Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  That was clear, by now we were on our fifth go round the roundabout and I was starting to feel a bit ill. Luckily, the female driver took a punt on one of the roads next time round and turned out she was right, according to the directions they got over the radio seconds later.

  You’d think I’d have been angry, or trying to figure out what all this was about. But honestly? I wasn’t. I think I’d kind of shut down. All I knew was I was really, really scared and nervous, but just thought everything would work out in the end because, well, I’m innocent. I speed occasionally, I once drove without realising my tax had run out…and then carried on driving for a week or so knowing it had run out because I didn’t have two pennies to rub together…but aside from that, I’ve always been law abiding. I don’t even drop litter, disgusting habit.

  I hoped Daryl wasn’t getting too angry, hoped he was okay. He’d be spitting feathers, and quoting all kinds of rights at the officers. He’d sort this mess out quick smart, I knew, I just hoped he didn’t start threatening to sue them and getting up their nose. I wanted this over as quickly as possible and if he annoyed them they might drag their heels just to spite him. You get further being nice, I always find.

  Once we’d found the huge police station, we parked up at the back and I was led inside through a grey, depressing concrete passageway. I looked round but couldn’t see Daryl anywhere and just tried to avoid anyone else’s eye. God knows what those people were being questioned for, and the last thing I wanted was to have some hard nut think I was staring at them.

  Instead I just kept my eyes on the floor, and once again tried to stop the shaking, especially as now I had to sign things. I don’t even know what it was I was signing – it was all explained to me, and I was asked if I understood, and I definitely nodded but, come on, who understands in those circumstances. I reckon only the guilty would be able to keep a clear enough head to start asking about terms and conditions.

  ‘Hand over your jewellery, shoes and belt, please,’ ordered the duty sergeant.

  What? I just stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish or a cartoon character, before finally finding my voice. ‘Wh…?’ It came out a hoarse whisper and I cleared my throat, licked my dry lips, before trying again. ‘Why?’

  ‘To stop you using anything to harm yourself,’ he explained. He looked quite sorry for me as he said it. That meant a lot, that little show of humanity, and it gave me the courage to slip my shoes off then undo my belt and slide it through the guides.

  Only problem was, in the confusion I’d just slipped on what the policewoman had picked out for me and thrown on the bed, and she’d chosen my old jeans. They’re really big. Without a belt, I had to use one hand constantly to stop them falling down. They wouldn’t have gone all the way, of course, but I didn’t really want crims and coppers to see even the tops of my knickers. Mortifying.

  Like someone in a film, I found myself having my mugshot taken. ‘Face left, face front, face right,’ I was told, and I was so stupid-scared in case I annoyed the man by turning the wrong way in my muddle. Of all the things to be scared by.

  ‘Fingerprints next,’ said the officer. He wasn’t unkind, simply business-like. I suppose this was just another day in the office for him. Funny, how one person’s disaster, their life crashing down around their ears, can just be someone else’s dull, typical day. So over I shuffled, careful not to trip over the bottom of my jeans, which pooled on the floor round my socked feet despite me tugging them up.

  ‘Put your right hand onto the glass and press down gently,’ I was told. Doing as I was told, I saw a light from underneath scan across, like on a photocopier. No ink. I didn’t realise they didn’t ink fingers any more to get prints. I was oddly disappointed by that.

  Once I’d also rolled every individual finger and my thumb across the glass as well, and even done the side of my palm (why?!) I then held my trousers up with my right hand and repeated the whole process with my left.

  Finally, a DNA sample was taken. A little swab brushed against my cheek, like a Popsicle, while I stood with my mouth open, fighting the childish urge to go ‘ahhh’ like I would if a doctor were checking out my tonsils. Now there will be a little piece of me held on the nation’s database for all time.

  Then I was put in a cell. Actually locked up. The metal door clanged shut, I heard the key turn in the lock, then I was alone.

  The shaking, which had eased a bit, got worse again as I looked around that tiny little room. It wasn’t dirty, in fact it was surprisingly clean, and painted that special, industrial creamy yellow that institutions choose when they’re trying to be cheerful. Whose bright idea it was to pain a cell that colour I couldn’t tell you.

  My legs were feeling weak and wibbly, were starting to give out, so even though I didn’t want to sit on the thin mattress that was placed over the concrete ledge that clearly served as a bed, I finally let go of my jeans and perched on the very edge of it. Drew my socked feet up and balanced my heels on the edge too, wrapping my arms round my knees as I tried to take in the reality of the fact I was here in a police cell, having been arrested.

  ‘Daryl will sort it,’ I told myself. How was he doing, I wondered. Was he locked in a cell too, feeling sorry for himself?

  I couldn’t imagine it somehow, could more imagine him ranting at people. Or, actually now I’d thought of it the most likely scenario was that he’d smooth-talked the policemen, made friends with them, and was having a chat with them in reception right now, charming them. He could turn on the magic when he wanted. He’d probably forgotten about me and would remember in an hour or so, and fling open the door eventually, having a laugh about ‘my babe in a police cell!’

  I shifted uncomfortably as I thought. About two inches thick, the mattress wasn’t exactly comfy and my bum was starting to go numb but I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. I wanted as little physical contact as possible with anything in that room – I’d have hovered above the floor if I could.

  How long had I been in there? I’d no idea; they’d taken my watch and rings when they’d taken my shoes and belt. At one point I did stand and, clutching the waistband of my jeans, paced the cell to get the circulation moving again in my legs, stiff from sitting in one position for so long.

  The fear started to be eroded by boredom, which made room for a bit of anger at this stupid situation. Why was I even here? It made no sense. They should be speaking to me, trying to clear this mess up.

  For a moment I contemplated knocking on the door and asking to be dealt with – not in a nasty way, just in a firm manner. Pah, who was I kidding, there was no way I’d do something like that, it’s just not my style.

  Pressing as all this was, the police seemed in no hurry to clear things up and tell me what the hell was going on, and there were certain physical problems starting to rear their ugly head. Like, I started to need the loo.

  There was a little, low wall in the cell and I had a horrible feeling…yes, when I peered round it, there was a shiny, stainless steel toilet. I couldn’t use that! God knows who’d used it. Credit where credit’s due, it looked like it had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life – it positively sparkled – but even so, I baulked at the thought. Apart from the hygiene reason, what if an officer walked in as I was mid business? Didn’t bear thinking about.

  Such are the daft things that went through my head during this. Because as weird as things were, my life was still essentially the same at that moment. I’d no idea what was coming next. People talk about having their world torn apart and yes, that’s the closest description I can find for what happened.

  I’ve been arrested. And now I’ve worked myself up until I’m ready to tell why. Ready to write the words down and face them. No point hiding from them any more.

  Daryl is a rapist. A serial rapist who has attacked at least five women, and murdered one.

  Even though I’m staring at the words, this feels no more real. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I take it in? I’m still
in my bubble of shock, I think. I feel removed from it all, like I’m hiding in the corner of the room watching it all pan out and none of it really affects me. How do you deal with something like this? How do you accept that the man you love is vicious, twisted, evil and you didn’t even notice? How could I not have noticed?

  What do you do when you realise your whole life has been a lie? I don’t know. Somebody tell me, please.

  Monday 13

  It’s 6am. My mind is whirling too much to sleep, though I did manage an hour or so. My eyes feel full of grit, my head full of cotton wool. And my heart? I don’t know. I don’t know.

  But, as I keep replaying everything over and over in my head anyway, maybe it’ll help to write it down. Hell, it might even help me make sense of things, if that’s possible. There has to be some way of me getting a grip. So, here’s the rest of what happened on Saturday…

  When I was finally taken into the interview room I had no idea what to expect. There was a skinny man in there already, his incredibly thick, black hair stood up here and there like straw, even though I could tell he’d tried desperately to smooth it down, and he had the kind of stubble shadow on his pale face that is ever-present on very dark-haired men, even immediately after shaving.

  ‘Hi, I’m Peter Simpson, the duty solicitor who has been designated to represent you at this time. Are you happy with that or do you have your own solicitor you wish to contact?’ Business-like, but friendly.

  Despite his suit seeming too big for him, adding to the whole impression that he was young and new to this game, I somehow felt I could trust him. I nodded timidly.

  Then he told me why Daryl had been arrested. I shook my head, refusing to take it in. Patiently, he repeated the words, as though he was talking to a child. I just stared at my hands and continued to shake my head.

  ‘Do you realise why you’re here?’ he ploughed on. More head shaking. He continued: ‘You have been arrested as an accessory. The police think you may have helped him. But as far as I can tell there is no evidence to support that. I have to ask…did you?’

  My head shot up then and I looked into his eyes. ‘No!’ I replied. It was whispered but still had force behind it. ‘I would never hurt anyone. And neither would Daryl.’

  I stuck to that, even when a man I hadn’t seen so far walked in. I could tell from the way he held himself that he was in charge. He had that air, that confidence, bit like Daryl until you broke through the swagger to the scared child inside. Was this officer like that, I wondered?

  He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Baxter and the woman beside him was Detective Sergeant Chapman. Just like I’ve seen on telly, they explained about how the interview would be taped, gave the date and time, and my name, then the fun began.

  When I say fun, I’m being ironic.

  For the next goodness knows how many hours I was basically asked the same questions over and over again: Where were you on this date? Where was your husband on that date? What happened on the other date?

  ‘I’m really bad with things like this,’ I tried to explain. ‘If you asked me what I did yesterday I’d be hard pressed to remember.’

  Still they asked. So many dates, going all the way back from nine months right up until a few weeks ago.

  ‘Where were you on Tuesday the second of June this year?’ the DS asked.

  Automatically, I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t remember, but then I did. ‘Turkey! We were in Olu Deniz on a week’s holiday,’ I said triumphantly.

  At least I could help with that one, so didn’t feel completely useless. Ha! Daryl couldn’t have hurt anyone when he wasn’t even in the country.

  But judging from the way DI Baxter pursed his lips he still wasn’t happy, because then he just asked me tons of questions about the exact timing of every little thing we’d done while there. The more I tried to remember the more fuddled I seemed to get.

  ‘We went on a boat that day…or was that the day I just stayed round the pool...? No, no, we went on a boat to a beach called, ummm…’ I waved my hands, as if the whirring motion they made would help my brain turn a bit faster. Then I slumped.

  ‘I don’t remember the name of it, but it’s where the turtles lay their eggs,’ I said apologetically. ‘But if you really need to know all these things, I do have a diary. All the info will be in there.’

  That seemed to cheer the DS up, she seemed to sit a little straighter in her chair. The DI pursed his lips again though, drawing them together so that they reminded me of a dog’s bum. Still, I wanted to help, I really did, because this had to be one big mistake and the sooner we got it cleared up the faster Daryl and I could go back to our old lives. And Daryl could probably sue the police for wrongful arrest…

  After hours and hours of this, I was exhausted and still didn’t feel like I’d helped either the police or Daryl, although I had remembered a couple more of the dates they’d asked me about, just because it had been Daryl’s birthday and the like. I answered as honestly and fully as I could, but it’s not as easy as it looks on telly and I was still so scared – especially of saying the wrong thing.

  Then they start asking me about my love life! Does Daryl have any weird fetishes? Is he ever violent with me? Does he like it rough? Do I like it rough! Do we role play? It was mortifying. I wanted to be helpful but come on, some things are just off limits with strangers – what business was it of theirs what we did in private?

  ‘Everything is perfectly normal, thank you,’ I said primly.

  Which it is! Like I’m going to start telling them about his occasional problem getting it up, or anything else we do. Some of the questions though…they made me squirm with embarrassment. DS Chapman tried to make out like we were having some kind of girlie chat together instead of sitting in a windowless interview room that smelt vaguely of farts (either that or someone had been boiling sprouts in there. I think not.)

  ‘Come on, we’ve all been there; sometimes you go along with stuff your fella wants just for an easier life, even though it doesn’t really do it for you. Just agree and get it over with, eh? Like, maybe some kinky stuff,’ she said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way and nodding gently, presumably at her foolishness in the sack.

  ‘I-I don’t…no,’ I replied, confused.

  Why was she saying this stuff to me? I’m sorry, but what happens between me and my husband is private; it’s got nothing to do with anyone but us. I’m not one of those people who just tells all and sundry what I’ve been up to in bed. I don’t even go into details with Kim, for goodness sake, and she’s my closest friend!

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. Everything is fine and normal between us,’ I said. DI Baxter did his dog bum impression again.

  Finally the duty solicitor stepped in. ‘It seems clear to me that my client knows nothing more than she has already told you.’ And after a couple more minutes of waffling between the three of them a decision seemed to be made. Next thing I knew I was back at the reception desk signing yet another form to get my shoes and so on back.

  ‘Here’s a key to your place,’ said the duty sergeant. I took it and stared at him, confused. ‘New locks had to be fitted after they knocked your door in with the Big Red Key during the raid,’ he added.

  That just confused me even more. Big Red Key? But apparently that’s the police nickname for the battering ram they use.

  ‘Umm, what about my husband?’ I asked timidly. ‘Where is he? Is he coming home now too?’

  ‘He’s at a different station, still being questioned,’ came the swift reply. I just nodded and wandered outside feeling like I’d been hit over the head.

  Standing outside, the daylight seemed strange after leaving the house in the dark, then spending all that time in artificial light. I’d lost track of time. I looked around the car park, hoping for answers. Or at least a lift home. Stared at the big concrete building. It stared back, offering me nothing in reply to my questioning glance. So finally I turned and walked away, hands in m
y jeans pockets, towards the bus station.

  I felt tired, grubby, confused, terrified for Daryl…and distinctly annoyed at having been swept from my home only to be dumped in the middle of town, miles away. How was I supposed to get home? There were so many other, bigger things to worry about, but as everything else was out of my control I concentrated on the one thing I could solve. If only I’d thought to pick up my purse before leaving the house, but it hadn’t seemed a priority at the time.

  I’d never really thought about what happens to people after they’ve been arrested. I mean, I suppose the police are far too busy to be used as a taxi service but it does seem a bit much to take you out of your home by force, and not offer you a lift back.

  Finally I remembered about reverse charges calls, and found a working phonebox and rang Kim. Unable to face explaining everything to her, I simply said: ‘I need you to come get me. It’s an emergency, a proper emergency. Sorry to sound so dramatic but…’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ she replied quickly. Maybe it was my voice that made her realise, although I sounded very calm, I think.

  Perhaps I sounded too calm. I feel too calm. I feel like I am very brittle and will shatter if I start to cry or allow emotions to take over.

  We journeyed home in total silence. I did try to get my head together enough to explain, but…I just couldn’t find the words. It was mental. Finally, as we pulled up, I cleared my throat.

  ‘Erm, I’m not sure what the place will look like,’ I apologised. ‘The police raided us this morning, so they might have left a mess.’ Did they leave mess? Or did they tidy up after themselves? I’d no idea what to expect. Maybe they’d have helped themselves to all our goods and chattels in their crazy quest to find evidence.

  She nodded thoughtfully, then folded her hands in her lap. ‘Love, what’s going on?’ she asked.

  Time to spill the beans. She seemed to take it all in her stride. Maybe she didn’t and I just didn’t notice. I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. At some point we clambered from the car and into the house, the new lock slightly stiff. Aside from that, you’d never have guessed anything had happened here. A couple of splinters of wood were scattered across the brightly-striped welcome mat, and the front door’s white paint will need to be redone because there are some gashes on both sides of it… The police don’t seem to have taken anything from the house either, apart from some work clothes of Daryl’s and some shoes…and they’ve emptied the washing basket for some odd reason. Aside from that though, the place was pristine. It was surreal, as though the raid had been one of those very vivid dreams you have where you wake up thinking it’s real, feeling it’s real, but knowing it wasn’t.