Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
The bubble held me together.
It stopped me from showing that each word was like a kick smashing my ribs and
stopping me from breathing. Finally I was feeling something, but it all raged
on the inside, while the outside looked as still as a statue. With the bubble’s
help I focused everything I had on not sinking to the floor and howling.
I wanted to cry, scream,
rage
. I remembered Mum kicking the bed apart, and wished I
had something I could tear to pieces too. But there was nothing.
I wanted to shout: ‘
Me
too! He destroyed me too! Look at me, feel my pain, see
the evil that he did, how I’m holding on by the skin of my teeth because of
what he’s done.’
And
then what?
Then they’d shout too? ‘No, look at my pain!
How can you say you’ve been hurt when all you did was realise you’d been lied
to! He held me down, he tortured me, he forced himself on me and I thought I’d
die. How dare you compare your pain with mine?’
Then all the victims would
unite in one baying mob of hurt. All of us wanting to prove whose pain
was
worse. But there’s no answer. There’s no competition.
Everyone’s hurt is different in its terribleness.
No, that’s not true; my hurt
can never, ever compare with theirs. I feel ashamed for feeling sorry for
myself for even a second, I have no right. When I think of what they’ve been
through… I swayed in my seat for a moment, but steeled myself.
‘All rise,’ said the usher,
his voice cutting through and helping me keep the tears at bay. There will be
plenty of time for crying in the days to come. Years of empty self-pity stretch
ahead of me. For now though, I have to remember how to stand, how to sit, how
to breathe, how to listen as the judge talks to Daryl.
'You are clearly a
dangerous and clever man who used everything at your disposal to plan violent
attacks on women, then launched
a savage and perverted
campaign against total strangers.
You showed them no mer
cy. It is as clear to me as it possibly could be that there
is a serious risk of harm to members of the public from you.
‘If I could I
would sentence you so that you are never released. Instead I can only apply the
maximum the law allows. You are hereby sentenced to six life sentences, to
serve a minimum of 18 years.’
Cries of triumph
exploded around me, along with anger too. ‘Rot in hell, scum!’ screamed one
woman.
Daryl picked his nails, only
looking up when the custody officer patted him on the shoulder to lead him
away. He’d just reached the doorway when he stopped suddenly, as if something
had occurred to him. Then he turned, looked over at the public gallery and all
those women and their relatives, the oddest look on his face. Was he feeling
remorse? His eyes slid over them, over to me.
‘Love you,’ he shouted, as
guards furiously tugged at his shoulders to move him on.
Why had he done that? Was he
trying to cause trouble for me one last time? Or did he mean it? It disgusted
me.
My legs wobbled as I too
stood up. Sweat made my palms slick and I rubbed them on my skirt,
then
wiped my face with my sleeves as the room seemed to tip
in front of me. Everyone seemed to be looking at me, no, sneering at me, and my
heart pounded against my ribcage, pain starting to stretch around my chest like
stitch but a million times worse.
I couldn’t catch my breath.
I gasped in shallow mouthfuls of air, but the room was darkening, sliding away
from me.
‘Going for the sympathy
vote? Actress!’ someone shrieked at me. It was the last thing I heard as I
crashed to the ground and darkness swallowed me whole.
When I blinked open my eyes
everything swam in front of me as if I were in a snow globe, and then slowly
settled. I was in a small room, two men I recognised as court ushers standing
over me. How had I got there? I must have passed out and been carried from
court.
Embarrassment washed over me
as I remembered what had happened. Things were bad enough without people
thinking I was pretending to faint for sympathy; or worse, believing I actually
did faint, but because I was upset about my husband’s sentence. Oh God, what if
they thought that was the reason?
Gathering my things as quickly
as possible I made my apologies and scurried from the room. They let me use an
exit at the back of the building so I wouldn’t have to face the crowd.
When I got home I peeled off
the suit and court shoes and put everything into a plastic bag (everything.
Even the underwear).
Then carried it outside and dumped it
in the wheelie bin. I could never wear any of that again without being reminded
of where it’s been.
If only I could peel my skin
off too, slough away everything that’s been touched by Daryl.
‘At least it’s over now,’
Dad said, nodding his head sagely. ‘You can start moving on, put everything
behind you and start fresh.’
‘Divorce that man, sell this
house. Fresh start, like your dad says,’ Mum chimed in.
Easy
as that.
Only I don’t think it will
be.
There was something I could
do though, to help rid Daryl from my life. I went to the kitchen, grabbed the
roll of bin bags from the cupboard under the sink,
then
marched into the bedroom.
Flinging open the wardrobe
door, I grabbed a handful of clothes and, still on their hangers, shoved them
into the bags. Not just his clothes, mine too – outfits I’d worn on special
occasions, clothes he’d touched, tops he’d liked, anything, everything. It
didn’t take long to fill up one bag, then another, the metal hooks of the
hangers poking through the black plastic here and there, hedgehog-like.
Soon only a few lonely items
swung in the emptiness of the wardrobe. But lying at the bottom, neatly set
out, were Daryl’s shoes. I swept them into a bag too,
then
moved on to the chest of drawers. Underwear, t-shirts, socks, toiletries, comb
(why does a bald man own a comb?) all were dumped inside.
I wasn’t like Mum had been
that day she’d destroyed my bed; I wasn’t like a woman possessed. Instead I
moved calmly, methodically, mechanically. There was no
emotion,
it was simply a job that had to be done. All traces of Daryl had to be removed,
so that’s what I was doing.
I moved on to the bathroom.
Razor, aftershave, toothbrush, shower gel.
I’d been saving
everything for him, had wanted him to come home to find things exactly as he’d
left them.
Bloody fool that I was.
Now it all went
into the refuse sacks. But as I shoved his shaving foam away I suddenly stopped
and stared in revulsion at my hand…
…At my wedding band.
I didn’t allow myself to
feel anything as I tugged it off. It stuck at the joint, refusing to go over
it. A panicky, claustrophobic feeling gripped me and I pulled harder. It
wouldn’t budge. I turned on the tap and rubbed soap all over the third finger
of my left hand, then tried again desperately. This time it slid away easily.
As I flipped it into the bag the calm enveloped me once more.
Dragging a laden sack behind
me, I surveyed the living room next. Pictures of Daryl, pictures of us, adorned
shelves. I’d become so used to them I’d stopped noticing them but now I
snatched them up. Mum and Dad didn’t say a word, simply stepped aside to make
room for me.
I didn’t
so
much as pause to look at the photos or remember the days they’d been taken.
I’ve no desire to relive supposed happy memories; they sicken me now that I
know what the good mood may have been fuelled by. Everything went into the bags
without a second glance, each item giving me an all-too brief glimmer of
relief. I was unburdening myself of my marriage.
That vase Daryl always liked
and I hated, that went too. His books were next. By the time I moved on to CDs (the
first one to go was The Best of Barry bloody White album, with
My First, My Last, My Everything
on it) and
DVDs my legs and back were starting to ache but I kept on moving, sweeping away
the crap with rhythmic movements. Step, sweep, step, sweep, step, sweep…
I didn’t sit down until gone
2am, and felt almost peaceful.
Saturday 23
I’m avoiding the
telly
.
And the newspapers.
And the internet.
And the phone.
Oh, and people. Because everywhere I turn there seem to be images of Daryl (and
often me, too). Various in-depths breakdowns of our relationship make up a
large part of much of the coverage thanks to him shouting that he loved me as
he was taken away. It seems people think I’m as bad as him; some even hint that
I’m worse because they believe I could have stopped him somehow, either by
reporting him to the police or by talking to him. They all seem to believe I
must have known what was going on.
There’s much dissection
of his childhood too, along with the crimes; some places even have interviews
with a couple of the women who have waived their automatic legal right to
anonymity as rape victims and decided to speak out. Well, that’s fair enough, they
must deal with things however they choose, and if it can help just one other
rape victim who is reading the article then it’s worth it. Perhaps they find it
cathartic too, re-telling their tales. But I can’t face it. I’ve been steeped
in Daryl’s horror for too long, I’ve heard every vile detail of what he’s done
and I never want to think about it again.
Except of course I
can’t stop thinking about it.
After the case
Detective Inspector Ian Baxter gave a quick statement to reporters outside the
court. I hadn’t
realised
his name was Ian, makes him
seem more human – aside from the unfortunate
arse
-face
photo that ran alongside the articles I’ve seen online.
‘These women were
subjected to some of the most appalling attacks I have seen in my policing
career. We strongly suspect that these are not his only crimes and would urge
any further victims to please come forward.’
That’s
the bit that got to me. As if what he’s done isn’t bad enough, they think my
husband is guilty of further crimes. I’m…I’m just…what do
I
feel?
Sickened.
Stunned.
Disgusted.
Angry.
Confused.
Betrayed.
Horrified.
Panicked.
Embarrassed.
Stupid.
Those
are things I should feel, and don’t.
I especially wish I could
feel hatred for Daryl; there must be something wrong with me because I don’t.
But there’s nothing inside me, no emotions. I think I’ve died but my body just
hasn’t noticed yet, and is continuing on zombie-like.
Automatic
pilot.
My parents have asked this
walking, talking cadaver to stay with them. They think a break will do me good.
I’ve nothing to offer for or against this idea, so I’ve packed a bag.
Before we set off though,
Dad took all the bags of rubbish to the dump; he was worried that otherwise
people would go through them and try to sell stuff to the media or to weirdoes
who wanted Port Pervert memorabilia.
Welcome to my life.
Wednesday
27
I’ve
been staring out of the window for days now. There’s a squirrel that comes into
my parents’ garden and I watch him. He spends all his time rushing round trying
to find the ultimate place to bury his acorns, and never seems to quite find
it. Sometimes a robin watches him too.
I
think I might be having a nervous breakdown.
Probably
the fact I think I am means I’m probably not.
It
might be nice to escape into madness.
Or amnesia.
Could I smash myself over the head with something really hard and lose my
memory deliberately?
My
finger feels naked without my wedding ring.
Tuesday
2
I
came home last night.
The
press was waiting for me. They went into
a frenzy
when
they saw me. Exhausted, I tried to shut out the blaze of noise by putting the
telly
on as soon as I got in. An extra-bright flash went
off suddenly; someone must have been trying to take a photo through the glass
of the window. Don’t think it will work, but I pulled the curtains shut all the
same.
I
miss the squirrel.
Sunday 7
Without the distraction of
the court case I’ve nothing to do but think. I don’t want to think.
I
try my best to shut it all out, and try to revisit in my mind all those hours
spent peacefully staring at the squirrel at Mum and Dad’s, that creature whose
biggest worry was remembering where it hid its acorns, but it’s useless.
I’m
trying desperately to shore up my protective bubble, because it’s safe in there
and I can’t feel anything and nothing quite reaches me. But huge cracks are
developing in it. Things are sneaking through it, memories and emotions that I
don’t want snake around me and I keep trying to push them away but they cling
to me.
I want to go back to feeling
nothing,
I’m not going to think. I
won’t think. I can’t allow myself to think.
That silver, heavy duty duct
tape he always had handy for quick engine fixes. I keep seeing it, his nimble
fingers tearing it up and sticking together packages for me, a secret smile
playing on his lips.
Now I know the secret. I
want to scream and run away. I want to curl up and cry. I want to ask him
‘why?’
I want to ask him why.
I’m not going to think. I
won’t think. I can’t allow myself to think.
He called me
straight after one of the rapes. Why? Did he want to share his euphoria with
someone? He was in such a good mood that night. I was so happy that he was
happy, and honestly thought the call was a good sign of the state of our
marriage. I believed he was making an effort and that we’d be okay.
The last thing
I ever would have thought was that he was so cheery because he’d brutalized
someone.
Don’t think
about
it,
don’t think about him, that way lies
madness.
He took me to the places
where he’d raped those women, and got turned on by it. He wore those gloves and
did things I thought were hot and horny at the time but that now make me want
to rip my skin off in disgust.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
He said he loved me.
Shouted it out in the courtroom for all to hear.
I need to stop the madness.
I need to take my brain out and pop it on a shelf, out of reach, until it stops
working overtime with sick memories.
Those huge hands used to
hold me so gently. He murdered a woman with them, beat her to an unrecognisable
pulp, then came home and made love to me, tenderly, lovingly, stroking my body
with the same fingers that smashed life from someone else. He said he wanted a
baby with me. We held each other, gazed into one another’s eyes. I didn’t see a
monster, could never have guessed…
Please don’t think. Please
no more memories.
He raped a woman because she
looked like me.
He raped a woman because she
looked like me.
He raped a woman because she
looked like me.
No matter how many times I
say it, it doesn’t seem real. How does someone get over something like this? How
do I ‘move on’ as my parents suggested. I don’t know. I wish someone could tell
me.
Monday 8
When I think
of that man my flesh creeps, and I find myself scratching, trying to tear away
the skin he has touched.
Wednesday 10
The journalists are now
camped outside my home constantly. I can’t go to the shop for a pint of milk
without a photo and accompanying story running the next day in the tabloids,
dissecting what I’ve bought and the possible hidden meaning behind it.
I don’t bother buying the
papers, of course, but it’s hard to avoid them when their headlines are stuck
outside shops on little posters, or there is a huge pile of them outside the
local garage when I fill up my car with petrol.
Ah yes, my car. I’ve started
referring to it as the cauliflower car now because it has so many dents and
scrapes from people deliberately hitting it or keying it. They smash the
windscreen too, or paint rude words on it. I can’t afford to get it
professionally re-sprayed all the time so I just do it with an aerosol can I
buy from Halfords. It looks bloody awful.
I deserve everything I get
though.
And more.
Because I loved a
murderer.
Thursday 11
How could I not have
noticed? How didn’t I realise that my husband was…perverted, twisted, demonic?
Instead I just sat there wittering on about how bored I was with my life. I
loved him for God’s sake! As much as it sickens me, I still love him. I just
want to switch the feeling off but I can’t, it doesn’t seem possible, even
though at the same time he utterly repels me.
I’m appalled. I look back
and realise that the good times coincide with immediately after he’s raped
someone. It must have put him in a good mood, doing those unspeakable things to
those poor women.
Every time I think of it I
want to vomit, my whole torso spasms, but there’s nothing to bring up because I
can’t eat. How can I? Yet for all that, there’s a tiny voice inside me saying
‘he couldn’t have done those things.’ Of course I know he did, the evidence is
irrefutable. I’m just in denial I suppose, because what does it say about me
now that I know I have spent years loving a monster?
Worse, I feel so bloody
guilty. Not just because maybe if I’d realised what he was I could have saved a
woman. No, the guilt’s mainly because I keep thinking about myself: what this
means for me; how my life has been torn apart and everything
is
a lie; how devastated I am.
And how I’m going to be
stigmatised forever because of my connection with that man, when I haven’t even
done anything wrong.
I’m being punished for being a bloody idiot. I’m
scared.
How can I possibly think of
myself when Daryl’s victims have been through so
much.
Stupid, selfish bitch, that’s me. Maybe that’s why I deserve what’s happening.
My parents keep saying to me:
‘you’re strong, you’ll get through this.’ How? I don’t bloody feel strong. I
feel like I’m falling apart. I’ve fallen apart. I’ve not just been shattered
into a million pieces, those pieces have then been ground down into dust and
scattered to the four winds. I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.
Kim, who still calls me
every night, tells me continuously: ‘At least you didn’t have children with
him.’
As though it’s some consolation.
But you know
what? As awful as it sounds, as sick and evil as he is, I wish we had had kids.
With a child, I’d have something to focus on, a reason to keep going.
Someone to pour all my love into.
Instead I’m all adrift.
I’m lost. I’m drowning. I’m definitely feeling sorry for myself, selfish cow.
I keep thinking about my doppelganger,
who is now expecting Daryl’s child - hell, maybe she’s even had it now. Is it
wrong that mixed with the pity and admiration I felt for her, there was just
the tiniest hint of jealousy.
I know
,
it’s disgusting of me. I’m disgusted with myself. And what makes it worse is
that I’m lying, even to myself.
Because it wasn’t the tiniest
twinge of envy.
It was a big, heart-squeezing, breath-taking surge.
Totally unexpected, totally unwanted, but there all the same.
And I can never admit that,
not to anyone. They’d never understand, they’d judge me, they’d think that I
sympathised with Daryl at some level. I don’t. I’m disgusted by him, by what he
did.
But…a baby.
A beautiful baby.
I didn’t realise how much I wanted one until the chance was snatched away from
me.
The reality is I’ll probably
never have a child now. I’m 32. I will probably never trust another man. Even
if I do, it will take a long, long time. By then years will have passed.
Precious years in fertility stakes.
The older I get, the
less chance there is I’ll conceive.
Chances are I will never,
ever have a baby. I’ll never know what it’s like to feel a life growing inside
me, to get that much talked of rush of maternal love when I hold my child in my
arms for the first time. I’ll never have that heady mix of love and fear
watching my child grow up and go into the world, through nursery, school,
dating,
all that life has to offer. A whole chunk of what it
is to be a woman will forever be alien to me.
And all the time, that
fucking rapist bastard has a child. So yes, I’m jealous.
Thursday 18
He’s sent me a visiting
order. Daryl. (I’ve noticed that I’ve stopped using his name. But it tastes bad
in my mouth when I say it, clagging it up like a dry cracker so that I can’t
speak or swallow; I even had to force myself to write it down just now.)
Perhaps I should go and see him. Ask him why?
I’ve killed an entire day
standing in the hallway staring at the order then putting it down, walking
away, coming back and starting all over again.
Sometimes I mix it up by
putting it in the bin, then picking it out again.
Monday 22
Kevin called today. I’ve
been sacked.
Too much time off work, apparently.
‘We’ve been as understanding
as we can be, but your absences have reached an untenable level, and this
situation has been on-going for almost twelve months now,’ he said. He sounded
like he was reading from a script Human Resources had given him.
As I so often do, I went to
anxiously twirl my wedding ring, my right hand fluttering away uselessly as I
once again discovered it is no longer there.
Kevin continued. ‘In
addition, when you have been present your work has not been up to the standard
required by this company, and as stated in your contract of employment. As
such, I am afraid I have no choice but to inform you that your employment is
being terminated with immediate effect.’
‘Okay, thank you,’ I
croaked, my voice husky from lack of use, then put the phone down. No point
arguing with him, he has a fair point.
I couldn’t afford the house
with just my wage. Now I have no wage. I should be getting worried and worked
up about this. I should, but the good old numbness stops me. Oh dear.
I shuffled through to the
hallway and stopped by the little table where I keep the post (well, the post
that isn’t obscene or threatening) and stared at the visiting order. Picked it
up, twirled it in my fingers, then put it down again and shuffled away.
Kim called as soon as she’d
put Henry to bed, having heard the news of my sacking on the work grapevine. As
usual lately, when I tried to change the subject on to her and what she’s been
up to, she let the conversation slide away.
Am I losing her friendship
as well? My world is shrinking, soon the only people I will speak to are my
parents, bless them.
Sunday 28
Mum’s come to stay for a few
days. She and Dad are worried about me (still). They say I should be angry,
that I should be expressing my emotions. But apart from scared, I don’t know
how I feel.
I did hide the visiting
order though. Mum would go crazy if she saw it. I dread to think what she might
kick apart this time, and I really can’t afford to replace all my furniture.
Sarcasm aside,
bless
her for coming to stay with me, in the heart of the
whirlwind of madness. I’ve tried to protect her as much as possible from what’s
going on, of course, but it’s impossible. She and Dad are suffering the looks,
the whispers, the abusive phone calls (and worse, the silent ones) almost as
much as me. How anyone can hold a pair of 63-year-olds responsible for what’s
happened is beyond me.
Most things are beyond me
though.
Mum didn’t even need to ring
the doorbell when she arrived, she was heralded by cameras clicking as she
walked up the garden path, their flashes epilepsy-inducing, and the cry of
journalists shouting questions. They all yell at once and I can’t make out half
of what they’re saying to me.
They’ve so many questions,
how do they think of them all? Don’t they ever get tired of asking and never
getting an answer? Or have they never grown up, and like children they can ask
for all eternity it feels: ‘Why?
But…why?
Why?’ It’s
amazing the stuff they ask.
They all call me by my first
name, too, as though trying to prove that really they’re my mate and if I open
my heart to them they’ll look after me. I can trust them, they’re saying.