Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
They reckon that during the
second rape, in Manchester, he’d been so cocksure he wouldn’t be caught due to
lack of forensic evidence thanks to his DIY rape
kit, that
he’d made the woman look at him. He’d been on a total power trip, his over-inflated
ego and arrogance dooming him in that case.
He’d have probably got away
with the third rape though, the first attack near
Tilbury
Docks…but he forgot to switch his mobile phone off. Using its signal, the
police had been able to prove he was in the vicinity of every single crime he
was accused of, including that one.
All those times we’d argued
and I’d repeat dialed him and couldn’t get through, was that what he’d been
busy doing? Was this all my fault somehow?
A single pubic hair was left
on victim number four.
Unlucky for him, lucky for everyone
else.
And one end of the ripped piece of duct tape used during this
attack matched an end of the adhesive that had been used to restrain poor
murder victim Julie - the other end of that piece had, of course, been a direct
match to the tape in Daryl’s briefcase in the truck.
As for the Turkey rape, the
silly sod had clearly been so angry with me that he’d just lost control and
grabbed the first woman he’d seen. If he thought at all, he’d probably simply
assumed that it wouldn’t be traced back to him because we were abroad. It’s not
much logic, but I’m fairly certain I can say logic probably hasn’t played much
of a part in Daryl’s life for a while. Mine either.
Then there was the murder. As
well as the ends of duct tape matching up, Daryl had apparently punched Julie
in the face again and again with such ferocity that he had smashed some of her
teeth, ripping open his latex glove and cutting his own skin in the process.
He’d left behind a smear of his own blood, mingling with hers on her lips.
It was what the Americans
would call a slam dunk case. He did it. No doubts. No uncertainty. Nothing
open
to interpretation. I’m married to a killer, a rapist,
the
lowest of the low. To add insult to injury, it turns out
he hadn’t been working extra hours, or selling days off, or even driving on the
continent. What he was doing with all that spare time away from me is anyone’s
guess. Conducting more attacks?
They even got a linguistics
expert to prove that the speech patterns the Port Pervert had used meant that
it was definitely all the same man. Daryl. Well, he was always keen on using
words like ‘whore’ and ‘cunt’ to describe my friends…
I sound all right, don’t I?
Like I’m handling the news of his guilt.
I’m not. Some of
the stuff I’ve sat through is so graphic, so disgusting, that I’ve vomited
until even my stomach lining has come up. That someone I know is capable of
doing those things…no, I can’t comprehend. That someone I love could…
It’s unthinkable. What I mean
by that is I literally can’t think of it. I try. My brain refuses to work, goes
utterly blank.
I’m as numb as an ice statue. I’m
in
the heart of the avalanche, frozen solid, can’t feel,
can’t think, can’t, can’t, can’t…
Saturday 16
Thank God for my parents. They
arrived on Tuesday and once again are stuck with the job of holding me together
as I fall apart. Before the trial I’d confidently insisted that I’d be fine
alone and that I preferred to face the trial without their fussing (in the
nicest possible way).
Of course that was when I
thought my husband was innocent and would be home with me soon…I’d even started
planning what meals I’d cook for him, was going to do all his
favourites
, even breakfasts were going to be lavish affairs.
Now all my plans lie shattered.
At least I’m not back to the
gibbering wreck I was when I was arrested, my mind going crazy. Instead, I seem
to have shut down. I know I’m not being normal…the problem is I don’t seem to
be able to access normal any more. I think I’ve forgotten how to feel.
I looked like absolute shite
though.
Pasty, dark circles under my eyes, unable to sleep or
eat.
Ah well, I’ll rest when I’m dead. I feel dead, so maybe it’s not
far off.
My parents are worried about
me. They talk to me in low, gentle voices, as if I’m ill or so fragile that a
loud noise might make me crumble. They don’t understand why I have to keep
going to court. Dad is particularly adamant that I stay away, but I can’t. I
know I should, but I can’t.
This thing has swallowed my
life whole and destroyed everything I thought I knew, and what, I’m supposed to
just shrug and walk away? No, I have to see it through to the very bitter end.
Bitter. Yep, that’s me.
I think it’s my mum too. ‘You
need to get away from that place, those memories,’ she said about the house.
Almost spat the words. My mum has never hated anyone, but the venom she finds
for Daryl now is …scary and inspirational all at once.
To distract herself, she rolled
up her sleeves (literally. She actually rolled her long sleeved top up to over
her elbows and gave me a meaningful look, so I felt obliged to do the same)
ready to tidy the frankly disgusting house. I’ve sort of let things slide this
past week.
Dad sighed, and opened the
back door to let in some fresh air, then stepped outside to give us room.
Judging from the look on Mum’s face, he was worried he might accidentally get
swept up with the rubbish and put in a bin bag.
Outside, from the
neighbour’s side, came the persistent, mesmerising drone of a lawn mower.
Clearly they’d got used to the constant press presence and started getting
their life back to a semblance of normality. As normal as life can be when you
live next door to the building that once held the Port Pervert.
First Mum tidied up the
kitchen, then the living room. I’d kind of forgotten how different the place
looks when it’s clean and everything isn’t filed on the floor. Well, at least I
knew where everything was.
I admit though that while I
was enjoying wallowing in self-pity and chaos (as only seemed fitting, as it
was a direct reflection of the state of my mind) it did make me feel better to
see everything back to the way they used to be. It was weirdly comforting, as
though the whole thing had been a bad dream.
It had a very different
effect on Mum…
The more things went back to
normal, the more annoyed she seemed to get. Her shoulders were going, twisting
round and round like a Les Dawson character, like they were trying to burrow
through her top and make their escape – the only part of her body to betray
that she did want to escape.
After a valiant effort to
control it, her face went too. She looked like she’d sucked a lemon.
By the time we reached the
bedroom she’d really worked up a good head of steam, muttering under her
breath, slagging Daryl off, asking how he could do such a thing to me.
To
me?
I should have been grateful, I suppose. Finally someone
was on my side. Instead though, I just felt…not a lot really.
Vaguely annoyed that she was talking about poor me when what Daryl
had done to me was nothing in comparison to what he’d wreaked on those women.
Guilt gnawed at me, chewed
on my very bones. How can I possibly feel sorry for myself? He’s blasted apart
my life, everything I thought I knew has turned out to be a lie, everything
solid was
quicksand,
every memory of the past nine
years is tainted. I can’t trust anyone or anything – certainly can’t trust
myself
because clearly I have terrible judgement and zero
ability to spot liars and worse.
Yet…
Yet for all that, when I
think of those women and their families, I can’t allow myself or anyone else to
feel sorry for me. If this is a ‘my life is crap’ competition, they win hands
down. And that’s how it should be.
The only problem is that
right now, if I can’t feel angry or bereft or any of the myriad other feelings
that threaten to tear at me,
then
I don’t know how to
feel. So I feel nothing. Good old icy numbness.
‘Look at that bed!’ Mum
exploded suddenly, pointing, shocking me from my thoughts.
It seemed a bit of an
over-dramatic reaction to the simple double divan that Daryl had bought dirt
cheap from a mate two years ago, when we moved into the house, and we’d never
got round to replacing.
Clearly she could tell that
I was confused, so she expanded on the subject.
‘It’s cheap!’ she raged.
Actually quivered a bit.
‘It’s cheap and disgusting, just
like that man.’
Yes, Daryl may now have two
identities, his own and his Port Pervert pseudonym, but to Mum he has a third.
He is like Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter, He Who Must Not Be Named. She never,
ever says his name.
I put my head on one side
and considered the bed. ‘I never liked it much,’ I admitted. ‘I always wanted
one with storage underneath, you know? It was just meant to tide us over until
we saved up for a decent one.’
She was clearly dissatisfied
with my response, so to show solidarity with her, I added: ‘The mattress is a
bit uncomfortable…’
My mum is a really mild
mannered person. She never gets riled up about anything, or if she does, she
doesn’t let it show. She hasn’t got a temper. So it was a bit weird seeing her
so infuriated and offended by the bed. It wasn’t a great bed, but it hadn’t
actually done anything wrong. Mum glared at it like she wanted it dead.
So she killed it.
Suddenly Mum leapt forward
and kicked the bed. She even gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
I raised an eyebrow, a bit
stunned. I’d never seen Mum get physical before. Ah well, I thought, if it
makes her feel better, and there’s no harm done…
‘How could he treat you like
this?’ she shouted. ‘That bed is like, like, like a symbol of how he treated
you. It’s cheap, nasty, common,
worthless
.’
Each word was punctuated
with a kick, and with an audible tear the material gave way. The first times
she’d landed her blows on the spindly wooden frame that held the bed together,
but the last time she’d got lucky and hit material that was stretched between
the cheap
frame
to give it the appearance of
substance.
I’ve seen documentaries
where packs of lions or wolves or whatever, once they see weakness, go into a
kind of frenzy and attack. That was Mum once the bed tore. She didn’t say a
word after that, just went mad, lashing out.
‘Umm, that’s my bed,’ I
pointed out, but rather weakly, because I was kind of fascinated. She wasn’t my
every-day, mild mannered mum who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, who refused to
tackle the horrid neighbour she had who made her life a misery by making little
comments about how leaves from her hanging baskets blew into his garden, and
such other petty misdeeds. She’d been transformed into some kind of glorious
avenging angel, her face twisted from the norm into something between sheer
rage and heavenly joy.
It was strangely inspiring
to see, and I was envious to be honest. She’d focused all her anger on that bed
and was kicking the shit out of it – and loving every second. It was a release
for her, acting like the valve in her pressure cooker. I wanted that. I wanted
to feel the anger coursing through me and make someone or something pay.
But I just didn’t have it in
me. Instead I stood there, watching my mum quickly create matchsticks out of my
bed. When there was nothing left of the flimsy little pine joists, she started
on the material, ripping it to shreds.
Finally, panting heavily,
she looked with some satisfaction at the little pile of debris.
Frankly, I’m not sure which
surprised me more, her actions or the fact that my bed could be so easily
destroyed, and had been made of nothing much more than matchsticks and cloth.
Mum smiled at me, looking
relieved. Clearly she was all spent of anger.
‘Sorry, love,’ she panted, breathless
after her exertions. ‘It was just really pissing me off.’
Wow, another first; Mum
swearing.
‘That’s okay,’ I shrugged.
‘Although I do have to spend money on a new bed now, as well as
everything else.’
Mum had been standing with
her hands on her hips, leaning forward slightly because she was so done in, but
at those words she straightened and waved her hands airily. ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter;
you can pick them up cheap enough.’
I wonder if she appreciated
the irony of that comment.
Sunday 17
I spent all of today in bed
(technically, I was just on the mattress, of course, as I no longer have a bed,
just a pile of wood that’s been shoved into bin bags and popped into the
wheelie bins outside). Mum and Dad brought me a steady supply of tea and
sympathy. The only time I moved was to go to the loo. The fact they didn’t
lecture me to pull myself together and at least get dressed shows their level
of concern. They
did
, however, try to get me to ‘see
sense’ about continuing to go to court.