Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
‘Merry Christmas, and Happy
Birthday,’ I smiled. ‘Did you get my Christmas card? I made sure this one
wasn’t padded or musical or anything that’s against the rules.’
Daryl chuckled, shaking his
head.
‘Typical you, not reading the rules properly.
My gorgeous air head.’
Umm, bit patronising. I
found myself bristling at the comment, when normally I’d have just giggled
along with it. I wanted to argue back and say ‘actually, this air head is
managing to keep the household going all on her own; I’d like to see you try.’
But I bit it back because of course I am being a right old grumpy cow. It’s not
Daryl’s fault that we’re in this situation, I shouldn’t take my anger out on
him.
‘So…is there a special
Christmas meal or anything in here?’ I asked, struggling to find something to
change the subject to.
Daryl ran his free hand over
his bald head. ‘
Dunno
,’ he shrugged. ‘But
me
and you’ll have a massive celebration next year.’
‘It’s not
fair,
we should be having a massive celebration now. You shouldn’t be here,’ I pouted
like a three-year-old having a tantrum. I knew it wasn’t helpful of me but I couldn’t
help myself.
Silence.
There really wasn’t anything to say. I cast around the room as I searched my
head for a suitable subject. The Christmas lantern’s few remaining sparkly
plastic fronds rippled in the draught from the heating system.
I was reminded of all those
silent nights Daryl and I had spent in front of the telly. How not long before
all this happened I’d been thinking of leaving him, thinking I wasn’t even sure
if I liked him. I huffed and pulled a face, impatient with myself for even
thinking something like that here and now, when Daryl needs all the support and
love he can get. I’m a terrible person.
‘God, if it’s that boring
you can just go,’ snapped Daryl, letting go of my hand. He must have been
watching my expression the whole time without me realising it.
‘No, no, sorry, the sigh was
frustration because of being here, not boredom,’ I placated. ‘I’m sorry if it
seemed like something else. I just can’t wait for you to be out of here…’
Ah, that gave me inspiration
for our conversation. ‘So, how’s your defence coming on? Are you happy with
your barrister?’
‘I don’t want to talk about
that now,’ snapped Daryl impatiently. ‘Can I enjoy just one day without being
nagged by you about the sodding trial.’
I sat back, chastised.
Stupid, stupid idiot that I am, fancy going on at him when he must
be feeling so down.
An image of him spending Christmas Day in a tiny
cell instead of in our cosy home with me flared in my head.
‘I just wanted to see how
things are going. You never tell me anything about it and I worry for you; I
want to be involved,’ I said in a small voice.
‘You don’t need to fret
about it, I’ve told you that. All you have to do is turn up to court every day
looking pretty - the judge and jury will look at you and know I must be a good
man if I’m with someone as good as you. Now just leave it.’ He sat back, the
orange plastic chair making a little groan of protest as his heavy, muscular
frame slumped against its back.
Another extended moment of
silence, then: ‘You got the decorations up then?’ Daryl asked. ‘The ones I
like? It helps me, when I’m sitting in my cell, to imagine you at home
surrounded by our things.’
‘Oh…yeah, of course,’ I
lied. The last thing I’ve wanted to do is put up cheery, twinkly decorations.
And so the conversation went
on, in fits and starts of awkwardness and closeness. Finally the hour was up
and with a quick embrace we said our goodbyes, my face aching with the effort
of being cheery and upbeat. It’ll be
new year
before I
see him again…
By the time I got home, I
was angry again. That’s the main emotion that keeps me pushing on, to be
honest.
Fury at this injustice.
That
and the drive to keep things going for Daryl.
So I
dug out the baubles, tinsel and lights and put them all up. Felt like I owed it
to my husband to act as normal, so that he could imagine the place. I even used
the white decorations he likes, rather than the colourful ones I prefer – he
likes everything to match.
Tuesday 25
At first I admit I was
really miserable today. Instead of feeling even vaguely excited about getting
out of bed and opening my presents I found myself cynically thinking ‘What do
you get the girl who has nothing?’
Then I remembered Daryl in
his cell, whose only comfort is imagining what a good time I’m having. He
wanted me to put the decorations up and I did, and he’d want me to enjoy
Christmas Day with my family too. So although it was a bit of a struggle, I
made myself enthusiastically rip off the wrapping paper of the various presents
Mum and Dad had insisted on buying me. Every time I found myself sinking into
misery I’d remind myself about Daryl and slap a smile on my face for his sake.
Anything else felt like a betrayal of him somehow.
And next year we’ll be
together, and we can celebrate double.
Monday 31
Well it’s New Year’s Eve and
I’m on my own – I came home the day after Boxing Day. Much as they made every
effort to keep me happy and cheery (and I’m grateful, I really am) I found
myself longing to be home, surrounded by my and Daryl’s things, and our
memories. It makes me feel closer to him, somehow. I’ve even been wearing some
of his jumpers.
I won’t be bothering to stay
up for midnight. Instead I’ve shuffled off the sofa at 10pm, having forced
myself to watch all the cheery telly programmes because I refuse to allow
myself to wallow and feel miserable. I have to stay upbeat and positive; it’s the
only thing that will keep me going until Daryl’s release. If I allow myself to
get all bitter and twisted then Daryl won’t recognise me when he finally comes
home.
Sometimes it feels like such
draining hard work though. Still, it’ll be worth it in the end…
Anyway, it’s good that it’s
New Year’s Eve. I can’t wait to be rid of this terrible year. Next one will be
better, I just know it. It has to be.
If someone could see me now
I’m sure they’d laugh though. I’ve pulled the duvet over my head to muffle the
sounds of celebration going on around me, and am scribbling furiously in my
diary by the light of a torch that’s normally only used when a fuse blows at
night. I feel like a child, and it’s actually quite comforting.
Inevitably, I keep thinking
back to previous New Year’s Eves, especially last year. If I’d known then what
was coming, I think I’d have packed my bags and done a runner from the country.
Instead we’d been in blissful ignorance.
We’d actually arranged to go out with
Una
and
Andy for a few drinks at the local pub, but at the last minute we’d cried out –
one look at the freezing cold weather had been enough to make us change our
minds. Besides, I always get a bit over-emotional if I go out on NYE, for some
reason.
‘We should do something
though,’ Daryl had insisted. ‘I don’t want to sit around watching telly, this
is a special night. I know…’ He’d disappeared into the kitchen and come out
brandishing a book of cocktail recipes we’d been bought by a mate years before
but never used. ‘How about we try some of these out? We’ve a load of booze left
over from Christmas.’
He’d stood there doing a
little dance, mimicking the staff in cocktail bars as they slung bottles around
their bodies, in the air, and caught them behind their backs, before shaking
the mixer either side of them.
Blue eyes laughing as he bit
on his lower lip in fake concentration.
‘Impressive, but best not
try that with any real bottles or we’ll have a truly smashing time,’ I’d joked.
‘Come on, what do you think?
Yeah?’
He hadn’t stopped dancing yet…
‘Yeah, why not,’ I’d
grinned.
Two hours later the kitchen
had looked like a mini-tornado had swept through it, dragging bottles of
alcohol and mixers out of cupboards, along with the odd glace cherry; we’d even
dug out a couple of cocktail umbrellas we’d found – goodness knows where they’d
come from. In the lounge, music had thumped out, drowning out our merry giggles
as we’d danced around. It was freezing outside, but we were snuggly-warm inside
and having a whale of a time.
‘Rave!’
I’d
shouted, turning the music up another notch when Chase and Status’s Lost and
Not Found came on. Flapping our arms round almost uncontrollably, we’d wobbled,
laughed, jumped up and down and finally flopped on the sofa breathlessly.
‘That’s my babe,’ Daryl had
grinned. ‘That’s what I love about you, that we can do daft stuff like this.
Makes me realise how much I love you.
Happy New Year.’
Fireworks had gone off as
we’d kissed. It had felt magical. The disconnect I’d felt growing between us during
the previous few months had disappeared momentarily and I’d felt truly happy.
It’s one of my favourite memories. Hard to believe it was only a year ago, it
feels like a lifetime.
Midnight – well, just after
actually. Happy New Year! I’m surrounded by the sound of fireworks going off.
This is going to be a good
year,
I can just feel it,
although still tough. I feel really
positive,
lighter
even, to be rid of last year. It can sod off; only good times ahead, especially
once the trial is out of the way.
Tuesday 29
Daryl says this is the lull
before the storm; that soon the gearing up for the trial will begin properly
and everything will be a last minute rush. I have to take his word for it as
I’m still not allowed to talk about the trial with him. Instead we talk about TV
programmes or about Kim’s stalker problems; Daryl can never remember her name
(still got that inability with my friends) but he does seem genuinely
fascinated with Psycho Sam and the way he’s terrorising Kim. He’s outraged on
her behalf.
His lawyers tell me nothing
about the upcoming trial either – a few times I’ve called them and tried to
find out how things are going, but they tell me they can’t discuss the case
with me because of client confidentiality.
‘Even
though I’m Daryl’s wife?’
I check every time.
‘I’m afraid so,’ I’m always told.
All I know is that they’ve
no plans to call me as a witness. I don’t understand why. The prosecution
wanted me to appear on their behalf at one point for some odd reason, but
Daryl’s solicitors did sort that one. Apparently I can’t be forced to give
evidence against my husband – though what they think I would say anyway is
beyond me.
So there you go
,
no one wants to tell me anything. I somehow thought I’d be
a lot more involved than this. I feel like I’m jumping up and down, shouting
for attention, but no one can see me or hear me.
Sunday 3
The trial starts tomorrow. I
saw Daryl on Friday and he seems remarkably calm. I so admire the way he’s
handled this whole thing. He’s been incredibly strong, and never once broken
down (or if he has, he’s never let me see it. What amazing strength of will it
must take to hide your feelings like that in order to protect the one you love;
I just hope I’ve been able to fool him the same way, but I doubt it; he can read
me like a book).
Everything’s been such a
last minute rush. Daryl’s defence team had asked me to approach people to act
as character witnesses for him, but I’ve not had much luck. In fact, I’ve had
none. It’s unbelievable the way people have abandoned us. So much for innocent
until proven guilty, as far as our former friends are concerned I think they’d
happily see Daryl at the guillotine, and they’d knit merrily away as it chopped
his head off. Even
his own
mum has declined to come to
the trial. I don’t understand her; after all these years of knowing her though
I’ve given up even trying to.
On Friday I finally had a
proper meeting with Daryl’s lawyers. After delivering the news that no one was
willing to speak up for him, I was given a long speech about how it was now
even more important that I attend court every day – like I needed telling.
‘You have to be highly
visible throughout the whole proceedings so that people can be in no doubt you
are on your husband’s side,’ lectured his QC, Mr Jenkins (his first name is
Richard, but he’s one of those people who simply doesn’t suit a first name;
somehow without any conscious effort he commands a formal address only). ‘The
court is as much a show as anything else and it’s important the jury see that
people, especially women, are standing by the accused. It’s a show of
solidarity.’
I nodded eagerly. ‘Just try
and stop me being there for him!’
He gave a small, slightly
forced smile, just enough to show his needle-sharp incisors that reminded me of
Dracula. His receding hairline made quite an impressive widow’s peak too, so
perhaps he actually is a vampire in disguise.
I do wish my brain didn’t
default to random sarcasm mode whenever under pressure. Banishing thoughts of
Vlad the
Impaler
, I tried to concentrate on what he
was saying. This was it, at last my chance to have a proper conversation about
Daryl’s defence and find out what the plan was.
‘Can I help in any other
way?’ I asked, summoning up the courage to speak and risk seeing those menacing
fangs again. ‘I’m more than happy to give evidence for Daryl. Surely I can do
more than just sit there looking supportive?’
Mr Jenkins looked me up and
down, and again gave that tight little smile. ‘I know it must be frustrating
being on the
sidelines
, as it were, but that is truly
the best place for you. Nothing you can say on the stand can help your
husband.’
‘I can tell people he
definitely has an alibi for one of the crimes; he was with me. That’s the key
piece of evidence you have to get him off, surely.’ He didn’t respond, just met
my gaze. ‘I just don’t understand why I’m not being called when that’s such a
vital occurrence.’
Mr Jenkins tilted his head
slightly, but still didn’t look away. ‘I’m afraid I cannot discuss our strategy
for your husband’s defence, Mrs –‘
‘Well, that’s another thing
I don’t understand,’ I cut across him.
‘It’s client
confidentiality,’ he said, with me chiming along beside him in mimicry. Bloody
client bloody confidentiality, I’m sick of hearing about it.
‘Even though he’s my
husband, and my future hangs in the balance as much as his?’ I demanded.
‘I’m sorry. It isn’t
personal, these are the rules that we are tied to in all cases. Unless your
husband gives us direct instructions to share information with you, our hands
are tied.’
‘And he hasn’t,’ I said
sadly.
Honestly, I know Daryl
thinks he is protecting me from worry this way, but it’s having the opposite
effect. I feel sick with nerves about tomorrow.
Kim offered to come with me
to the court for a bit of moral support, but Peter advised her against it. He
says it might cause trouble for her, and I can understand that, as much as I am
tempted to gloss over it so I can selfishly have someone with me. I don’t want
to be alone, I’m not sure I can face it. But I have to, I know that. And I also
know that I can’t ask anyone else to put themselves in the firing line for my
sake; that’s why I’ve told Mum and Dad to stay away too. They’re having a hard
enough time without having their photos plastered everywhere and everyone
knowing they’re supporting the supposed Port Pervert and his wife.
Soon though, in a matter of
weeks, Daryl will be home, and we can get on with the rest of our lives. The
house will be safe again with both of us earning (honestly, the trial couldn’t
have come soon enough. I’ve got myself into serious debt keeping everything
going single-handed. But I’ve managed to keep going this long, I can cling on a
bit longer. And hey, Daryl might even get some compensation for being
wrongfully imprisoned or something).
We can start trying for a
child again too, as soon as Daryl settles back into normal life.
When I try to imagine it I
shake my head because it seems the stuff of dreams: Daryl
home,
and me pregnant. But it will be happening soon. I can’t wait. I truly cannot
wait.
I keep finding myself
staring at the photos on the mantelpiece, especially the one of Daryl leaning
forward at a precarious forty-five degree angle, arms open wide as if he’s
trying to fly, mouth even wider in a grin, and eyes popping with exhilaration.
What a laugh we were having when I took that!
We’d been on a short,
four-day break in the Yorkshire Dales one February, and had had a terrible row
that morning – what about I can’t even remember. To make matters worse, the
weather had grown stormier and stormier, to match our moods. Then suddenly
Daryl had broken off mid-sentence, looked out at the howling wind, and just
grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the door of the cottage we were staying
in.
‘Come on, let’s get out of
here,’ he’d urged, face suddenly alight with urgency.
‘What…?’ I’d resisted,
trying to tug away but his huge hands had had too good a grip on my arms. I
might as well have been fighting to keep the tide at bay as fight Daryl;
resistance was futile, even if I was still annoyed with him.
‘Come on, quick! Listen to
that wind! Let’s jump in the car and drive up to the top of the moors and see
how crazy the weather gets,’ he’d grinned, his expression transformed from
thunder to sunshine.
‘Oh, Daryl, I don’t know…’
I’d still hung back, not willing to forgive and forget as quickly as him. But
his enthusiasm had been infectious; a couple of seconds of looking at his
sparkling eyes and I’d given in.
We’d pulled on coats, hats,
scarves, gloves, and driven the couple of minutes to the top of the moors. As
soon as we’d jumped out of the car we’d been battered and buffeted by the high
winds. What a buzz!
Shrieking in delight we’d
raced around like a couple of kids, first seeing how fast we could go with the
gale behind us, then how much slower it was trying to run into it; we could
barely move!
‘Hey, hey, I’ve got an
idea,’ Daryl had gasped suddenly, unzipping his jacket. I’d frowned, confused,
wondering what the heck he was doing. He’d grasped the edges of his now open
waist-length jacket and held them open like wings as he faced into the wind; it
had blown up like a balloon.
‘
Woah
!’
he’d yelled, staggering backwards with the force of the gust.
‘Lean
into it.
Quick, lean into the
wind,’ I’d urged, twigging on and grabbing my camera.
He’d yelled in
glee,
then
with feet firmly planted on the ground he’d
pushed his top half forward until he looked like Michael Jackson in the Smooth
Criminal video. Click! I’d captured the moment.
We’d carried on doing that
for another twenty minutes or so, both screaming, yelling, and giggling like we
were drunk on life. It was fantastic.
Maybe we should book a break
as soon as Daryl gets home. It’d be nice to get away. Then again he might just
want to enjoy relaxing at home for a while. I’ll run the idea past him though,
see how he feels.
Oh, I’ve remembered what we
were arguing about. I’d suggested we go to the pub that night to have a meal,
but he’d reckoned I only wanted to go so I could flirt with some bloke behind
the bar. Of all the stupid things! Once he’s home I’ll never pick such a silly
row with him again.
Promise.
Monday 4
The reporters were screaming
at me from the second I got out of the car outside court.
A wall of sound where my name wasn’t really
my name, was no longer the two syllables my parents had bestowed on me, instead
it ran into one long exhalation of a word, all melting together,
unrecognisable, punching my ears until it felt like they might bleed. They’d
turned my name into a weapon.
Faces were shoved into mine;
I couldn’t see a way through. I felt all panicky, started to have trouble
breathing. I’m only short and all I could see were chests, shoulders and heads
all in front of me, above me, I couldn’t see past them as I fought to get to
the courtroom door.
I was being pushed and
pulled, and all the time, even worse than anything else, were the flashes of
the cameras. It was like being in a nightmare where you can only see tiny
slivers of the action, and it isn’t enough for your brain to be able to
process. It was only because of the burly policemen standing beside me, holding
my arm so firmly it almost hurt as they forced their way through the baying pack
of
people, that
I managed to get to safety.
It sounds impressive doesn’t
it, that I had these police officers looking after me. It wasn’t said outright,
but it was made abundantly clear that it wasn’t out of sympathy for me or what
I had been through; it was purely to stop any public order problems that my
presence might cause. There you go I’m the problem, apparently, not the people
shoving me around and sticking cameras and microphones into my face so hard
that sometimes they hit me, bruise me,
almost
make me
fall.
But what do I expect? I’m
not a victim in this mess.
I was just thinking that
rather bitterly when I saw her.
Only for the briefest of
moments.
But it was enough to catch the brittle strength holding her
together, to recognise the façade so like mine that she’d carefully constructed
to fool people into thinking she was strong. She was one of the victims – I
knew it instantly.
My God, my God, she looked
like me. The petite frame, the shoulder-length hair, the eyes, the set of the
mouth... She could have been a long lost sister.
With a flash of blonde hair,
she was gone. It had only taken the time of a blink of the eye but it was
enough to steal my strength.
My knees did go then. Strong
hands under my armpits lifted me up and I was half-walked, half-carried through
the entrance of the court with my legs dancing uselessly beneath me, and put on
a seat in the atrium. My head sank between my knees and as I forced myself to
breathe slowly in and out, in and out until the wooziness passed, the noise of
the crowd was dampened down to a quiet roar as the doors closed.
Finally the sensation that I
was going to faint passed, but I still didn’t lift my head. Instead I stared intently
at some stitching on my shoes, trying to fight the panic and the bad thoughts.
How
come that woman looked like me?
Coincidence?
Or was Daryl
really somehow connected to this? Had…
No, I snapped my head up,
forced myself upright, trying to physically move away from my questions.
I know he is innocent. I
know it because it’s inconceivable that he’s guilty. I know because he was with
me the night one poor victim died. So that’s the end of that.
For all I know, the person I
saw was simply a passer-by, not even connected to the case at all. Or perhaps
adrenaline from being pushed around by the crowd made me imagine things that
weren’t real, and if I were to see her again I’d realise she’s nothing like me
at all. Yes, now I think about it, her hair was more mousey than blonde and she
was a chunkier build and her features were all wrong.
Anyway, I was taken from the
main atrium to a separate waiting room. It was odd sitting there nervously,
knowing that somewhere in the building, in another waiting room, were strangers
ready to give evidence that could see my innocent husband locked away for 20
years or more.
When in court, I looked
around but couldn’t see any sign of that woman. There was Daryl’s barrister,
looking formal in his black gown and white wig as he busied himself shuffling
papers and looking things up on his laptop, while around him buzzed other
members of his team eager to do his bidding; and beside him was his opposite,
the prosecution, doing exactly the same.