Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  The detective did his by now familiar dog bum impression, pursing his lips. Ah, that brought back happy memories of the last time he and I had spoken, but I brushed off the revulsion, instead hoping this time I’d get help.

  ‘I’m aware of your father’s call last night and the subsequent package an officer picked up from your house,’ he nodded. ‘We’re taking these threats very seriously, and will be investigating. In the meantime, because of the nature of the threats we’re assigning protection officers to you.’

  ‘You are?’ I was stunned, relieved…but also kind of more scared. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, but I couldn’t help thinking: ‘Blimey, if the police are taking this seriously then there really is something to worry about. They don’t think this is just a sick joke; it’s real.’ Of course I’d known it was real, but now it was really real, sort of thing…

  ‘We’ll deploy plain clothes officers to be outside your home at all times,’ he said. ‘There will be two officers working 12-hour shifts, and we’ll try to keep to the same people as much as possible so that you get to know them by sight – it will help to put you at ease instead of worrying about who the strange people outside your house are.’

  Wow. I could have hugged him, aside from the rather massive matter of him wrongfully arresting Daryl and me.

  Back home and feeling safer already, Dad told me he’d organised for an alarm to be fitted. ‘He’s due any minute; I told him it was an emergency,’ he said.

  As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Dad opened it and a chipper-looking bloke with a scrubbed face and glowing cheeks managed a cheery smile despite his confused expression.

  ‘Hi, I’m Paul, here to fit your alarm,’ he said, bustling in. ‘What’s that lot all about then?’

  ‘The crowds of people?’ I asked. Stupidly. ‘They’re, umm, they’re here for me. That’s why we need the alarm.’

  ‘Ooookay,’ he frowned, nodding. He was only short, couldn’t have been much over 5ft 5in, but looked so capable that just his presence made me feel calmer and safer. I was in good hands, I was sure.

  ‘So, Mr…’ he glanced at the form on his clipboard, ‘…Miles, is this alarm for you? Can you sign just here for me, please?’

  ‘Er, no, it’s for my daughter,’ Dad explained.

  ‘Righty-o. Can I just make a note of your name?’ he asked me. I didn’t think of giving a fake name until afterwards. With hindsight, telling him my real name was a stupid mistake, because as soon as I did it was like a switch flicking inside him. Instant recognition – and repulsion.

  He screwed his face up as if he’d bitten into an apple and found a wriggling maggot. ‘Hold up, you’re that bloke’s wife? That-that rapist fella? Port Pervert. Jesus!’

  He reminded me of a Jack Russell terrier the way he kept edging back then dancing forward, then edging back again, nervously warring between the urge to stand his ground and desire to get away from me in case I infect him with ‘murder flu’ or something that would instantly turn him into a perv too. The cheeky chappie who’d arrive on my doorstep minutes before was unrecognisable.

  ‘I don’t want your money. Sorry, but no, no way, no, it’s disgusting what he’s done. I’m not helping a scumbag like him. Find someone else to fit your alarm.’

  ‘Now just a second, sonny Jim,’ said Dad, waggling his finger. ‘Our money’s as good as anyone else’s…’

  ‘Pffffft,’ was the huffed reply, as the alarm man opened the front door. Cue lights and shouting… And then slammed the door shut.

  Dad turned this way and that, unsure what to do with himself or his annoyance. ‘The cheek, the bloody cheek,’ he muttered. Mum stood in the doorway between the lounge and the hall, white-faced, her hand over her mouth in shock.

  I think that’s when it really hit home for all of us. This is the way life’s going to be from now on. It’s not just a handful of nutters who hate my very existence, it’s everyone.

  It’s a hard thing to get your head round.

  I’m a nice person. I am!

  And if I’m getting a reaction like this on the outside, what the hell is happening to Daryl in prison? Suspected sex offenders get a really hard time inside, don’t they? They’re targeted by other inmates, picked on, beaten up. I’ve never been one for religion, but suddenly I find myself praying.

  Please let him be okay, please God let him get through this.

  Curling up on the sofa in my now favourite foetal position, I thought about my lovely husband and how he simply doesn’t deserve to be in this position. How the hell did we find ourselves in the middle of this tornado of insanity? What will I find when I see him on Monday? I just want to hold him, tell him everything will be okay.

  I sniffed at the tear that had tickled its way diagonally across my face and now hung on the end of my nose. It dropped onto the cushion beneath my head, quickly joined by another and another until they started a little damp patch.

  Desperate to escape the constant misery I forced myself to think about something nice. What though? Ah, Daryl’s proposal – that always brought a smile to my face. We’d only been together a couple of months at the time but already I’d moved into his little house, and although others might have called it a whirlwind romance it hadn’t seem fast to us. It had seemed just exactly right.

  Never having lived with a man before, I’d found every little domesticated thing thrilling somehow and felt incredibly grown up buying new towels for us or the odd ornament. Even cooking and cleaning had seemed fun because they were a bit of a novelty.

  One night I’d been ironing with a soppy smile of contentment on my face when I’d realised Daryl was staring at me. ‘What? Do I have something on my face?’ I’d laughed, quickly rubbing at my nose and cheeks.

  ‘What would you say if I asked you to marry me?’ he’d replied, matter-of-fact.

  I’d broken into a grin, then quickly looked down and continued ironing, determined to be as casual as he. ‘Well, I’d say yes, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Hmmm. Excellent. Shall we get a ring tomorrow?’

  ‘No, no, no; not until you’ve proposed. That wasn’t a proper proposal.’

  ‘It was! I asked, you said yes.’

  ‘You asked what I’d say if you asked,’ I’d argued with a smile, setting the iron down, going over to him, and reaching up to wrap my arms around his neck. Then stared into his ice blue eyes. ‘But you didn’t actually ask.’

  He’d pretended to consider this, then nodded fake-grudgingly. ‘Maybe I can do better,’ he’d conceded.

  The next few days had been spent in a frenzy of anticipation. It had been like waiting for Christmas to arrive but not being sure of the date. Daryl had been impossible to read though, giving nothing away, and slowly I’d started to calm down and feel a bit disappointed.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he’d announced one day. I’d looked out at the lashing rain and raised my eyebrows. ‘Come on, it’ll be bracing,’ he’d added.

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ I’d agreed sarcastically. ‘I’m cosy here, thanks.’

  ‘Come on!’ He’d gone and got my coat, held it out for me.

  ‘Daryl, I don’t want to go out. Not in this weather.’

  He’d made a little growling noise of frustration and hung his head. ‘But you’ve got to come outside,’ he’d whispered to the floor.

  ‘Why? Oh -’ Of course, it was obvious once I’d put my brain into gear. This was it, the big proposal! So despite the pelting rain, I’d buttoned up my coat and gone outside. Holding his hand, we’d raced along the pavement, me squealing occasionally, and then turned quickly to go through gates that led to the local school’s playing field, which was empty with it being a Saturday.

  There’d been a helicopter there, waiting for us!

  ‘I know you’ve always wanted to go in a helicopter, so this is for you. I want to make all your dreams come true,’ Daryl had said, suddenly sinking onto one knee despite the mud. ‘Let me spend my life trying to make that happen; w
ill you marry me?’

  My hair had been plastered to my head and I was shivering with cold, but it was the most incredible moment of my entire life as I’d nodded happily. He’d even sorted the ring, a little diamond solitaire.

  The helicopter ride had only been short because of the awful weather, but I’d barely noticed in my euphoric state – and besides, I hadn’t been looking at the scenery anyway because I hadn’t been able to drag my eyes away from my sparkling ring or Daryl’s proud smile.

  We’d married just four months later. That had been the first day I’d seen him with a bald head. ‘I wanted to surprise you; got sick of having receding hair, decided to just get rid,’ he’d whispered to me at the altar, grinning at the look of amazement on my face. Everyone had been talking about his new look!

  Of course, our first dance had been to that all-time cheesey classic ‘My First, My Last, My Everything.’ All our friends and family had been in fits of giggles as Barry White’s voice boomed out, but of course not all of them knew the significance of the song for us and the happy first date memories it brought.

  Over the years, Daryl has kept his promise and tried to make my dreams come true. They aren’t big, expensive, exotic things, so I suppose it hasn’t been hard for him, but that’s not the point is it? The point is, he knows me inside out, knows what I want, and gives it to me. Took me to Turkey twice, a place I’d always wanted to go; nips out and buys a curry whenever I fancy one; and he gives a mean foot rub with those big, strong hands of his. And best of all he’s agreed to try for a baby, something I want with all my heart.

  After nine years of marriage, I was bored, I admit. Took him for granted. Goodness knows it’s easily done. My God, has all this business made me re-evaluate though. We’ll come out the other side stronger and happier than ever. Nothing’s ever going to tear us apart.

  Monday 20

  Okay, now I’m really angry. Daryl didn’t get bail! The judge didn’t even seem to consider it for a second, just dismissed it out of hand. Bastard! As for the person representing Daryl, who was just the bloke who’d acted as his duty solicitor, well, we have to replace him asap. Now I know exactly why Peter has recommended I find someone good.

  I’ve been researching on the internet for days though and making calls and honestly I feel lost in this world I suddenly find myself in. I wish Daryl were here, he’d take charge immediately and sort it all out.

  Friday 24

  I think I’ve sorted out a barrister for Daryl. She sounds perfect, and has handled a couple of high-profile cases already.

  That’s how I found her actually. I was reading some newspaper cuts about other people who have been charged with similar things to Daryl, and her name cropped up a couple of times. Though I’m not sure I really approve of her, as some of these blokes sounded guilty as sin. Still, if she can get them off, she can definitely get an innocent man like Daryl off.

  I also got another letter from Daryl, well, more of a note really telling me to call a certain number and book a visit to come see him on Monday. My heart skipped when I saw that. Finally I’ll be able to talk to him, hug him, comfort him. It feels like forever since I’ve had one of his cuddles.

  Sunday 26

  In preparation for tomorrow, I’ve been online to find out what to expect. I don’t know anyone who has ever been in prison as a visitor or otherwise; it’s really not the sort of circles I move in, so there’s no one I can ask.

  Anyway, I’ve found out that while Daryl’s on remand I can send as many letters as I want (something I hadn’t realised, so haven’t done – argh! Feel terrible. But then again, maybe Daryl didn’t tell me because sometimes hearing from someone makes you miss them all the more and he’s worried it’ll make him even more miserable. I am both looking forward to and dreading this visit, I have to confess.)

  According to the website, the minimum visiting allowance for someone like Daryl, who is waiting to go on trial, is ninety minutes every week; and if I’m lucky we might even get a bit longer. It’s more than I’d dare hope, so I’m feeling a little better about things.

  To be honest though, the confusion and helplessness I’ve been feeling since this happened is starting to give way to anger, and all the visiting time in the world doesn’t change the fact that we shouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Maybe I should write to my MP or something about this, get them on side. I’ve never done anything like that before but surely I can’t be the only one to see that there’s a miscarriage of justice going on.

  Anyway, I’m not going to rant about it when I see Daryl; seeing me upset and angry is the last thing he needs. I’ve got to make myself positive and upbeat for him, so I’m just trying to concentrate on the fact that at least we’ll get to spend a half-decent amount of time together from now on. I’ve checked with the prison and it’ll be 45 minutes a day, three times a week, that I can see him, and apparently, if he’s well behaved (which he will be, of course) he might even be given something called privilege visits as a reward, so that’s great news.

  I called Daryl’s mum, too. ‘Hi, I’m visiting him tomorrow and wondered if you were going too – I’ve just discovered three people can see him at a time so we could go together if you like,’ I explained, trying to keep my tone friendly despite my dislike of her.

  ‘You’re visiting him?’ Cynthia scoffed. ‘My dear, what would you do a stupid thing like that for? No, I’ve decided I want nothing to do with him. He’s disgusting.’

  ‘Okay! Thanks, bye!’ I said sarcastically, slamming the phone down.

  What I wanted to do was rant at her. Bitch. How can she wash her hands of her own flesh and blood? But maybe, just maybe, the evil old cow will realise her mistake and come round. The last thing I want to do for Daryl right now is burn any bridges for him, so I fought the constant urge to redial her and say something rude, and concentrated on something inane instead – what to wear tomorrow.

  It’s hard to know what to choose. I want to wear something fairly nice for Daryl, you know, I want to look good for him. But then again, it’s a prison, so I also very much want to go in my scruffiest clothes, no make-up and my hair scraped into a ponytail so that I don’t stand out…

  Monday 27

  I parked the car at the prison and deliberately didn’t give myself time to think. My stomach had already been in knots all morning, and I’d felt sick for the whole journey, so the last thing I needed was a chance to get even more worked up. So I jumped quickly from the car and started hurrying to the entrance of the visitors’ centre, a funny little building that was slightly separate from the rest of the prison.

  Then had to nip back to leave my mobile behind; they aren’t allowed inside the prison.

  That’s when I caught sight of myself in the wing mirror and despaired. I’d so wanted to look nice for Daryl, but I look washed out and drab; my skin pasty and a bit spotty even under the make-up I’d forced myself to slap on; my hair flat and lifeless. Oh well, there was no point worrying about it, hopefully he’d just be as glad to see me as I was to see him, no matter what state I looked.

  Luckily I’d remembered to bring my driving licence with me to hand to the guards once I finally made it inside, so they could confirm I’m really who I claim to be. Name, address, date of birth, all were taken and double checked.

  ‘We just need to take a quick photo of you,’ a guard told me. It reminded me of my arrest, as I sat there being snapped and having my fingerprints scanned. I’ve gone my whole life without having my fingerprints taken and now it’s happened twice in just over a fortnight. Madness.

  The staff, though, were very kind. Despite my nerves and obvious confusion about what to expect, they stayed patient with me, steering me towards the lockers, where I had to leave my handbag and car keys because you can’t take them into the visiting room. I hadn’t realised that.

  ‘Well, that makes sense,’ I found myself laughing nervously, ‘I could have a file inside there or something.’

  The guard’s mouth ba
rely twitched. I bet if he had a penny for every time he’d heard some overwrought visitor tell that rubbish joke in a desperate bid to alleviate the tension, well, he might not be a millionaire but he’d probably be able to afford a nice holiday somewhere.

  He spotted me glancing anxiously at the clock, though, and this time gave a genuine smile to soothe me. ‘My little tip for first timers is to always arrive about half an hour before your visit is booked,’ he said. ‘That way being checked in doesn’t eat into any of your time together.’

  ‘That’s-that’s really helpful, thank you,’ I bumbled, honestly touched. He nodded, business-like again, and pointed over to the exit.

  ‘Now go out there and into the main prison building. There you’ll be searched, and after that, you’ll be able to see your husband.’

  The search was only a pat down like you’d get in an airport, and obviously they went through my handbag with a fine-tooth comb. It wasn’t too traumatic really but…okay, sounds obvious but I felt like a common criminal. Thanks to my over-developed sense of guilt, I blushed constantly too, as if I’d done something wrong.

  ‘Lovely dogs,’ I found myself babbling inanely to the woman running her hand up the inside of my leg. Why can’t I just keep quiet when I’m nervous? She didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge my comment, but it didn’t shut me up.

  ‘They’re very well behaved, aren’t they?’ I added, watching as one that looked like a springer spaniel or something wandered away from its handler and sat beside another woman who’d just entered the room. It just sat there quietly, wagging its tail gently and looking rather pleased with itself. I half wished it had come over to me instead as patting it might have calmed my nerves, but then I noticed a couple of officers go swiftly over to the dog and suddenly lead the woman away, holding onto her elbows.

  ‘It’s a load of rubbish,’ she exploded. ‘I don’t know why the dog thinks it can smell drugs on me. Maybe I sat next to a junkie on the bus over here. Yeah, that’s right, come to think of it, the fella I sat by did look dodgy…’ No one seemed to be listening to her protests though, and her words faded away as the door closed behind her.