I slumped down onto the cream leather sofa from a great height, the cushions giving a puffy, huffy sigh as the air was forced from them. Kim offered to cook me some food, but I refused. Then she offered to get me a drink. I didn’t refuse that.
I cupped the large vodka and tiny tonic in my hands, watching the liquid quiver and realising I hadn’t stopped shaking all day. Certainly my world had been shaken apart, so maybe my body would be next. I took a big gulp.
‘Hey, I can’t taste the vodka,’ I said, confused. ‘Did you put any in?’
‘I put in enough to poleaxe an elephant. You’re in shock,’ she said simply, squeezing my shoulder.
I nodded. It made sense, I suppose, though I’d never realised before that shock even affected tastebuds. Whatever, I took another big gulp. But what was the point when I couldn’t taste it, couldn’t feel it warming me and relaxing me. I knocked it back anyway and didn’t so much as grimace – I’ve seen people in films do that and laughed at how unrealistic it is because you can’t help but shudder if you take a massive, burning glug of a spirit, but now I realise how completely accurate it is. Shock has robbed me of everything, even my ability to taste. Nothing will ever be normal again.
As I put the empty tumbler on the glass coffee table, I frowned. I’d spent ages finding that and a matching dining table, which was just like one Daryl had seen in a magazine and announced he wanted. He’d barely even noticed when I’d tracked them down and proudly shown him, had just smiled in a vague way and muttered ‘very nice’. What was I doing thinking about something like that at a time like this? It annoyed the hell out of me, as though I was somehow linking his ingratitude with his ability to be a killer.
‘Where’s Daryl now?’ Kim asked. Filling the silence between us. Quiet as the grave, they say. It feels like someone has died.
‘Still being questioned. I’ve got to find a solicitor from somewhere I suppose. I…I don’t know what to do or how to do it or…anything.’
‘I’ll help. Everyone will help. I’ve got to go and fetch Henry from my mum’s right now though. Are you going to be okay alone? I don’t want to leave you. Shall I call your mum and dad?’
I let her, while I stared at the pale blue swirls on the cream rug as though I wanted to wear the pattern away through sheer force of will. Then I felt a hand on my wrist, shocking me from my reverie and making me look up.
‘Will you be okay?’ asked Kim again. ‘I’ve called your parents; you mum is setting off right now, but it’ll still be a couple of hours before she arrives.’
Mum would have to drive from Cambridge; it was a journey she hated and I was suddenly surprised that she was doing it. Wow, things must be bad - things must be as bad as I think they are – for her to brave that.
Kim was staring at me, waiting for an answer. I made myself nod, act normal.
‘Okay, well, I’ve got to go,’ Kim continued gently. Then she hesitated, mouth twitching before finally speaking again. ‘Do…do you think there’s anything to these allegations?’
I don’t know. I don’t. And I hate that I don’t. I should be rushing round like a headless chicken, defending his name to all and sundry. Why aren’t I? Because there is the tiniest sliver of doubt and I feel awful for it, but maybe this is why I’ve felt for a while that something isn’t right, and I can’t believe myself, can’t believe my betrayal of the man I love, and how could I love someone who was capable of something like that, and what does it say about me if he did, and what does it say about me if he didn’t and I’m sat here with a sliver of doubt slicing at my heart and soul, and I don’t want to think about this, am not capable of dealing with this, I want to lie down and go to sleep, I want to watch Coronation Street and worry about what to cook for dinner, I want everything to be normal again, I want it to be yesterday, I want to be me, bored and wishing something exciting would happen, I want…
But of course I can’t admit that to anyone. So instead I said: ‘Of course there’s nothing to this! It’s all a horrible mistake. And I’m going to do everything I can to clear his name – then we’ll sue the arse off the police for this. They can’t be allowed to get away with it.’
She looked at me for what can only have been a few heartbeats but seemed to last forever. What was in that gaze? So calm, so steady. It felt like she was making her mind up about something. The moment passed, she nodded, hugged me tight, then promised to come back as soon as she could, as soon as she’d sorted Henry.
Afraid to be left alone, I found myself calling anyone and everyone I could think of, even Amy and Hannah. Even as I repeated the words ‘arrested…rape…murder’ again and again, I still felt detached from everything and sort of calm whilst strangely agitated. I don’t know how to describe it, how to explain that two completely warring feelings can control a person all at once. The closest thing I can describe it as is the way plunging your hand into an icy lake would feel like it was both freezing and burning you, two opposite things happening at once.
Amy was amazing. I was surprised by that. ‘Oh my God! I’m in the middle of Tesco with a trolley full of shopping,’ she babbled. ‘Look, I’ll just…there, I’ve just dumped it in the aisle; I can get a bus to you and be with you in what…30 minutes. Okay? I’ll be with you in half an hour. Will you be okay until then? Just sit tight until then.’
Hannah’s phone went straight to answerphone but I left a message, my voice suddenly breaking where before it had been so strong. Weird. Maybe it was the incongruity of leaving such a voicemail for someone. ‘Something’s happened to me and Daryl. I really need all my friends right now. Please call me as soon as you get this…please.’
In the end, within the hour I had Amy, Una and her husband Andy, and Kim round at mine. Almost a party. Or a wake. Together we talked about Daryl, about the charges, about how crazy it was. Yet somehow people seemed to lack the passionate conviction I needed from them.
By the time mum arrived I felt annoyed by everyone and just wanted to be left alone. I lay down in the bedroom, curled up like a baby, and tried to sleep but couldn’t even close my eyes. How could I relax in that room when last time I’d been in there people had forced their way in and…
Feeling like a lost soul, I wandered back into the living room, hovering uncomfortably, as if this wasn’t my own home.
‘What does Daryl’s mother make of this, love?’ asked Mum. Christ! I’d forgotten about her; she didn’t even know!
Well, that phonecall was a barrel of laughs. She was funny from the start, but then I always find Cynthia a cold fish, but instead of biting I ploughed straight on with the news…
‘Now you don’t need to worry, I’m certain it’s going to be sorted out quickly,’ I fibbed. ‘But the fact is Daryl’s been arrested.’
I paused, expecting a reaction. A gasp of shock at the very least. Instead there was silence.
‘Hello?’ I checked.
‘Yes, I’m still here, dear,’ came the reply. ‘Why has my son been arrest?’
Cold bitch. She must have to defrost her knickers every night when she gets undressed.
‘The police have made an awful mistake,’ I replied, just about keeping my temper in check. ‘They think he’s attacked someone, a woman, but we’re sorting it out. I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Attacked a woman? In what way exactly?’ Still her voice sounded steady as a rock. It was as if she was asking me what depot Daryl was driving to or something.
‘Well…I didn’t want to say the details…but as you ask…ummm, rape.’
‘I see. Well they must have evidence of some sort. No smoke without fire.’
I shook myself, stunned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘They must have a reason why they think he did it, dear,’ Cynthia replied. ‘I have to go now, I’m afraid. Goodbye.’
‘Umm, bye.’
Unbelievable. Poor Daryl, having a mother like that. No wonder he’s a funny devil sometimes.
My mum on the other hand was great, actually. She even call
ed the police station to try and find out what was going on, and she’s so shy that she normally hates calling people she doesn’t know. In fact, I think at some point every one of us called the station to discover when Daryl would be released. The only thing we were told was that they’d been granted permission to extend the time they could question him.
That can’t be good news, can it…?
So now I face another day of uncertainty. I’m exhausted, I haven’t slept in what feels like forever, I can’t think. Please God, let the madness stop.
12.30pm – Still no news. Feel like I’m going mad. I’m trying to remember something, anything that can prove Daryl didn’t do these crimes. Nothing so far. But I’ve taken my diary to the station where I was questioned and handed it over; maybe something in there will help. I tried to see Daryl, but they wouldn’t even tell me which station he’s being held at, said he was ‘still helping with enquiries’.
I didn’t realise, but they’ve taken the rig too, so they can run tests, search it for evidence, or whatever it is they need to do. Fingers crossed they will find proof that he is innocent – a receipt, maybe, to show he was nowhere near when the crimes occurred.
6pm – It’s the worst news. I can’t, I can’t deal with this, I can’t process this, I can’t react. Daryl has been charged. Amy and everyone came round again after work, and she called the police station about 40 minutes ago and we got the news. Despite me calling incessantly, somehow I’ve missed the whole thing.
‘It’s up to him to call his wife and let her know he’s been charged,’ was what the duty sergeant told Amy to relay to me. Great. Well, I’d imagine Daryl had other things on his mind and maybe didn’t want to worry me!
So my husband has been charged, and apparently he’s already been to magistrate’s court late this afternoon and remanded to appear at Crown Court in a week’s time.
God, fancy having to face that alone, he must have been terrified as the crimes were read out: five counts of rape, one attempted rape, five assault by penetration, assault occasioning actual and grievous bodily harm, and one murder.
Amy had to write the list down, it was too big to remember, while I rocked back and forth on the sofa like some loony tunes person, moaning gently. When she handed it to me the paper was shaking so much I had to hold her hand in both of mine to keep it steady as I took in the words – but she pulled away from me as if I had acid for skin.
‘I knew it,’ she whispered. Her eyes were big, like a spooked horse’s, and she took tiny steps away from me as she shook her head and sent her long, crazy curls dancing.
She was scared of me, was so terrified she couldn’t drag her eyes from mine for one second in case I did something insane.
My stomach dropped. ‘Knew what?’ I’d already guessed the answer though.
‘That day Hannah and I came round, I knew he was evil. We saw something in his eyes. Gut instinct warned us. But I told myself I was being stupid, over-reacting, because how could you be married to him if he were like that…?’
Her voice was low but every word clear as a bell. She knew what she was saying. Still her eyes bored into mine, and I saw fear harden into anger. ‘This is the proof though. He’s raped. He’s murdered!’
This last word was almost screeched. It broke the spell holding everyone in place, suddenly people were all talking at once, rushing between me and her.
Kim’s voice rang out clearest over everyone else’s. ‘This isn’t proof, Amy. He’s been accused but we don’t know what’s happened. Whatever Daryl’s guilty of, you can’t seriously think she knew.’ She jerked her head in my direction.
I didn’t move a muscle, my throat so constricted I couldn’t swallow let alone speak. Let it all play out in front of me, knowing, knowing what was going to be said.
‘How could she not know? She’s his wife! He must have acted weird; there must have been some clues! If I could see it, why couldn’t she?’ Amy didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed her stuff up in both arms and ran from the room, from the house. The front door slammed, then silence.
There it was. She believed Daryl was guilty, and if he was then so was I. My horror rose, along with some bile. I swallowed down the bitter taste, trying to think.
Andy was next to break. He cleared his throat, Mr Reasonable after Amy’s hysterics. ‘The erm, the police wouldn’t charge Daryl unless they had some pretty hard evidence, surely? And he’s been denied bail…’
Una reached out gently and touched his arm. ‘People are found innocent in court sometimes you know. Innocent until proven guilty and all that,’ she said to him, then looked at me. ‘But look, you probably need a bit of time alone to process this bombshell. We’d best go too, don’t want to leave the grandparents looking after Jacob for too long, he’ll be getting antsy soon. You know what five-year-olds are like!’ She laughed, then realised her mistake and left it hanging in the air.
I swallowed quickly, my mouth suddenly full of saliva. ‘Yes, yes, you’d best go home,’ I replied thickly. Hugged her goodbye. As they drove away I ran to the loo, stomach heaving, and threw up.
I’ll never see them again, I bet. If friends believe he’s guilty then what will the rest of the world think? What will a jury think?
What will everyone think of me?
I’m scared.
No, we’ll get through this, we’ll be fine because there’ll be a trial and no one will find him guilty because he isn’t guilty.
Tuesday 14
Normal life is completely suspended until this…mistake is over. Yesterday, on top of everything else, I had to call my boss and explain that I was taking a couple of days off for personal reasons. He wasn’t pleased about it until I said I’d suffered a bereavement – that’s what it feels like so the lie came quickly and easily to me. Normally I’m so bad at fibbing, I get tongue-tied and my brain doesn’t seem to work fast enough; only afterwards do I think: ‘ooh, I should have said so and so, that would have been great. Why didn’t I think of it at the time?’
So my boss swallowed the lie…until the newspapers came out today.
Daryl’s name and picture everywhere (where the hell did they get the photo?!) there was even information about him: his job, the fact he’s married, even the street we live on. I’m just appalled they’ve done that. What if some weirdo actually thinks he’s done all these things and comes round to the house to get revenge? I feel scared in my own home now. Thanks a bunch, my life wasn’t crappy enough already.
They’ve given Daryl a moniker too. The newspapers. I should have seen it coming really, I mean, they always name people. Sometimes cool, sometimes eerie, sometimes a bit silly, but the name the papers give is the one that becomes synonymous with the crimes. Think about it. The Moors Murderers. The Night Stalker. The M25 rapist. The Suffolk Strangler. It seems like giving the label is almost as important as finding out the perpetrator’s real name. More important in fact, as it takes them a step away from humanity, from us normal people, in the same way that a superhero’s catchy name does.
If Batman had just gone around permanently as plain old Bruce Wayne no one would have taken him seriously. ‘Bruce, stop wearing that silly utility belt and whizzing round in that fast car, you’ll get yourself killed,’ pals would have nagged. Because he’d have been normal, see. But give him a cool name, Batman, and he’s capable of anything, because he clearly isn’t like the rest of us. He’s capable of much, much greater things.
Well, I reckon that’s why the need is so great to label killers, rapist, and ‘baddies’. To show that they aren’t one of us, either, and that’s why they are capable of doing such terrible, twisted deeds.
So, Daryl isn’t Daryl any more. He’s The Port Pervert. Does it make it any easier for me to deal with? I’m not sure. Part of me feels relieved. He’s not the man I loved any more, he the Port Pervert. How could I have known what he was up to when no one else guessed either?
Look at the way Clark Kent fooled Lois Lane for all those years, and he saved peop
le right in front of her face. It’s so easy to be taken in by a secret identity when you’re right in the middle of it – but of course the people on the outside can see it so clearly. How many times have people rolled their eyes at the TV screen while Lois once again failed to notice that Clark and Superman are never in the room together, and that they look exactly the same? I feel sorry for her. Because I’ve been fooled too. And now the world is shouting at me, not the telly, screaming: ‘How could you not have noticed? How stupid are you?!’
If he really is guilty, the answer is ‘monumentally’.
I don’t know the Port Pervert, I know my husband, I know Daryl. If he hurt these women then I never really knew him at all. All those shared memories built up over nine years together are nothing. Lies, lies, lies. Can I believe that nine years of my life was spent with a stranger? I can’t, it’s madness. These accusations just don’t sound right to me. Amy’s right about one thing: if he had done these awful crimes I’d have seen something, known. You can’t be that close to someone and not know what they’re capable of.
So no, I don’t believe my husband is the Port Pervert.
Bless him, he must be so scared. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if the police hadn’t released me. Thinking of being locked up in that horrible cell makes me shiver all over again. That’s why he didn’t call me, I’m sure, not because he didn’t want to let me know what was happening, not because he didn’t long to hear my voice, but because he was trying to protect me from worry. I’m desperate to speak to him; as soon as I hear his voice I’ll feel better, more confident that things really will turn out okay in the end.
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