Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  His lawyers tell me nothing about the upcoming trial either – a few times I’ve called them and tried to find out how things are going, but they tell me they can’t discuss the case with me because of client confidentiality.

  ‘Even though I’m Daryl’s wife?’ I check every time.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I’m always told.

  All I know is that they’ve no plans to call me as a witness. I don’t understand why. The prosecution wanted me to appear on their behalf at one point for some odd reason, but Daryl’s solicitors did sort that one. Apparently I can’t be forced to give evidence against my husband – though what they think I would say anyway is beyond me.

  So there you go, no one wants to tell me anything. I somehow thought I’d be a lot more involved than this. I feel like I’m jumping up and down, shouting for attention, but no one can see me or hear me.

  MARCH

  Sunday 3

  The trial starts tomorrow. I saw Daryl on Friday and he seems remarkably calm. I so admire the way he’s handled this whole thing. He’s been incredibly strong, and never once broken down (or if he has, he’s never let me see it. What amazing strength of will it must take to hide your feelings like that in order to protect the one you love; I just hope I’ve been able to fool him the same way, but I doubt it; he can read me like a book).

  Everything’s been such a last minute rush. Daryl’s defence team had asked me to approach people to act as character witnesses for him, but I’ve not had much luck. In fact, I’ve had none. It’s unbelievable the way people have abandoned us. So much for innocent until proven guilty, as far as our former friends are concerned I think they’d happily see Daryl at the guillotine, and they’d knit merrily away as it chopped his head off. Even his own mum has declined to come to the trial. I don’t understand her; after all these years of knowing her though I’ve given up even trying to.

  On Friday I finally had a proper meeting with Daryl’s lawyers. After delivering the news that no one was willing to speak up for him, I was given a long speech about how it was now even more important that I attend court every day – like I needed telling.

  ‘You have to be highly visible throughout the whole proceedings so that people can be in no doubt you are on your husband’s side,’ lectured his QC, Mr Jenkins (his first name is Richard, but he’s one of those people who simply doesn’t suit a first name; somehow without any conscious effort he commands a formal address only). ‘The court is as much a show as anything else and it’s important the jury see that people, especially women, are standing by the accused. It’s a show of solidarity.’

  I nodded eagerly. ‘Just try and stop me being there for him!’

  He gave a small, slightly forced smile, just enough to show his needle-sharp incisors that reminded me of Dracula. His receding hairline made quite an impressive widow’s peak too, so perhaps he actually is a vampire in disguise.

  I do wish my brain didn’t default to random sarcasm mode whenever under pressure. Banishing thoughts of Vlad the Impaler, I tried to concentrate on what he was saying. This was it, at last my chance to have a proper conversation about Daryl’s defence and find out what the plan was.

  ‘Can I help in any other way?’ I asked, summoning up the courage to speak and risk seeing those menacing fangs again. ‘I’m more than happy to give evidence for Daryl. Surely I can do more than just sit there looking supportive?’

  Mr Jenkins looked me up and down, and again gave that tight little smile. ‘I know it must be frustrating being on the sidelines, as it were, but that is truly the best place for you. Nothing you can say on the stand can help your husband.’

  ‘I can tell people he definitely has an alibi for one of the crimes; he was with me. That’s the key piece of evidence you have to get him off, surely.’ He didn’t respond, just met my gaze. ‘I just don’t understand why I’m not being called when that’s such a vital occurrence.’

  Mr Jenkins tilted his head slightly, but still didn’t look away. ‘I’m afraid I cannot discuss our strategy for your husband’s defence, Mrs –‘

  ‘Well, that’s another thing I don’t understand,’ I cut across him.

  ‘It’s client confidentiality,’ he said, with me chiming along beside him in mimicry. Bloody client bloody confidentiality, I’m sick of hearing about it.

  ‘Even though he’s my husband, and my future hangs in the balance as much as his?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t personal, these are the rules that we are tied to in all cases. Unless your husband gives us direct instructions to share information with you, our hands are tied.’

  ‘And he hasn’t,’ I said sadly.

  Honestly, I know Daryl thinks he is protecting me from worry this way, but it’s having the opposite effect. I feel sick with nerves about tomorrow.

  Kim offered to come with me to the court for a bit of moral support, but Peter advised her against it. He says it might cause trouble for her, and I can understand that, as much as I am tempted to gloss over it so I can selfishly have someone with me. I don’t want to be alone, I’m not sure I can face it. But I have to, I know that. And I also know that I can’t ask anyone else to put themselves in the firing line for my sake; that’s why I’ve told Mum and Dad to stay away too. They’re having a hard enough time without having their photos plastered everywhere and everyone knowing they’re supporting the supposed Port Pervert and his wife.

  Soon though, in a matter of weeks, Daryl will be home, and we can get on with the rest of our lives. The house will be safe again with both of us earning (honestly, the trial couldn’t have come soon enough. I’ve got myself into serious debt keeping everything going single-handed. But I’ve managed to keep going this long, I can cling on a bit longer. And hey, Daryl might even get some compensation for being wrongfully imprisoned or something).

  We can start trying for a child again too, as soon as Daryl settles back into normal life.

  When I try to imagine it I shake my head because it seems the stuff of dreams: Daryl home, and me pregnant. But it will be happening soon. I can’t wait. I truly cannot wait.

  I keep finding myself staring at the photos on the mantelpiece, especially the one of Daryl leaning forward at a precarious forty-five degree angle, arms open wide as if he’s trying to fly, mouth even wider in a grin, and eyes popping with exhilaration. What a laugh we were having when I took that!

  We’d been on a short, four-day break in the Yorkshire Dales one February, and had had a terrible row that morning – what about I can’t even remember. To make matters worse, the weather had grown stormier and stormier, to match our moods. Then suddenly Daryl had broken off mid-sentence, looked out at the howling wind, and just grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the door of the cottage we were staying in.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he’d urged, face suddenly alight with urgency.

  ‘What…?’ I’d resisted, trying to tug away but his huge hands had had too good a grip on my arms. I might as well have been fighting to keep the tide at bay as fight Daryl; resistance was futile, even if I was still annoyed with him.

  ‘Come on, quick! Listen to that wind! Let’s jump in the car and drive up to the top of the moors and see how crazy the weather gets,’ he’d grinned, his expression transformed from thunder to sunshine.

  ‘Oh, Daryl, I don’t know…’ I’d still hung back, not willing to forgive and forget as quickly as him. But his enthusiasm had been infectious; a couple of seconds of looking at his sparkling eyes and I’d given in.

  We’d pulled on coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and driven the couple of minutes to the top of the moors. As soon as we’d jumped out of the car we’d been battered and buffeted by the high winds. What a buzz!

  Shrieking in delight we’d raced around like a couple of kids, first seeing how fast we could go with the gale behind us, then how much slower it was trying to run into it; we could barely move!

  ‘Hey, hey, I’ve got an idea,’ Daryl had gasped suddenly, unzipping his jacke
t. I’d frowned, confused, wondering what the heck he was doing. He’d grasped the edges of his now open waist-length jacket and held them open like wings as he faced into the wind; it had blown up like a balloon.

  ‘Woah!’ he’d yelled, staggering backwards with the force of the gust.

  ‘Lean into it. Quick, lean into the wind,’ I’d urged, twigging on and grabbing my camera. He’d yelled in glee, then with feet firmly planted on the ground he’d pushed his top half forward until he looked like Michael Jackson in the Smooth Criminal video. Click! I’d captured the moment.

  We’d carried on doing that for another twenty minutes or so, both screaming, yelling, and giggling like we were drunk on life. It was fantastic.

  Maybe we should book a break as soon as Daryl gets home. It’d be nice to get away. Then again he might just want to enjoy relaxing at home for a while. I’ll run the idea past him though, see how he feels.

  Oh, I’ve remembered what we were arguing about. I’d suggested we go to the pub that night to have a meal, but he’d reckoned I only wanted to go so I could flirt with some bloke behind the bar. Of all the stupid things! Once he’s home I’ll never pick such a silly row with him again. Promise.

  Monday 4

  The reporters were screaming at me from the second I got out of the car outside court. A wall of sound where my name wasn’t really my name, was no longer the two syllables my parents had bestowed on me, instead it ran into one long exhalation of a word, all melting together, unrecognisable, punching my ears until it felt like they might bleed. They’d turned my name into a weapon.

  Faces were shoved into mine; I couldn’t see a way through. I felt all panicky, started to have trouble breathing. I’m only short and all I could see were chests, shoulders and heads all in front of me, above me, I couldn’t see past them as I fought to get to the courtroom door.

  I was being pushed and pulled, and all the time, even worse than anything else, were the flashes of the cameras. It was like being in a nightmare where you can only see tiny slivers of the action, and it isn’t enough for your brain to be able to process. It was only because of the burly policemen standing beside me, holding my arm so firmly it almost hurt as they forced their way through the baying pack of people, that I managed to get to safety.

  It sounds impressive doesn’t it, that I had these police officers looking after me. It wasn’t said outright, but it was made abundantly clear that it wasn’t out of sympathy for me or what I had been through; it was purely to stop any public order problems that my presence might cause. There you go I’m the problem, apparently, not the people shoving me around and sticking cameras and microphones into my face so hard that sometimes they hit me, bruise me, almost make me fall.

  But what do I expect? I’m not a victim in this mess.

  I was just thinking that rather bitterly when I saw her. Only for the briefest of moments. But it was enough to catch the brittle strength holding her together, to recognise the façade so like mine that she’d carefully constructed to fool people into thinking she was strong. She was one of the victims – I knew it instantly.

  My God, my God, she looked like me. The petite frame, the shoulder-length hair, the eyes, the set of the mouth... She could have been a long lost sister.

  With a flash of blonde hair, she was gone. It had only taken the time of a blink of the eye but it was enough to steal my strength.

  My knees did go then. Strong hands under my armpits lifted me up and I was half-walked, half-carried through the entrance of the court with my legs dancing uselessly beneath me, and put on a seat in the atrium. My head sank between my knees and as I forced myself to breathe slowly in and out, in and out until the wooziness passed, the noise of the crowd was dampened down to a quiet roar as the doors closed.

  Finally the sensation that I was going to faint passed, but I still didn’t lift my head. Instead I stared intently at some stitching on my shoes, trying to fight the panic and the bad thoughts.

  How come that woman looked like me? Coincidence? Or was Daryl really somehow connected to this? Had…

  No, I snapped my head up, forced myself upright, trying to physically move away from my questions.

  I know he is innocent. I know it because it’s inconceivable that he’s guilty. I know because he was with me the night one poor victim died. So that’s the end of that.

  For all I know, the person I saw was simply a passer-by, not even connected to the case at all. Or perhaps adrenaline from being pushed around by the crowd made me imagine things that weren’t real, and if I were to see her again I’d realise she’s nothing like me at all. Yes, now I think about it, her hair was more mousey than blonde and she was a chunkier build and her features were all wrong.

  Anyway, I was taken from the main atrium to a separate waiting room. It was odd sitting there nervously, knowing that somewhere in the building, in another waiting room, were strangers ready to give evidence that could see my innocent husband locked away for 20 years or more.

  When in court, I looked around but couldn’t see any sign of that woman. There was Daryl’s barrister, looking formal in his black gown and white wig as he busied himself shuffling papers and looking things up on his laptop, while around him buzzed other members of his team eager to do his bidding; and beside him was his opposite, the prosecution, doing exactly the same.

  More craning round and I spotted a group of people sitting separate from the public gallery where I was. Who were they? I only worked it out when they brought out notepads and pens; of course, even here there was no escape from the press.

  Still I couldn’t stop looking for that woman. I only stopped rubbernecking the minute Daryl was brought up to the dock. He took his seat behind his brief, and his eyes searched round the room. I leaned forward, wanting to wave but feeling stupid. Luckily, the movement caught his attention, and he smiled gratefully at me, the custody officer beside him seemingly oblivious.

  A court usher sonorously pronounced: ‘All rise’. It felt so odd and scarily formal having to stand, reducing me to a little girl waiting to be scolded. The judge walked in from a side door, took his seat beneath a coat of arms and with a nod he let us all be seated.

  The prosecution then outlined how they’d make their case. It sounded…horrific. Whoever did these things is evil. I looked over at Daryl and we stared fiercely at each other as those awful words washed over us. We were one person then, both fighting the urge to stand up and shout that it was all lies, both knowing the only realistic alternative was to shut the horror out. Somehow in that gaze we escaped to miles away, were free and holding each other. ‘Soon,’ I tried to tell him with my gaze, ‘soon this will be over and we’ll be together again. It will all be fine in the end.’

  Even when the defence summarised their case, we barely looked away. Right then nothing mattered but us – because when this is over, that’s what will be left. Stronger, better than ever, thanks to this mess.

  The prosecution then called their first witness, introduced as Miss A. This was the supposed Port Pervert’s first victim. I expected her to walk in, and was confused when it was explained she’d be giving evidence via video link.

  As the TV screen opposite the jury was fired up and she appeared I felt totally disconnected from what was happening. This wasn’t real; it was a programme I was watching, like a soap opera or crime drama or something. The woman on the screen had a strawberry blonde bob that accentuated her chubby cheeks, and the kind of button nose that automatically made her look even more baby-faced. If she’d have smiled she’d have looked so pretty.

  But her eyes…her eyes were so sad that she looked like she’d never smile again.

  ‘Can you describe the events of the night of 18 December please?’ asked the QC. When he said the location of the attack I was stunned – it had happened in our town! I don’t even remember hearing anything about it. Oh, actually, I do recollect seeing some of those ‘Did you see this crime’ appeal posters up around New Year but I didn’t bother reading them beca
use I never see anything interesting happen…

  ‘It was a works night out, our Christmas do,’ said Miss A, voice ringing out strong and steady, as though she’d practised this moment in her head. To be honest, it just added to my sense of detachment, as though she were an actress.

  ‘Everyone was just starting to get really drunken, and so I thought if I left then no one would really notice. I’d had fun, it’s just I wanted to get home because my boyfriend and me had just moved in together and I loved being in our new home. So I made my excuses at about 10.30pm and text my boyfriend that I was on my way. He offered to come pick me up, but I told him not to bother because it was only a five minute walk to our flat. So he said he’d start walking from ours and meet me halfway.

  ‘I’d only been walking about a minute when I noticed a man coming towards me. I didn’t take much notice of him because, well, the street was brightly-lit and this bloke was wearing what looked like a suit so I assumed he was either a security guard or businessman who’d been out straight after work himself and was now on his way home. Stupid, if he’d been wearing a hoodie and jeans I’d have been more suspicious, but someone in a suit…they just look more trustworthy somehow. We were just passing each other when…’

  She took a deep breath to steady herself. All eyes were glued to the screen. I glanced at Daryl just as he looked at me, and I gave him the tiniest hint of a smile, so he knew I was with him, willing him to stay strong. I knew that what we were about to hear would be upsetting.

  ‘We were just passing each other,’ Miss A repeated, ‘when suddenly he punched me. I didn’t see it coming, just felt the pain and I think I fell to my knees. I was so dazed it was confusing what was happening, but I felt myself being half dragged, half carried. The light disappeared, it was dark – I didn’t know then but I’d been taken down a small alleyway and put on the ground behind some big wheelie bins. I tried to kick out, was with it enough to know I needed to fight, but my feet didn’t connect with anything and I couldn’t see properly. But I did manage to scratch him; that earned me another punch and I was knocked out.