Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  I held my breath, peering at it through the tears that were falling now adrenaline had abandoned me. Prodded at the wood – ouch! Still hot!

  From behind me I heard a sigh. ‘You’d best get on to your insurance people,’ said PC Yeoh.

  I shook my head. ‘No, it’s fine. The door looks solid enough. I’ll just buy some paint and gloss over the damage.’ After all, that’s what I do with my whole life these days, gloss over the damage…

  Friday 14

  I’ve received a couple of early Christmas presents as a result of last night. The police have fitted tiny CCTV cameras at the front and back of the house, and the fire brigade have fitted a lockable letterbox cover to my singed and blackened front door, along with extra smoke alarms, in case someone else decided to kill me in the hope I’ll burn in hell forever.

  I’d almost got used to living in a permanent state of terror that had become as mundane as sifting through the post for death threats. Now it’s come into sharp focus again.

  People want to kill me. They don’t see me as a person, don’t think I deserve sympathy because my life’s been torn apart for reasons I don’t understand.

  So much for peace and goodwill to all mankind, eh?

  Tuesday 18

  Today’s Daryl’s birthday. I wanted to make it special, especially as I’m not allowed to visit today, so sent him a big padded card with love hearts all over it…and got into trouble with the prison because apparently that sort of thing is banned. They had to rip into it to check nothing had been smuggled inside the padding - that news made me cry quite a lot, in the privacy of the toilets at work.

  I’ve got quite good at crying in secret. Lock myself into the cubicle, sit down on the toilet lid, then lean forward so that the tears drip straight down my eyelashes and onto the floor, rather than down my face. It means my make-up doesn’t get ruined, and helps stop my skin from going blotchy, so that once I pull myself together I can return to my desk faster, and no one can tell what I’ve been doing by looking at me. The only problem is my nose is often still red and swollen, but hopefully people just think I have allergies.

  I’m probably going to spend quite a lot of time in the toilets tomorrow; it’s the works Christmas party. I’d decided to defiantly go, just to show everyone that I don’t care what they think, and that I have nothing to be ashamed of, but now the reality is getting closer and I’m not sure I’ve the courage to go through with it. I wish Daryl were here and we could march into the room arm in arm,

  Thursday 20

  Ah, the good old Christmas party. What fun that was.

  Mind you, any party staged on a Wednesday is doomed to failure, in my opinion.

  Because it’s a lunch that carries on into the evening I find it weird at the best of times, walking into the office on party day. It’s incongruous to see people sitting at their desks or doing a spot of photocopying whilst in their best going out gear.

  That wasn’t what really got me this time though. It was more the scandalised looks on people’s faces when they saw me in my red silk dress and realised I’d be joining them at the do. It was like a scene from a movie the way quiet descended as every eye turned to me. Inside I was a quivering jelly, but I wasn’t going to let them know it. I smiled sweetly at them then pushed my chin up and walked proudly to my desk, plonked down onto my chair, and flicked my computer on.

  Only when I felt the glares slide away and heard the noise levels rise as everyone hissed ‘how could she?’, ‘what’s she thinking’, etc, to one another did I start to blink rapidly to clear the tears that threatened.

  Minutes later Kim arrived and made a beeline for me. Perched on my desk and bent forward so her glossy black hair fell into a natural curtain between us and the rest of the world.

  ‘You look lovely,’ she smiled but her eyes were worried. ‘Are you sure you want to come though? It’s not going to be fun for you…’

  ‘Not about fun. I’m proving a point,’ I said stubbornly, fiddling with some paperclips as distraction. ‘Anyway, any Psycho Sam news?’

  ‘He’s been quiet for the last couple of weeks, ever since he was arrested a second time for trying to break in,’ Kim confessed, her face a mixture of horror and relief. ‘Peter’s been so fantastic sorting injunctions and keeping on at the police. He even arranged for some CCTV to be fitted…’

  ‘Oh, snap, I’ve got some too!’ I grinned. Inappropriate, but we couldn’t help giggling. What the hell have our lives come to?!

  The morning wore on and people shot me evil looks more and more openly. I started to wonder exactly what point I was trying to prove – and to whom. Sheer bloody-mindedness was the only thing that kept me from running from the building to the safety of my home.

  At 12.30pm the stampede for the loos started as the women went to fix their make-up and touch up their hair. The fog of perfume and hairspray hit my nose like a punch, then slid down my throat, making me cough and splutter. Lauren the office manager turned to me boldly.

  ‘Sounds like you should go home,’ she said bitchily.

  ‘And miss the chance to spread festive goodwill with all my favourite people? Never,’ I mock pouted, even as my heart tried to batter through my ribcage. God, I hate confrontations. Still, I felt proud of myself though because not so long ago I would have made that remark in my head but not had the courage to say it out loud.

  The atmosphere was even worse when we arrived at the restaurant and people scurried to sit down so they wouldn’t wind up stuck next to me. I finished up sandwiched between Kim (hurray!) and Kevin (boo! Poor bloke; as boss, no one wants to sit beside him either). Kim did her best to chat to me, but I found myself sinking into depressed silence.

  Thing is, it’s all well and good being stubborn, but I was making myself as miserable as I was making everyone else.

  Finally the meal was over, the tables cleared away, and it was time for the music to start. It was easier to hide in the dim light of the dance floor. I felt more anonymous and at ease, watching as everyone else had fun.

  I even made myself have a dance, all on my own, to Wham’s Last Christmas. Why shouldn’t I have fun? I have as much right as the next person; I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.

  And with that thought ringing in my ears, I hurried home, frankly relieved. I reckon that was the longest day of my entire life, and given I’ve spent time in a police cell that’s saying something.

  When Daryl called he asked me all about the party, wanting to hear everything as if to live vicariously. I made the whole thing up, right down to me and Keith doing a rousing rendition of Slade’s Merry Christmas Everyone on the karaoke and me almost bursting a blood vessel screaming ‘it’s Chriiiistmaaaaaas!’ Daryl made me do an action replay of that bit.

  I am a total fraud. I can remember when I couldn’t tell a lie without stuttering, stammering and blushing my way through it. Now they trip off the tongue. Still, they are in a good cause. He doesn’t know anything about the fire either; I don’t want to worry him.

  Friday 21

  Thank God it’s Friday. Another week over.

  The only thing keeping me going is the thought of Daryl coming home, and that’s bloody months away.

  Saturday 22

  Today was my final chance to see Daryl before Christmas. Nothing says festive like a prison visit… Instead of a snog under the mistletoe, I had a security pat down from a total stranger. Instead of the sound of carols, there were only barked orders.

  Inside the visiting room the only concession to the time of year that had been made in the horrible sombre grey room was a paper chain across one wall, and the oldest, ugliest Christmas lantern that hung rattily in the middle of the room, one side sagging, and a couple of its dangling fronds missing.

  Daryl didn’t seem to notice though; he only had eyes for me. His arms wrapped all the way around me and he held me so tight, flush against him for as long as we could get away with. God that felt good. It’s been so long since we were together.

  The g
uards seemed a bit easier going, maybe because it’s Christmas, and let the embrace last for a couple of seconds before we were told: ‘Come on, break it up, you know the rules.’

  We released each other reluctantly, but I didn’t want to break physical contact. My hand slid down the front of Daryl’s regulation blue cotton shirt, feeling his hard muscles underneath, and then grabbed his hand, our fingers automatically twisting together. Hand in hand, we slowly sank into our seats, gazing at each other.

  ‘Merry Christmas, and Happy Birthday,’ I smiled. ‘Did you get my Christmas card? I made sure this one wasn’t padded or musical or anything that’s against the rules.’

  Daryl chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Typical you, not reading the rules properly. My gorgeous air head.’

  Umm, bit patronising. I found myself bristling at the comment, when normally I’d have just giggled along with it. I wanted to argue back and say ‘actually, this air head is managing to keep the household going all on her own; I’d like to see you try.’ But I bit it back because of course I am being a right old grumpy cow. It’s not Daryl’s fault that we’re in this situation, I shouldn’t take my anger out on him.

  ‘So…is there a special Christmas meal or anything in here?’ I asked, struggling to find something to change the subject to.

  Daryl ran his free hand over his bald head. ‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘But me and you’ll have a massive celebration next year.’

  ‘It’s not fair, we should be having a massive celebration now. You shouldn’t be here,’ I pouted like a three-year-old having a tantrum. I knew it wasn’t helpful of me but I couldn’t help myself.

  Silence. There really wasn’t anything to say. I cast around the room as I searched my head for a suitable subject. The Christmas lantern’s few remaining sparkly plastic fronds rippled in the draught from the heating system.

  I was reminded of all those silent nights Daryl and I had spent in front of the telly. How not long before all this happened I’d been thinking of leaving him, thinking I wasn’t even sure if I liked him. I huffed and pulled a face, impatient with myself for even thinking something like that here and now, when Daryl needs all the support and love he can get. I’m a terrible person.

  ‘God, if it’s that boring you can just go,’ snapped Daryl, letting go of my hand. He must have been watching my expression the whole time without me realising it.

  ‘No, no, sorry, the sigh was frustration because of being here, not boredom,’ I placated. ‘I’m sorry if it seemed like something else. I just can’t wait for you to be out of here…’

  Ah, that gave me inspiration for our conversation. ‘So, how’s your defence coming on? Are you happy with your barrister?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that now,’ snapped Daryl impatiently. ‘Can I enjoy just one day without being nagged by you about the sodding trial.’

  I sat back, chastised. Stupid, stupid idiot that I am, fancy going on at him when he must be feeling so down. An image of him spending Christmas Day in a tiny cell instead of in our cosy home with me flared in my head.

  ‘I just wanted to see how things are going. You never tell me anything about it and I worry for you; I want to be involved,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘You don’t need to fret about it, I’ve told you that. All you have to do is turn up to court every day looking pretty - the judge and jury will look at you and know I must be a good man if I’m with someone as good as you. Now just leave it.’ He sat back, the orange plastic chair making a little groan of protest as his heavy, muscular frame slumped against its back.

  Another extended moment of silence, then: ‘You got the decorations up then?’ Daryl asked. ‘The ones I like? It helps me, when I’m sitting in my cell, to imagine you at home surrounded by our things.’

  ‘Oh…yeah, of course,’ I lied. The last thing I’ve wanted to do is put up cheery, twinkly decorations.

  And so the conversation went on, in fits and starts of awkwardness and closeness. Finally the hour was up and with a quick embrace we said our goodbyes, my face aching with the effort of being cheery and upbeat. It’ll be new year before I see him again…

  By the time I got home, I was angry again. That’s the main emotion that keeps me pushing on, to be honest. Fury at this injustice.

  That and the drive to keep things going for Daryl. So I dug out the baubles, tinsel and lights and put them all up. Felt like I owed it to my husband to act as normal, so that he could imagine the place. I even used the white decorations he likes, rather than the colourful ones I prefer – he likes everything to match.

  Tuesday 25

  At first I admit I was really miserable today. Instead of feeling even vaguely excited about getting out of bed and opening my presents I found myself cynically thinking ‘What do you get the girl who has nothing?’

  Then I remembered Daryl in his cell, whose only comfort is imagining what a good time I’m having. He wanted me to put the decorations up and I did, and he’d want me to enjoy Christmas Day with my family too. So although it was a bit of a struggle, I made myself enthusiastically rip off the wrapping paper of the various presents Mum and Dad had insisted on buying me. Every time I found myself sinking into misery I’d remind myself about Daryl and slap a smile on my face for his sake. Anything else felt like a betrayal of him somehow.

  And next year we’ll be together, and we can celebrate double.

  Monday 31

  Well it’s New Year’s Eve and I’m on my own – I came home the day after Boxing Day. Much as they made every effort to keep me happy and cheery (and I’m grateful, I really am) I found myself longing to be home, surrounded by my and Daryl’s things, and our memories. It makes me feel closer to him, somehow. I’ve even been wearing some of his jumpers.

  I won’t be bothering to stay up for midnight. Instead I’ve shuffled off the sofa at 10pm, having forced myself to watch all the cheery telly programmes because I refuse to allow myself to wallow and feel miserable. I have to stay upbeat and positive; it’s the only thing that will keep me going until Daryl’s release. If I allow myself to get all bitter and twisted then Daryl won’t recognise me when he finally comes home.

  Sometimes it feels like such draining hard work though. Still, it’ll be worth it in the end…

  Anyway, it’s good that it’s New Year’s Eve. I can’t wait to be rid of this terrible year. Next one will be better, I just know it. It has to be.

  If someone could see me now I’m sure they’d laugh though. I’ve pulled the duvet over my head to muffle the sounds of celebration going on around me, and am scribbling furiously in my diary by the light of a torch that’s normally only used when a fuse blows at night. I feel like a child, and it’s actually quite comforting.

  Inevitably, I keep thinking back to previous New Year’s Eves, especially last year. If I’d known then what was coming, I think I’d have packed my bags and done a runner from the country. Instead we’d been in blissful ignorance. We’d actually arranged to go out with Una and Andy for a few drinks at the local pub, but at the last minute we’d cried out – one look at the freezing cold weather had been enough to make us change our minds. Besides, I always get a bit over-emotional if I go out on NYE, for some reason.

  ‘We should do something though,’ Daryl had insisted. ‘I don’t want to sit around watching telly, this is a special night. I know…’ He’d disappeared into the kitchen and come out brandishing a book of cocktail recipes we’d been bought by a mate years before but never used. ‘How about we try some of these out? We’ve a load of booze left over from Christmas.’

  He’d stood there doing a little dance, mimicking the staff in cocktail bars as they slung bottles around their bodies, in the air, and caught them behind their backs, before shaking the mixer either side of them. Blue eyes laughing as he bit on his lower lip in fake concentration.

  ‘Impressive, but best not try that with any real bottles or we’ll have a truly smashing time,’ I’d joked.

  ‘Come on, what do you think?
Yeah?’ He hadn’t stopped dancing yet…

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ I’d grinned.

  Two hours later the kitchen had looked like a mini-tornado had swept through it, dragging bottles of alcohol and mixers out of cupboards, along with the odd glace cherry; we’d even dug out a couple of cocktail umbrellas we’d found – goodness knows where they’d come from. In the lounge, music had thumped out, drowning out our merry giggles as we’d danced around. It was freezing outside, but we were snuggly-warm inside and having a whale of a time.

  ‘Rave!’ I’d shouted, turning the music up another notch when Chase and Status’s Lost and Not Found came on. Flapping our arms round almost uncontrollably, we’d wobbled, laughed, jumped up and down and finally flopped on the sofa breathlessly.

  ‘That’s my babe,’ Daryl had grinned. ‘That’s what I love about you, that we can do daft stuff like this. Makes me realise how much I love you. Happy New Year.’

  Fireworks had gone off as we’d kissed. It had felt magical. The disconnect I’d felt growing between us during the previous few months had disappeared momentarily and I’d felt truly happy. It’s one of my favourite memories. Hard to believe it was only a year ago, it feels like a lifetime.

  Midnight – well, just after actually. Happy New Year! I’m surrounded by the sound of fireworks going off. This is going to be a good year, I can just feel it, although still tough. I feel really positive, lighter even, to be rid of last year. It can sod off; only good times ahead, especially once the trial is out of the way.

  JANUARY

  Tuesday 29

  Daryl says this is the lull before the storm; that soon the gearing up for the trial will begin properly and everything will be a last minute rush. I have to take his word for it as I’m still not allowed to talk about the trial with him. Instead we talk about TV programmes or about Kim’s stalker problems; Daryl can never remember her name (still got that inability with my friends) but he does seem genuinely fascinated with Psycho Sam and the way he’s terrorising Kim. He’s outraged on her behalf.