Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
Oh, and before I called
those solicitors I gave my boss another bell.
Told the truth.
‘Oh! Oh gosh, that’s
terrible,’ Kevin said, pretending to be surprised. ‘Take all the time off you
need, call me next week.’ He couldn’t get off the phone from me fast enough,
had clearly seen the news.
Still, it’s one less thing
for me to worry about.
Wednesday 15
Great
day, not.
I woke with my face buried in Daryl’s pillow
convinced I was snuggled up beside him, to the sound of something thumping
against the front door. Eggs and shit were what I discovered had been chucked when
I opened it; they smeared the paint, creating a stinking, gelatinous mess.
Someone had also spray
painted ’scum’ in massive letters on the side of the house. It took me and my
parents ages to scrub the graffiti off (the shitty mix on the front door came
away easily though, so that was something) and as we worked Clare from next
door appeared on her doorstep, arms folded.
‘Disgusting,’
she
tutted
.
‘I know,’ I smiled
apologetically. ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t
it.
’
‘Not that,’ she sneered.
‘You.
You’re disgusting and
so’s
that husband of yours. You should both be locked up for life.
Scum!’
Her husband, John, appeared
beside her, alerted by her increasingly shrill voice, and grabbed her
shoulders, dragging her inside.
‘Don’t give her the
satisfaction, babe,’ he said to her.
‘
Oy
,
was this you?’ demanded Dad, pointing
to the remains of the mess. The only answer he got was the sound of their front
door slamming shut. Ears burning, I carried on scrubbing…
Later, still furious, I sat
on the sofa clutching my usual early morning coffee (see, even in this mess,
some things never change, some routines are still adhered to) and fantasised
about chucking the mug across the room. Hearing the jangling explosion as it
hit the wall, seeing it shatter into splinters and shards.
God,
that
would be so satisfying.
Then I thought about having
to clear it up. Knowing my luck I’d cut myself. And the coffee would definitely
stain the cream carpet, so then I’d have to spend ages scrubbing it with carpet
shampoo and I’d be annoyed at myself for ever throwing it. Rage rarely achieves
anything, I find, apart from make a mess you later regret.
Still, I couldn’t shake the
anger. Then inspiration struck. I decided to call up one of the newspapers that
had printed my address and tear a strip off them. I hunted down a number, and
as soon as I said who I was I got put through to the writer whose name was on
the piece. I felt rather smug about that; clearly they’d realised their error
and are going to take my complaint seriously.
‘My life’s been ruined by
this. People have attacked my home,’ I pointed out, describing what had
happened that morning. ‘Daryl’s innocent, but if you keep printing your lies
people will start believing it. You can’t keep printing my address, it’s
disgraceful.’
‘Well we have to give the
street name in case someone else of the same name lives in the town; we
wouldn’t want people mixing them up with a criminal, would we?’ the reporter
replied.
‘But Daryl isn’t a criminal!
He’s innocent!’ I flung back. I said a bunch of other stuff too, and the
reporter actually seemed really nice and listened to everything I had to say.
‘We’ll definitely run a
piece putting across your point of view,’ she promised.
‘With
an apology?’
I pressed.
‘I’ll certainly be
mentioning it to the editor.’ Excellent!
Minutes later I heard the
soft snap of the letterbox. When I saw what had arrived, I was stunned – it was
a letter from Daryl. My hands shook as soon as I saw his writing. Couldn’t help
hoping that maybe this was it, the thing that would explain everything away and
prove this is a terrible mistake.
I was so dead keen to get
into the letter that I tore the envelope diagonally, ripped it apart. This is
what it said:
‘Hi
Gorgeous, You are the only angel in this seething cesspit. Do not ever get
tainted by my shit, you are well above me. I admire you so much. I wish I could
be like you. In so many ways I am better for having known you. No matter what,
I did and do love you and I have never deserved you. I so wish I could have. If
you should ever need anything it’s yours,
All
my love,
Daryl
xxxx
.’
At the end of it was the
prison’s date stamp. So, at least I know where he is now.
This is the first contact
I’ve had with him since the police burst into our home. So of course I’ve read
it over and over, analysing every word for their obvious meaning first, then
the hidden ones behind them. Sometimes I think it’s a goodbye note, others an
apology,
or maybe he’s just sad…?.
I don’t really think there is
much of a hidden message though, Daryl was never that good with words, and this
is surprisingly eloquent. He must have spent a long time putting it together. Then
again what do I know; maybe I don’t know the bloke at all.
No, mustn’t think like that.
Bad wife.
Bad wife!
The thing that gets me
is…there’s no denial. Not even a hint of denial. Instead he just goes on about
me. Bless
him,
because he really is innocent it
doesn’t even occur to him that he’d have to deny anything to his own wife. What
a cow I am, what a horrible person for allowing myself even that transitory
moment of doubt.
The more I read it the note,
the more hopeless and helpless he sounded. I cried, imagining him in a cold,
grey prison cell from Dickensian times, hunched over as he wrote this note.
Poor,
poor Daryl.
I hate myself for entertaining even for a
second a tiny bit of doubt about him. If he’s so evil, how did I manage to
escape his clutches? Why did he choose to settle down with me and have a normal
life for nine years? It’s daft; a weirdo pervert would never act like that.
Imagine how cold and calculating you’d have to be to pull off something like
that; impossible!
Well at least I’ll be able
to see him soon. In a post script he let me know he’ll be appearing in Crown
Court on Monday 20
th
to request bail. Please, please, please let him
get it….
I can’t sleep in that bloody
bedroom either. The memory of the raid is too strong, too traumatic. As soon as
I close my eyes images of it flash, like blotches of colour against closed
eyelids after you’ve accidentally glanced at the sun.
Instead I drag the duvet and
pillows into the lounge, curl up on the sofa, watch telly until exhaustion
takes me for an hour or so, surrounded by the smell of Daryl.
Links Africa, diesel and him.
3
am
– Dad’s unplugged the landline. From 11pm the phone started ringing constantly.
When I answered it, it was horrible. People shouting disgusting abuse at me –
men and women – screaming that I’m a murderer, scum, sick, twisted, that I got
off on Daryl’s crimes, and I deserve to burn in hell. I’m speechless. Do people
really think that? The worst calls though were the silent ones. I could tell
someone was there, listening to me listening to them. Somehow that scared me
more than the spewing abuse.
‘Don’t answer it, love,’
urged Mum, trying to hold me back after the phone rang for the umpteenth time.
‘I have to,’ I whispered,
voice hoarse from tension. I couldn’t leave the phone just ringing. It wasn’t simply
that the noise did my head
in,
it was more that I
needed to hear what they had to say.
Needed to torture
myself, like a kid picking a scab.
The funny thing is, I didn’t
even cry. I just sat silently, numb, taking whatever the callers had to throw
at me. That’s probably what disconcerted my parents the most.
Finally, Dad didn’t give a
word of warning, simply stood up, walked over to the phone socket and unclipped
the lead. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said calmly,
then
walked from the room.
Thursday 16
What a bloody idiot! I
stared at the newspaper headline that Dad had shoved under my nose, and blinked
a couple of times as if I could somehow make it disappear. Tearing a strip off
the newspaper has made things a hundred thousand billion times worse. What was
I thinking? Sat there all smug, feeling like I’d finally taken control of the
situation when actually…
‘I’ll
stand by my man,’ vows Port Pervert’s wife.
That was the
headline on the front page. The front bloody page! Then there was a load of
stuff about how I’m ‘claiming’ he is innocent. The way they’ve written it, I
sound delusional, hysterical, my arguments making no sense at all… The quotes
are accurate enough it’s the stuff in between that’s the problem; it’s so
clever the way they’ve twisted it all and given it their own spin. They didn’t
say anything about me being victimised with malicious calls. And they printed
my street name again.
I’ve made things worse. I’ve
made them so much worse. I didn’t think it was possible. Why won’t anyone
listen to me? I feel ignored, forgotten,
unimportant
.
How can I be unimportant when it’s MY LIFE that’s turning to shit? My husband’s
in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, my friends want nothing to do with me, my
parents think I’m insane for sticking by Daryl, and to top it off I look like
I’ve been positively boasting to the national newspapers.
Mum suggested I call that
solicitor, Peter Simpson, and see if he could help me because he’d been so
great when I was arrested.
‘Last time I tried to take
control and do something I made them worse, remember?’ I said, brandishing the
newspaper like a weapon.
Dad cleared his throat. ‘I
don’t think you can make them any worse.’
Fair point.
So I called Peter. I’ve an
appointment to see him tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
The heat in the house was
starting to feel oppressive, and I automatically walked over to a window to
open it, then realised I didn’t dare in case someone shouted something obscene
or chucked something. As for setting foot in the garden to cool off…it’s out of
bounds now that my neighbours hate me. I feel too self-conscious; can see their
curtains twitching the minute I step outside. I’m trapped figuratively and
literally in my life.
With so much going on, it’s
hard to imagine that there’s any room left in my head to think about Daryl.
Sounds selfish, but in a way I wish that were true. The reality is that, of
course, he’s on my mind constantly. It’s like there is a little background
monologue running all the time, which can be heard in my brain no matter what
else I’m thinking or doing: How’s he doing? How’s he feeling? How’s he coping?
What if he gets picked on in prison? Sometimes he’s bolshie, sometimes he’s
such an introverted little boy, which way will he go in there; which will help
him survive best? Why hasn’t he called me…?
Then there all the times I
catch myself forgetting for a split second and automatically thinking ‘must
tell Daryl that’, or ‘must ask Daryl to sort this’, or even ‘God, I need a hug’.
Or my mobile will ring and I’ll for the briefest instant feel that excitement
as I assume
it’s
Daryl. Then I remember. That’s when
my stomach drops like I’m on a rollercoaster and I sometimes gasp out loud as I
realise all over again where he is and what is happening.
Why hasn’t he tried to call
me even? I can only think it’s because he is too scared himself and needs time
to sort his head out because he’ll think he has to be strong for me. He needs
time to create that front. I’ve tried calling the prison to see if I can be put
through to him, but have been told repeatedly that it isn’t possible. It’s
silly that in the midst of all else that is going on, I’m hurt by the lack of
contact.
Still, only a few more days
until I see him, even if it is only in a court room. Hopefully he’ll get bail
and be coming home with me.
Can’t wait.
Literally
cannot wait.
Friday 17
This morning I opened up my
curtains to discover journalists had sprung up like mushrooms overnight and are
now permanently on the pavement outside the house. Nothing surprises me any
more though. I think there’s only so much stress and ‘stunning’ a person can
take before they just go ‘wow, another bag of crap thrown at me. Okay, cool,’
and simply carry on regardless.
I already can’t think, can’t
eat, can’t sleep, my body aches constantly from my muscles being always held
tense, the skin round my eyes and cheeks hurts because it is chapped from so
many tears (I didn’t know that was physically possible, but lucky me, I’ve
discovered it is) and even my eyeballs throb.
I traipsed away from the
window with a sigh, thinking about how the neighbours will hate me even more
now, and went to the bathroom and cleaned my teeth. As I spat into the sink, I
caught sight of myself in the mirror and literally didn’t recognise myself. I
don’t look like me
any more
, and not just because
I’ve already lost half a stone from stress; it’s more the haunted, hunted look
in the eyes that’s changed me.