourite tea set which Gran bought me. He destroys everything off my dressing table because apparently this baby is all my fault.
He’s most definitely in charge of his emotions, and of me. He enjoys the power it gives him to subjugate me, to ban me from our bed and force me to spend a miserable sleepless night on the hard floor, to see me begging for mercy. He needs to be in control, which is what this is all about.
I don’t go to work that day. I stay in the house worrying endlessly over the problem, desperately trying to decide how best to deal with it. I ring Emma and plead a diplomatic dose of ‘flu and take a few days off. I hate to let her down but feel it’s necessary for me to stay indoors until the swelling on my lip has subsided. I look as if I’ve gone ten rounds in a boxing contest and have no wish to humiliate Oliver in public again, or risk inciting curious questions. I dread to think what he might do to me then.
I know I should leave now, today, but I’m filled with fear. I’m certainly not in denial any longer. I realise that I have a serious problem.
Last night when I ran out in my nightdress and bare feet, Oliver was determined not to let me go. He dragged me back and made it very clear that I must never try to leave a
gain, showing not a glimmer of the patience he exhibited the last time when I ran to Emma’s. No matter how often I run away, he swears he will always find me and bring me back. In his eyes I belong to him. I’m his possession, and if I ever attempt to break free again, he’ll make me very sorry.
I feel like a hostage, and the prospect terrifies me.
Where could I go? How far would I need to run to escape him? I think of the key Em gave me, which I still have secreted in the pocket of my bag. I would never dare to try that again, not after what happened last time. If there were a spare bed at Mum and Dad’s I might go there, only Oliver would easily bully me into coming back home. He’d tell lies and win my parents round with his charm as he always does. They’d never believe how bad it was between us, that he’d ever laid a finger on me, let alone that the violence has escalated to this level.
Jo-Jo certainly wouldn’t entertain my staying with her, although she’d no doubt find great pleasure in my having to admit that my perfect marriage was a total sham. She’s convinced I lead some sort of idyllic existence living love’s young dream on caviar and champagne. How wrong she is! Nor, as I’ve promised Mum, must I risk upsetting her at this stage in her pregnancy.
But it’s not just my pride that is hurt. I’m deeply ashamed that I’ve allowed this happen, confused about how I come to be in this mess, what I’ve done wrong. I wonder why I didn’t recognise this problem in him before we married? Why didn’t I leave him after the first time he hit me? Maybe because I couldn’t accept what was happening to me, hoped it would all blow over and the problem magically disappear. Or because I was young, newly married and in love, and believed I could put everything right, given time. If only I’d realised then that it would get worse, not better.
I feel so alone, so isolated from my friends and even from my own family.
I long for a normal, happy life, and how can I even think of leaving him, now that I’m pregnant? I can only hope and pray that Oliver will come round eventually to the idea, once he’s got over the initial shock. Perhaps this baby will be the very thing he needs to make him more mature and responsible.
I stay home for three whole days, save for one brief outing when I drive over the empty fells to Kentmere where I can walk alone and nurse my wounds with nothing but a lone buzzard for company, and the mewing cry of a curlew. I go over and over everything in my mind. I can’t think what to do, how to find the help I need. A stranger would be ideal, some sort of counsellor, but I’ve no idea how to go about finding one without going through my doctor.
At some point later that afternoon it occurs to me that I might find some answers on the internet. I creep guiltily into Oliver’s study and power up his computer.
I could try looking on the computer in the office, except that there’s precious little time or opportunity for surfing, since we’re normally concerned chiefly with our own website, bookings and emails. Besides, I’ve no wish to alert Emma’s suspicions any more than they are already. And I’m still trying to pluck up the courage to tell her my news.
I type in some key words, find one or two web sites, and start reading. There are snippets of advice, stories of how other women cope and the agonies they go through, most of which I can empathise with. The early denial, the self-blame, thinking he might be sick or mentally disturbed in some way. It makes me feel less alone to know that other women have gone through the same mind-numbing questions as I have.
I realise, with a shock, that I’m one of them now. I’m a battered wife. I’ve acquired a label, one I could well do without.
There’s discussion on how society tends to always put the blame on the woman, as if she gets off on violence, as if she says, ‘Hey, I love it when you hit me. Why don’t you do it some more.’ I’m appalled that anyone could believe such propaganda.
Nor is the problem confined to sink estates or the so-called working class male. There are women from all walks of life suffering, with husbands who are doctors, lawyers, judges.
And accountants.
The words on the screen blur before my eyes as I try to work it out. People always ask why a woman doesn’t leave, as if all you have to do is put on your coat and walk out the door. Of course there are all the emotional ties, the effort you make to try to put things right and save your marriage, as I have done. Issues such as pride and shame and guilt, and battered self-esteem. But actually leaving your husband or partner, isn’t as easy as it might sound.
I find plenty of horror stories on the internet of women who’ve tried to do just that but were forced to return, either because they had no other home to go to, the judiciary insisted their children remain in the marital home, or their husband simply brought them back and made them stay under threat of even greater violence if they ever tried to leave again. Which is what Oliver is saying to me.
Who could protect me? Who would even believe me?
I glance anxiously at my watch. He’ll be home in an hour. I must make sure that I log off soon, and leave no trail of which sites I’ve visited. Isn’t there a danger he’ll realise I’ve used his computer? Will he be able to tell which sites I’ve visited? That mustn’t happen. How do I make sure it doesn’t? I wonder in a panic. I’m not as computer savvy as Oliver, knowing only as much as I need to do for my job. Isn’t there something about clearing the history, or is it the cache? Where do I find that, for goodness sake!
I’m about to close down when I spot some chilling statistics. They state that almost half of female homicide victims are killed by their partners.
Dear God, I’m beginning to understand just how bad this can get.
I read that some women keep a bag packed ready, in case they need to run. They hide the kitchen knives when their husbands come home drunk. Fortunately my situation isn’t quite so bad. I have a comfortable home, food in my larder. Oliver rarely drinks, but apparently alcohol is rarely the cause of woman abuse. Plenty of men drink and they don’t all beat their wives. Alcohol may make it worse, but as I have already discovered to my cost, violence is all about attitude, about control and power.
Should I go or stay? What would be the best thing for my child, let alone me? If I left, where could I live with my baby? Could I earn enough to keep us both, and afford child care? What if Oliver decided he wanted the baby after all and tried to gain custody? There are so many factors to consider even if he was willing to let me go, which so far, he isn’t. I’m so confused, so concentrated upon getting through each day that I can see only short term solutions, I can’t begin to think long term. I can’t get my head around a possible future as a single mum, without him. I’m too concerned with dealing with now!
I’ve already suggested to him that we try counselling, either separately or together, but Oliver point blank refused to get involved, or to allow me to discuss our private problems in public. Now that I’m pregnant my situation has got a whole lot more complicated. But what if he didn’t know? The vicar was useless, and I chickened out of the help-line, quite unable to find the courage to speak about it out loud, too terrified of repercussions, but what if I try on-line? That would feel more anonymous. I key in the word counselling, and then suddenly hear his car in the drive.
In a panic I close down all the sites but don’t have time to clear the history or the cache as I quickly power off the computer. All I can do is snatch up a duster so that when he marches in and demands to know what the hell I’m doing in his office, I turn to him with a shaky smile and say I’m just giving the computer a wipe down.
‘Well, don’t. I’ll clean my own desk, okay?’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, ever the good wife, and rush to put the kettle on.
All I can do is bide my time, have my baby in a safe place and hope for the best.
Just as I’m beginning to think that I’ve got away with it, he comes striding towards me with that familiar light of battle in his eyes. ‘You’ve been messing with my computer.’
I jump and my heart starts to pound. ‘No! No, I haven’t.
’
‘Don’t lie to me Carly. I know for a fact that you have.’
‘I – I was only checking the weather forecast.’ I say the first thing that comes into my head, trying not to show how nervous I feel.
He rests one hand on each arm of my chair, effectively trapping me within it as he spits his venom right in my face. ‘No, you bloody weren’t. I’ve checked back through the history and I can see exactly what you’ve been doing. Reading about other stupid women won’t help you one little bit. And don’t even consider talking to a bloody counsellor or woman’s refuge. I’d make very certain you regretted it. You don’t even want to consider what I might do to you.’
An icy shiver crawls down my spine and I’m shaking my head, desperately trying not to cry. Oliver always hates it when I cry. He grips my face with one hand, squeezing hard. ‘What happens in a marriage is private. Do you understand? Nobody’s business but ours.’
Chapter Twelve
It’s the run up to Christmas and everything is a bit crazy at the moment. We have a busy time ahead with lettings at Perfect Cottages, and Mum is frantically preparing the usual feast which we’ll all be expected to attend. Oliver is still in a mood, still sulking over my supposed betrayal of our pact not to start a family yet.
I too am feeling quite low, knowing there is nowhere to turn for help. I’m stuck. Trapped. I’ve made my bed and must lie in it, as they say. I go over and over in my mind how I can save my marriage and make things better between us. Despite all my agonising, how can I leave him now that I’m pregnant? I’m carrying his child for goodness sake! I surely have a duty to provide my baby with a father, not to run at the first hint of trouble.
I suggest that we don’t mention the baby to anyone yet, that we keep the news to ourselves for a while, which will give us both time to adjust to the idea.
Trapped Page 14
