Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  I give her a look but she laughs. ‘Okay, I don’t know much about kids, but Katie is an expert. We’ll cope, she and I, and why shouldn’t you have a little fun for a change?’

  I’m instantly assailed by doubt, not sure if this is such a good idea, after all, and say as much.

  ‘I’ll deliver you home early, not a minute past ten o’clock,’ Tim hastens to assure me, eager to take advantage of Emma’s generous offer. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  So I agree. Now, trying to decide what to wear, as fluttery as a young girl on a first date, I’m wondering what on earth I’ve let myself in for. ‘This is all wrong,’ I say to Emma, who is sprawled on my bed watching with some amusement as the discarded outfits pile up. ‘I’m still a married woman.’

  ‘Only for two more weeks, and hell, it’s just dinner. He’s not offered to ravish you, not yet, though I dare say he wouldn’t mind. Anyway, it’s up to you to keep the brakes on this relationship, for now, eh? Once you get that magic piece of paper, that decree absolute, you can please yourself.’

  ‘I’m not ready for any sort of relationship,’ I argue. ‘I just want to be free.’ I pick up my phone, insisting I’m going to ring and cancel, but Emma talks me out of it, saying Tim has some important news to tell me, and maybe that’s what this ‘date’ is all about.

  Something squeezes inside me. Is he going to tell me that he’s going away? I try to imagine a life without Tim hanging around, without his solid friendship, his cheerful good humour, and it seems a very dull prospect indeed.

  He picks me up early, at seven, his old Jeep rattling along my lane and the familiar deep-throated roar of its engine warning me in advance so that I’m out on the step waiting for him when he pulls up. It’s a warm summer’s evening and I’ve opted for a simple, strappy T-shirt and black jeans as I’ve no wish to appear as if I’ve tried too hard. I glance only once over my shoulder as I climb aboard, but I can see no sign of Oliver’s car.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling warmly at me. ‘You look great. Lovely, in fact.’

  ‘You look pretty good yourself.’ He’s dressed in a blue checked shirt, a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up his arms, revealing the shirt sleeves beneath, and baggy jeans that have seen better days. He looks relaxed and very attractive in a rough and ready sort of way, comfortable in his own skin. I rather like that.

  He shifts the gear stick with a loud grating sound which makes us both laugh, and the vehicle bounces off along the rutted lane. I don’t even look back once to see if we’re being followed, but there’s a strange little wobble deep in my stomach.

  We have a pleasant, jolly evening, chatting away the whole time like the good friends we’ve become. He’s describing his various adventures at university and during his gap year in Thailand and Australia, then tells loads of funny stories of his early trials in teaching. I find myself relaxing, enjoying the meal and his company immensely, happily describing my hopes for developing the agency. We don’t talk about Oliver, or the divorce.

  ‘I do have a bit of news you might find interesting,’ he says as we set down our spoons after demolishing a delicious portion of raspberry Pavlova. He’s suddenly avoiding direct eye contact and my heart sinks. This is it. This is the moment when he tells me that he’s leaving. All this stuff about previous trips is simply a prelude to announcing that he’s going off on another. Okay, so we’re good friends, I think, but nothing more. He’s never kissed me, never said that he even fancies me, although there have been times when he’s certainly given that impression. And how do I feel about him? I ask myself. I daren’t even consider what my answer might be to that one.

  ‘I’ve got a new post.’

  ‘Oh, how interesting. Where?’ I try to smile and look pleased for him, waiting for the blow to fall, waiting for him to tell me that it’s in India or Thailand.

  ‘I start in September at the Lakes School.’

  There’s a buzzing in my head as I try to take this in. Some new emotion is forming inside me and I can’t quite grasp what it is. ‘The L- Lakes School? The one just down the road?’

  He grins at me. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You’re moving here, to the Lakes?’

  He laughs softly and quietly takes my hand in his. ‘I am. I wonder what the attraction can be?’ He’s smoothing my fingers one by one and something like an electric current is running up my arm. Very carefully he sets my hand aside, as if he’s noticed the effect his touch is having, or has perhaps experienced something similar himself, and his eyes are dark as they gaze into mine. ‘I’ve no intention of rushing you, Carly. I can wait, and hope that when you’ve fully recovered from – from this current crisis, and from your trauma, that you and I can perhaps become more than friends. I hope so, anyway.’

  I can’t think of a thing to say by way of response, can’t even find my voice. There’s something mesmerising about those eyes, that lazy smile, and I can feel myself being drawn irrevocably closer. Dangerously close. Fortunately, the waiter arrives with our bill and we both smile and ease back in our seats on a sigh. There’s plenty of time, after all, and this isn’t the moment for declarations or decisions. I must remain cautious, at least until a week on Friday.

  It’s the day before the divorce hearing and there’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that refuses to go away. I’ve hardly slept for days and I feel bone weary and jumpy with nerves. It’s a benign September day, warm with autumn sunshine, the kind of day which should make me feel glad to be alive, but I’m far too anxious to appreciate it. I wish I could simply fast forward the next twenty-four hours and be out free and clear on the other side of that court room. I’ve taken the afternoon off work to see my solicitor one last time. I want to have it straight in my head exactly what will be expected of me. He explains the procedure, very fully, and assures me that the whole thing will be over in a matter of minutes, that neither party is actually required to attend unless we wish to do so.

  ‘I think I should be there. You don’t know my husband,’ I tell him. ‘What if he should suddenly spring something on us at the last minute, one of his nasty surprises, or decide to defend the divorce after all?’

  The man actually smiles. ‘That’s extremely unlikely. Everything has been agreed and sorted. We’ve even thrashed out the final details of custody and access for Katie, so there’s really nothing more he can do. Like it or not, we’ll bring him kicking and screaming into court and you can be rid of him once and for all. Now go home, relax, enjoy a glass of wine. Get an early night. Tomorrow you’ll be a free woman.’ It’s the most consideration he’s shown for my welfare since the whole dreadful process began. I feel shattered, wrung out, and a strange sort of numbness is forming in my head. Maybe he’s right. An early night sounds like a good idea.

  I arrive at the cottage late afternoon and leave Katie still strapped in her car seat as I go to unlock the door. As usual I’m loaded up with shopping, mainly nappies, plus baby buggy, my briefcase, and a pizza I intend to warm up for my supper. I start carrying the stuff into the kitchen, placing the pizza carefully on the tiny table. I drop my briefcase, park the buggy, then head back out to the car for Katie.

  She isn’t there. The car is empty. For one endless moment I stand transfixed, unable to believe my own eyes. Then I’m rushing around in a panic, screaming her name, crying and sobbing. Oliver seems to come out of nowhere and steps in front of me.

  ‘Lost your daughter? How very careless. As incompetent as ever, I see.’

  ‘Where is she? What the hell have you done with her?’

  He wags a chastising finger. ‘You can’t go on blaming me for everything that goes wrong in your life. She’s only a child. You should take proper care of her.’

  ‘I did take care. She was strapped in her car seat. Where is she?’ There’s a tight pain in my chest and I can hardly catch my breath. ‘What the hell . . .?’ I stop myself from asking what he’s doing here. I think I can guess.

  He shifts his cool gaze to my face.
‘Dear me, darling, you look dreadfully pale, almost ill. Would you like to sit down?’

  He looks as if he’s about to take my arm and I back away, raise both hands to ward him off even as I’m desperately glancing about me, trying to see where he has hidden her. Why isn’t she crying? Is she still asleep? Has he hurt her? Fear is curdling my stomach but I’m doing my utmost to remain calm. It never pays to spook him. ‘Stop playing games, Oliver. You shouldn’t even be here. Please give me Katie and go home. You can have your say in court.’

  ‘Ah, but this doesn’t even need to go to court. I’m here to put a stop to this whole stupid fiasco.’

  I let out a bitter little laugh. ‘It’s far too late for that. Tomorrow I’ll be a free woman, and it can’t happen soon enough for me.’

  ‘No, you won’t, not unless I allow you to be, which I don’t. I never wanted this divorce in the first place. So, okay, you’ve had your little strop, you’ve made your point, now call it off and start behaving as a proper wife should. I need you and Katie to come home with me.’

  ‘I’d rather die!’

  ‘That could be arranged, if necessary.’ He grabs my wrist in an iron grip and, twisting me round, pulls my arm as high up my back as he can. I hear clicks and cracks and my shoulder screams with pain, but I bite hard on my bottom lip, making not a sound. I’ve learned all too well what pleasure he derives from making me cry and squeal. I absolutely refuse to give him the satisfaction now. He shoves me through the door into the living room and throws me down on to my own sofa, then pushes his face so close to mine I can see each bead of sweat forming on his brow.

  ‘Do you realise you’ve made a laughing stock of me, even in the office?’

  ‘I think you’ve done that to yourself, Oliver. I’m the victim in all of this. You and I could have been happy together, had you been more of a loving husband and less of a bully.’

  He grabs a lock of my hair and uses it to pull me up from the sofa, laughing softly as he sees tears form in my eyes. ‘You think I’m the one responsible for our failed marriage, do you?’

  ‘I do.’ I’m struggling to remain calm, to think clearly when suddenly my mobile starts to ring. It surprises us both but before I can react he plunges his hand into my jacket pocket and whips it out.

  ‘It’s your interfering friend, dear Emma.’ He clicks off the phone, drops it to the ground and grinds it to pieces with the heel of his shoe. I suck in a breath, trying desperately not to show my fear. Outside, somewhere in the lane, I hear Katie start to cry. My heart leaps with relief.

  ‘I must go to her. Let me go to her.’

  ‘You’ll stay here until I’m done with you. Just for once, you’ll do as I bloody say.’ He adopts a tone of exasperated patience. ‘Oh, Carly, if only you’d learned that simple rule from the start then we wouldn’t have needed to go through all of this, would we, you silly girl? You know that I love you. And I know, deep down, that you still love me. We need each other.’

  ‘You love no one but yourself. You never have.’

  ‘Stop arguing, Carly. You’ve done everything you can think of to make life as difficult as possible for me. You’re still doing it. You’ve shown not one scrap of gratitude for the care I’ve taken of you, or how I’ve tolerated your determination to flirt with every man you see.’

  ‘That’s a complete lie. You’re the one who’s indulged in affairs, probably from the start. Not that I care who you sleep with now, Oliver, since it certainly won’t be me, ever again.’

  ‘You still aren’t listening, darling. Didn’t I just take great pains to remind you that you belong to me. How many times must I say it? You are my wife!’

  He’s edging me backwards, towards the stairs. My heart begins to pound but at last I come to life and start to resist, although this isn’t easy.

  ‘No, Oliver, I am no longer your wife. Technically perhaps, in theory, but not in practise. Now go home and stop behaving like a bloody idiot.’

  He grabs my wrist and starts to drag me up the stairs. Resistance is futile as he twists my arm up my back and pushes me in front of him, as he has done many times before. I’m gasping with pain.

  Once in the bedroom he hits me across the face with the back of his hand, sending me reeling and I fall, hitting my head on the edge of the dressing table. I must have briefly passed out because I come round to find him mopping blood from the back of my head with a bunch of wet toilet paper.

  ‘Still playing the drama queen,’ he scolds, sarcasm harsh in his tone. ‘I knew you were only pretending, and not really unconscious.’

  I’m sprawled on the floor and I start to struggle to get to my feet but he pushes me back down, pressing me to the carpet as he launches himself upon me. I slap at his face and hands as he tries to capture both my wrists with one iron grip. We’re engaged in a fierce tussle and I’m quite certain he intends to rape me, even more brutally than before. Instinctively, I bring my knee up hard into his crotch and he howls in agony. It’s something I should have done years ago.

  I scrabble away backwards like a crab, but with one hand still holding his private parts, he makes a grab for the front of my jacket with the other, pulling me back towards him. He starts swearing at me, all his favourite and now so-familiar abusive words, spitting them in my face, but he’s still in agony and has lost some of his power. He’s the one now impeded by pain and I manage to break free and scramble to my feet. I’m gasping for breath, I’ve no phone, and Katie’s cries have notched up several decibels. I turn and run down the stairs but he’s right there behind me, grabs my ankle and I fall headlong across the rug. I kick out at him, catching him right on the nose, making him yelp. I’m terrified he might get to Katie before I do, might try to hurt her as he did before.

  I summon every scrap of my flagging energy and I’m screaming at him, something incoherent, then I’m on my feet again, facing him. He has the poker in his hand, and he’s breathing hard as I step back away from him.

  Some part of my brain becomes aware that Katie has stopped crying, and this troubles me, until suddenly I see Emma framed in the door behind him. She’s holding Katie safe in her arms, watching Oliver very carefully. I start to breathe again, gather my wits, and stand my ground.

  My voice is surprisingly calm, considering the tumult of emotion pounding in my breast. ‘I’d put that down if I were you, Oliver. It’s not going to do you any good if I go into court tomorrow covered in bruises. It might almost do me a favour. This farce of a marriage is over, and nothing you can do can put it back together.’

  ‘There’s a great deal I can do. I’ve seen lover-boy coming to the cottage, picking you up, taking you out for long romantic walks, and meals just for the two of you. I dare say he stays the night, eh? Does he get a kick out of stealing what is rightly mine?’

  The familiar chill settles around my heart but I brush it away. I can smell freedom and I’ve no intention of giving in to his bullying ever again. ‘You can’t twist this thing around and lay all the blame on me. I won’t allow you to do that. I belong to no one but myself. I don’t have a lover. I’ve never slept with any man but you, more’s the pity. I’m not your chattel to use and hurt in any way you wish. I’m a free woman with a mind of my own. Accept the inevitable with good grace, Oliver. It’s over. I’m not coming back to you, not now, not ever. And if you want to avoid becoming a laughing stock, or a focus of gossip in your office, then stop this right now. I’m seeking a divorce in as civilised a fashion as possible, but it could indeed get worse. I could call the police and charge you with assault for what you’ve done to me today. I could tell everything, really dish the dirt, as they say. I doubt your boss would be too impressed by the story I could tell of how you’ve used and abused me throughout our marriage. I’m sure the press would be interested too. Enough bad publicity would put paid to your hopes for further promotion, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare do any of those things.’ His expression is furious, but shocked and worried too.

 
I manage to smile at him, quite calmly. ‘Try me.’

  ‘I’d believe her if I were you,’ Emma says from the door.

  He jerks round, taking in her presence, and Katie’s, with a low growl. She walks calmly into the room, comes over to me and hands me my daughter. Katie’s little face is still wet with tears, her lovely blue eyes wide with fright but as she puts out her arms for me, she gives me a beautiful smile filled with love.

  I look over her head at my soon to be ex-husband. ‘You’re such a fool, Oliver. Such an arrogant prick. You’re the one who’s lost out here, not me. So what’s it to be? A civilised divorce, over and done with in a few moments, or a no-holds barred contest which I’m certain to win?’

  Those grey-blue eyes which once used to look at me with such adoration, and then with a perverted pleasure at the pain he inflicted upon me, narrow keenly as his mind clicks over the likely repercussions that would surely follow if I carried out my threats. And I can see in his calculating gaze that he is beginning to believe that I might. The publicity alone would badly damage his image, could even lose him his job. I can see him at last begin to face the reality of his options, his brash arrogance begin to disintegrate before my eyes. Then to my utter relief, and without another word, he turns on his heel and strides out the door, out of my life.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ Emma says, as she puts her arms about me.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. This time I’ve won. In less than twenty-four hours I’ll have my decree nisi which will become absolute in just six weeks. I’m free at last.’

  Author’s Note

  This book came about as a result of a casual conversation with my editor, when I happened to mention that I had once suffered a short and violent marriage. My own story took place in the early sixties, but the problem of violent men still exists to this day and many of the incidents which Carly has to deal with, and the control Oliver imposes upon her, are written from personal experience. Writing this book was rather like opening Pandora’s box. I’ve been happily married now for forty years, certain that I’d successfully blocked the bad memories of that painful period from my mind. But as I began to write I soon realised that I still carried a sense of shame for having ‘allowed’ it to happen to me, for having stayed in the marriage for almost three years in a futile effort to make things come right. No woman should feel such guilt, or have to tolerate abuse. Fortunately, although some attitudes still need to change, help for the abused woman suffering domestic violence is more readily available today. If you are in need of such help, don’t hesitate to call the numbers on this page.