Right now I feel lost.
There’s no time to feel sorry for myself though. There’s so much to think about, but the first thing I have to sort is a lawyer for Daryl. One of those top flight ones, like you see on telly…but I’m not exactly sure how you go about getting one.
I started with Yellow Pages. Called all the ones in there; it took forever.
It’s not exactly the kind of thing I’m used to doing, explaining that my fella’s in the clink. I was so nervous I’d jotted down a few notes so I wouldn’t forget anything, and launched into the explanation as soon as the first person answered the phone.
‘Umm, hello! I’ve – my husband – well, he’s been arrested – we were arrested – you might have seen it on telly - they barged in at 3am – the police, I mean – and now they’ve charged him with,’ quick glance at notes, ‘five counts of rape, attempted rape, assault by penetration, assault occasioning actual and grievous bodily harm, and one murder – they can’t, well, they can, but they can’t – well, you know – so I need someone for him – for court - can you help?’
‘You want a criminal lawyer,’ sighed a woman. ‘We only do family law; it does say so in the advert.’
Did it? Yeah, actually, when I checked it did indeed. ‘But this is kind of family law, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Our little family, mine and Daryl’s, is being ripped apart by the police’s mistake.’
Mum and Dad (he’s taken some time off work and arrived this morning) gave me an encouraging thumbs up, as out of their depth as me in all this.
‘You want a criminal lawyer,’ the woman repeated down the phone, sounding bored. ‘Goodbye.’ The dialling tone sounded as she hung up. Well, sorry my humdrum little problem of my life falling apart was so sodding dull for her.
Still, it taught me a lesson. From then on I read the ads better before ringing. After a couple of goes I even stopped gabbling and was able to encapsulate the problem in seconds, not minutes. ‘I need a criminal lawyer; my husband has been arrested for rape and murder,’ seemed to cover it.
By the end I was exhausted and my voice a little croaky from over-use. Mum offered to take over, but I refused. This is my problem.
She made me a cup of tea afterwards, the hot liquid soon soothing my throat as I curled up on my big, squishy armchair. She sat down at the end of the sofa closest to me, at a right angle to me, with her knees almost touching mine.
‘Umm, your father and I would like a word,’ she said. On cue Dad walked into the room then, looking sheepish but determined as he sat beside her. They both leaned forward intently. I felt like a little girl about to be gently told off for letting go of their hand and wandering off while shopping.
‘Don’t be annoyed…but are you sure you want to stand by Daryl?’ asked Mum. I opened my mouth to argue but she raised her voice just slightly and continued as kindly as she could at the increased volume. ‘I mean, what if he’s guilty, love? Have you thought about that? You’ve seen the way your friends have reacted…’
‘Mum, it’s fine. This will be sorted out soon. He’ll be home in a couple of days, probably,’ I insisted.
‘We’re worried for you, love,’ said Dad. He sounded like a gruff bear in a kids’ cartoon; he doesn’t do touchy feely emotional stuff much. In fact, he doesn’t really talk much, thinking about it. My dad has been a silent man, quietly getting on with his life of work, gardening, and reading the newspaper. Sometimes he disappears into his shed for hours and tinkers with bits of wood or something; and as I gazed at him now I realised…I don’t really know him much.
In fact, as Mum and Dad talked on, I found myself staring at them and trying to think about them as people instead of My Parents. I don’t know them. I don’t know their innermost secrets and desires. I don’t know what makes them tick. For instance, there must be more to Mum than an ability to listen to me whine about life while making sympathetic noises, a gift for baking seriously nice cakes, and a penchant for kitsch stuff (and not in an ironic way). But if there is, I don’t actually know what…
They’re both so quiet, so accepting of life. Maybe that’s where I get it from, my inability to question things, or to speak up for myself. We’re more a stoic, put-up-and-shut-up kind of family.
Anyway, eventually they stopped talking and I carried on staring at them until the silence became really quite awkward, and finally I cleared my throat and said: ‘I’ll definitely think about what you’ve said. Honest.’ Of course I can’t though, because I wasn’t listening.
Oh, and before I called those solicitors I gave my boss another bell. Told the truth.
‘Oh! Oh gosh, that’s terrible,’ Kevin said, pretending to be surprised. ‘Take all the time off you need, call me next week.’ He couldn’t get off the phone from me fast enough, had clearly seen the news.
Still, it’s one less thing for me to worry about.
Wednesday 15
Great day, not. I woke with my face buried in Daryl’s pillow convinced I was snuggled up beside him, to the sound of something thumping against the front door. Eggs and shit were what I discovered had been chucked when I opened it; they smeared the paint, creating a stinking, gelatinous mess.
Someone had also spray painted ’scum’ in massive letters on the side of the house. It took me and my parents ages to scrub the graffiti off (the shitty mix on the front door came away easily though, so that was something) and as we worked Clare from next door appeared on her doorstep, arms folded.
‘Disgusting,’ she tutted.
‘I know,’ I smiled apologetically. ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it.’
‘Not that,’ she sneered. ‘You. You’re disgusting and so’s that husband of yours. You should both be locked up for life. Scum!’
Her husband, John, appeared beside her, alerted by her increasingly shrill voice, and grabbed her shoulders, dragging her inside.
‘Don’t give her the satisfaction, babe,’ he said to her.
‘Oy, was this you?’ demanded Dad, pointing to the remains of the mess. The only answer he got was the sound of their front door slamming shut. Ears burning, I carried on scrubbing…
Later, still furious, I sat on the sofa clutching my usual early morning coffee (see, even in this mess, some things never change, some routines are still adhered to) and fantasised about chucking the mug across the room. Hearing the jangling explosion as it hit the wall, seeing it shatter into splinters and shards. God, that would be so satisfying.
Then I thought about having to clear it up. Knowing my luck I’d cut myself. And the coffee would definitely stain the cream carpet, so then I’d have to spend ages scrubbing it with carpet shampoo and I’d be annoyed at myself for ever throwing it. Rage rarely achieves anything, I find, apart from make a mess you later regret.
Still, I couldn’t shake the anger. Then inspiration struck. I decided to call up one of the newspapers that had printed my address and tear a strip off them. I hunted down a number, and as soon as I said who I was I got put through to the writer whose name was on the piece. I felt rather smug about that; clearly they’d realised their error and are going to take my complaint seriously.
‘My life’s been ruined by this. People have attacked my home,’ I pointed out, describing what had happened that morning. ‘Daryl’s innocent, but if you keep printing your lies people will start believing it. You can’t keep printing my address, it’s disgraceful.’
‘Well we have to give the street name in case someone else of the same name lives in the town; we wouldn’t want people mixing them up with a criminal, would we?’ the reporter replied.
‘But Daryl isn’t a criminal! He’s innocent!’ I flung back. I said a bunch of other stuff too, and the reporter actually seemed really nice and listened to everything I had to say.
‘We’ll definitely run a piece putting across your point of view,’ she promised.
‘With an apology?’ I pressed.
‘I’ll certainly be mentioning it to the editor.’ Excellent!
Minutes lat
er I heard the soft snap of the letterbox. When I saw what had arrived, I was stunned – it was a letter from Daryl. My hands shook as soon as I saw his writing. Couldn’t help hoping that maybe this was it, the thing that would explain everything away and prove this is a terrible mistake.
I was so dead keen to get into the letter that I tore the envelope diagonally, ripped it apart. This is what it said:
‘Hi Gorgeous, You are the only angel in this seething cesspit. Do not ever get tainted by my shit, you are well above me. I admire you so much. I wish I could be like you. In so many ways I am better for having known you. No matter what, I did and do love you and I have never deserved you. I so wish I could have. If you should ever need anything it’s yours, All my love, Daryl xxxx.’
At the end of it was the prison’s date stamp. So, at least I know where he is now.
This is the first contact I’ve had with him since the police burst into our home. So of course I’ve read it over and over, analysing every word for their obvious meaning first, then the hidden ones behind them. Sometimes I think it’s a goodbye note, others an apology, or maybe he’s just sad…?.
I don’t really think there is much of a hidden message though, Daryl was never that good with words, and this is surprisingly eloquent. He must have spent a long time putting it together. Then again what do I know; maybe I don’t know the bloke at all.
No, mustn’t think like that. Bad wife. Bad wife!
The thing that gets me is…there’s no denial. Not even a hint of denial. Instead he just goes on about me. Bless him, because he really is innocent it doesn’t even occur to him that he’d have to deny anything to his own wife. What a cow I am, what a horrible person for allowing myself even that transitory moment of doubt.
The more I read it the note, the more hopeless and helpless he sounded. I cried, imagining him in a cold, grey prison cell from Dickensian times, hunched over as he wrote this note.
Poor, poor Daryl. I hate myself for entertaining even for a second a tiny bit of doubt about him. If he’s so evil, how did I manage to escape his clutches? Why did he choose to settle down with me and have a normal life for nine years? It’s daft; a weirdo pervert would never act like that. Imagine how cold and calculating you’d have to be to pull off something like that; impossible!
Well at least I’ll be able to see him soon. In a post script he let me know he’ll be appearing in Crown Court on Monday 20th to request bail. Please, please, please let him get it….
I can’t sleep in that bloody bedroom either. The memory of the raid is too strong, too traumatic. As soon as I close my eyes images of it flash, like blotches of colour against closed eyelids after you’ve accidentally glanced at the sun.
Instead I drag the duvet and pillows into the lounge, curl up on the sofa, watch telly until exhaustion takes me for an hour or so, surrounded by the smell of Daryl. Links Africa, diesel and him.
3am – Dad’s unplugged the landline. From 11pm the phone started ringing constantly. When I answered it, it was horrible. People shouting disgusting abuse at me – men and women – screaming that I’m a murderer, scum, sick, twisted, that I got off on Daryl’s crimes, and I deserve to burn in hell. I’m speechless. Do people really think that? The worst calls though were the silent ones. I could tell someone was there, listening to me listening to them. Somehow that scared me more than the spewing abuse.
‘Don’t answer it, love,’ urged Mum, trying to hold me back after the phone rang for the umpteenth time.
‘I have to,’ I whispered, voice hoarse from tension. I couldn’t leave the phone just ringing. It wasn’t simply that the noise did my head in, it was more that I needed to hear what they had to say. Needed to torture myself, like a kid picking a scab.
The funny thing is, I didn’t even cry. I just sat silently, numb, taking whatever the callers had to throw at me. That’s probably what disconcerted my parents the most.
Finally, Dad didn’t give a word of warning, simply stood up, walked over to the phone socket and unclipped the lead. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said calmly, then walked from the room.
Thursday 16
What a bloody idiot! I stared at the newspaper headline that Dad had shoved under my nose, and blinked a couple of times as if I could somehow make it disappear. Tearing a strip off the newspaper has made things a hundred thousand billion times worse. What was I thinking? Sat there all smug, feeling like I’d finally taken control of the situation when actually…
‘I’ll stand by my man,’ vows Port Pervert’s wife. That was the headline on the front page. The front bloody page! Then there was a load of stuff about how I’m ‘claiming’ he is innocent. The way they’ve written it, I sound delusional, hysterical, my arguments making no sense at all… The quotes are accurate enough it’s the stuff in between that’s the problem; it’s so clever the way they’ve twisted it all and given it their own spin. They didn’t say anything about me being victimised with malicious calls. And they printed my street name again.
I’ve made things worse. I’ve made them so much worse. I didn’t think it was possible. Why won’t anyone listen to me? I feel ignored, forgotten, unimportant. How can I be unimportant when it’s MY LIFE that’s turning to shit? My husband’s in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, my friends want nothing to do with me, my parents think I’m insane for sticking by Daryl, and to top it off I look like I’ve been positively boasting to the national newspapers.
Mum suggested I call that solicitor, Peter Simpson, and see if he could help me because he’d been so great when I was arrested.
‘Last time I tried to take control and do something I made them worse, remember?’ I said, brandishing the newspaper like a weapon.
Dad cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think you can make them any worse.’ Fair point.
So I called Peter. I’ve an appointment to see him tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
The heat in the house was starting to feel oppressive, and I automatically walked over to a window to open it, then realised I didn’t dare in case someone shouted something obscene or chucked something. As for setting foot in the garden to cool off…it’s out of bounds now that my neighbours hate me. I feel too self-conscious; can see their curtains twitching the minute I step outside. I’m trapped figuratively and literally in my life.
With so much going on, it’s hard to imagine that there’s any room left in my head to think about Daryl. Sounds selfish, but in a way I wish that were true. The reality is that, of course, he’s on my mind constantly. It’s like there is a little background monologue running all the time, which can be heard in my brain no matter what else I’m thinking or doing: How’s he doing? How’s he feeling? How’s he coping? What if he gets picked on in prison? Sometimes he’s bolshie, sometimes he’s such an introverted little boy, which way will he go in there; which will help him survive best? Why hasn’t he called me…?
Then there all the times I catch myself forgetting for a split second and automatically thinking ‘must tell Daryl that’, or ‘must ask Daryl to sort this’, or even ‘God, I need a hug’. Or my mobile will ring and I’ll for the briefest instant feel that excitement as I assume it’s Daryl. Then I remember. That’s when my stomach drops like I’m on a rollercoaster and I sometimes gasp out loud as I realise all over again where he is and what is happening.
Why hasn’t he tried to call me even? I can only think it’s because he is too scared himself and needs time to sort his head out because he’ll think he has to be strong for me. He needs time to create that front. I’ve tried calling the prison to see if I can be put through to him, but have been told repeatedly that it isn’t possible. It’s silly that in the midst of all else that is going on, I’m hurt by the lack of contact.
Still, only a few more days until I see him, even if it is only in a court room. Hopefully he’ll get bail and be coming home with me. Can’t wait. Literally cannot wait.
Friday 17
This morning I opened up my curtains to discover journalists had sprung up like
mushrooms overnight and are now permanently on the pavement outside the house. Nothing surprises me any more though. I think there’s only so much stress and ‘stunning’ a person can take before they just go ‘wow, another bag of crap thrown at me. Okay, cool,’ and simply carry on regardless.
I already can’t think, can’t eat, can’t sleep, my body aches constantly from my muscles being always held tense, the skin round my eyes and cheeks hurts because it is chapped from so many tears (I didn’t know that was physically possible, but lucky me, I’ve discovered it is) and even my eyeballs throb.
I traipsed away from the window with a sigh, thinking about how the neighbours will hate me even more now, and went to the bathroom and cleaned my teeth. As I spat into the sink, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and literally didn’t recognise myself. I don’t look like me any more, and not just because I’ve already lost half a stone from stress; it’s more the haunted, hunted look in the eyes that’s changed me.
This time last week I was me. A bored wife hoping something exciting would happen to her. Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.
For the first time this week though, I washed my hair, brushed it neatly, and carefully chose something smart to wear. The pencil skirt hangs a little loose now, the waist resting on my hips instead thanks to the weight-loss, but it looked fine. I even put on some make up. Not that I give a toss what I look like, but somehow seeing a solicitor feels like something I should make an effort for.
Then I kissed my parents goodbye (they were too afraid to come outside with me) and opened the front door... So many camera flashes went off it was like the strobe effect in a bad nightclub. Half blinded, I put my arm up across my face to keep out the light and scurried to the car as best I could in the stupid skirt; in my hurry my ankle going over painfully in the ridiculous heels I’d decided to wear.
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